I drove my car home and parked in my spot. I sat there for a second, wondering if I could leave an official letter for Jake and avoid a confrontation entirely. “Edie Spence’s last will and testament—to her brother, she leaves her couch and her small collection of CDs.” I rolled my eyes at myself, found my house key on my chain, and walked to my door.
As soon as I entered, the CD player started chattering at me in German. It was as bad as Minnie.
“I’m sorry. He’s my brother,” I tried to explain. “I know, he pisses me off too.” Its light went from red to green, and then it clicked off, in angry silence or exhaustion.
I had barely kicked off my shoes and hung up my coat when I heard a knock at the door. “Jake! I’m still mad at you!” I announced, walking down my short hall. I peeked out the peephole and saw Ti there, his scars magnified a hundredfold, like the ripples in an unmade bed.
“One second,” I called and undid all the latches. “Hey. Come in.” I pressed myself to the side of the wall so that he could pass. He did so, managing to avoid touching me completely, which was pretty amazing, given his shoulder width.
“What happened to your face?” He turned toward me in the small hallway.
I waved my hand dismissively in the air. “A patient last night. I don’t want to talk about it.”
He shrugged, and I followed him out to my couch—the only furniture left in my living room—and he waited till I sat down, and then sat down an inordinately long distance away from me. I looked at him, then at the vast expanse of couch between us. “What’d I do wrong now?”
He blinked. “You’re direct.”
“I’ve got two days to live.”
Ti looked down at his knees for a moment. “I went down to Seventeenth—” he began, and I had visions of sultry hookers dancing in my head. “And when I came back here, I saw a man entering your place.” He looked up at me, and there was definitely hurt in his golden eyes.
“Really?” I crossed my arms. “I’m not sure which you should be more embarrassed about—being slightly stalkery or assuming that I’m dating my brother.”
“Ohhhh—” His shoulders untensed, and he shook his head at himself.
“Seriously, just ask me things.” I scooted over on the couch. “Even if I weren’t running out of time, I don’t play games. Never have, never will.” Unless you were my junkie brother, I mentally amended. “How long were you out there?”
He exhaled. “Since four A.M.”
“Silly zombie.” I lightly slapped him on his forearm.
“I do feel foolish,” he began.
“Good.” It was sort of more cute than stalkery, for now. He did appear embarrassed. “Just don’t make a habit of it, okay?”
“Fine.” His face softened into a grin, and so did mine.
“So—about the girls?”
“I didn’t get to actually talk to any of them.”
And perhaps it was my turn to be relieved, just a little. “Oh? Why not?”
“They weren’t around.”
“You … didn’t get there in time?” I imagined him trying to talk to one of them, a normal girl except for her occupation, and her running away from him in fear, like he was Frankenstein’s monster and she was short a mob.
“In a manner of speaking,” Ti said, and his voice was grave.
Suddenly I realized what he meant. “Oh, no. What happened?”
“They’re all gone. Dead, I assume.” He looked down at his clasped hands.
“How do you know they’re dead?”
“Hookers aren’t known for their financial solvency—they usually can’t get away from their pimps or their dealers long enough. So unless there’s a Greyhound full of them all on the way to Florida, I feel safe assuming the worst,” he said.
“But—won’t the police find out?”
“Find what? And when?” Ti held his empty hands out. “The city’s big. It could take a while. And if they only find one at a time, they could be declared NHIs.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
Ti’s hands curled into fists against his denim. “It means No Humans Involved. It’s a way to dump cases that no one wants to look into or solve. When the cops think someone’s done them a favor, by taking out the trash.”
“No humans involved,” I muttered. “Well, they got that right.” I imagined those girls looking at the expensive suits that all the vampires seemed to wear, ignoring their foul breath, their odd mannerisms, the way their eyes kept looking through them—maybe, sadly, they were used to that—and hoping that for one night they’d be warm and well paid.
Ti’s head was bowed in frustration. I reached out and put my hand on his. “So what now?”
“I’m not sure. When the bodies turn up, we can look for ideas. And I spread enough money around last night—if anything comes up, people will call. I left an impression.” His strong hands flexed again.
A wave of exhaustion hit me. I’d been going almost full throttle for days now—a week, really. If there was nothing we could do, I knew what I wanted to do at least. Sleep.
But I didn’t want to be alone. I looked over to him, and out around at my living room. This couch was a life raft, holding us up against the ocean of drab carpeting and the rough world outside, one person probably dying, one already dead.
And as tempting as it sounded, sleep would be giving in. It would be admitting the beginning of the end, the wind down into the final, darkest night. Gina was right—you had to keep moving, or you’d start crying. I leaned forward and did the only thing I could think of to do to stop myself from sinking. I kissed him. Even though with my busted lip it hurt.
He braced himself, first surprised, then leaned into me, reaching his arms up to hold my head and tilt it slightly so I fit him better. He was slow kissing me back, tentative, as if his spirit for these things was as fragile as the skin that held him.
I didn’t care. I pressed harder for a moment, ignoring my bottom lip’s sharp pain, and then swung around so that I was straddling his lap, bending over to kiss his face, all of his face, as my hair hung down and shielded us from anything outside. I took his hands and put them at my waist, urging him to go further. And then I thought about what the hell I was doing.
I pulled my head back and sat up, and squirmed backward on his lap. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he asked, letting me go.
I wanted to explain, but I wasn’t sure I could explain. Him, here, now, this? But I did owe him an explanation. I didn’t want to seem like some emotionally damaged freak. I had to try.
“I actually like you,” I said, and then started backpedaling. “I mean, I could actually like you, if we got to know each other better and all.”
He tilted his head forward. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been with someone I actually liked?” I looked wildly around the room, as if ghosts of conquests past would arise and vouch for me.
“It’s okay,” he said. His tone brought my gaze firmly back to him. He was quiet beneath me—okay, so he was a zombie, so that was easy—but nothing about him was threatening, or rushing. Rushing me, or rushing out the door. He didn’t seem angry or mad, or scared, or anything else I’d been afraid he’d be right now. “Whatever you want. It’s okay,” he repeated. He smiled, not too hard, not too wide. Just a gentle smile. A safe smile. A soft smile. Damn.
“I also don’t want to die in two days and not have had sex with you,” I admitted.
He laughed, and reached up to cup my face in his hands and bring it back down toward him.
“Then don’t,” he said, half a second before he kissed me.