Fangs But No Fangs (3 page)

She frowned for a moment, not following the conversation, probably due to the lack of oxygen getting to her brain. Or maybe too much oxygen, given that her heart was in overdrive. Then she recalled her brother using the dreaded nickname when he'd been yelling for her. "That's one reason, among others."

He frowned, puzzled.

"It's not my real name," she added quickly, as she'd rather not go into the fact that her brothers had mainly called her Cherry to mock her morality and the fact that she actually didn't want to sleep around like her other siblings. They had found her virginity a great source of amusement.

"My name is Jolee. Jolee Dugan."

He stared at her for a moment, his gaze going from her eyes to linger on her lips. Jolee's breath caught in her throat as he slowly leaned closer. He was going to kiss her, she realized.

Her heart revved again. A thrill tingled over her skin; her own gaze dropped to his mouth. His top lip bowed in the center and the bottom one was fuller, pale pink, soft-looking and yet infinitely masculine. His head descended.

Then, as if he'd been burnt, he stepped back from her. He shook his head slightly as if to clear his thoughts.

"I should go."

She frowned, confused by his sudden and strange behaviors. "Are you all right?"

He studied her with those almost eerie eyes, then nodded.

He started for the door. Even with his odd reactions, Jolee didn't want him to leave. Maybe she was more shaken by the incident with Vance than she thought. Or maybe she simply was lonely. Living alone, running a bar essentially by herself, it had been a lonesome time. She wanted to feel like she was connecting with someone.

"You know, you haven't told me your name."

He stopped again, casting a look over his shoulder. He frowned as if the idea of telling his name to her was a foreign concept.

"So, your name?" she prodded. "You do have one, don't you? I can't very well call the neighborhood hero, 'Hey you, now can I?"

He turned back to her, and he actually looked a little uncomfortable. But then, as if the awkwardness hadn't ever been there, his jaw tensed and his eyes grew frosty like chips of pale blue ice. He lifted his chin, and she fully understood the phrase "looking down your nose." She didn't think she'd ever seen anyone look so arrogant.

"You know, as much as I love breaking up family squabbles, I do have things I have to do."

"Oh," she said, stunned by his cool tone, wondering what she'd said to offend him. She did suppose it was a little annoying to have to break up a fight at this time of night, and he had gotten cut in the process. But he didn't have to be quite so haughty about the whole thing. She didn't say that, however. She didn't want to appear ungrateful. She appreciated his help. He had been a hero, and she knew those were too few and far between.

"Well, thank you," she said, following him to the door. She reached for the handle just as he did. Their fingers touched, his on top of hers. Again he jolted away as if the back of her hand was made of molten lava. She dropped her hold on the doorknob, too, startled by his response.

"Sorry," she said, offering him a small smile. Was he reacting this way because he was or wasn't attracted to her? From his deadpan expression, she couldn't tell. "You know, I was thinking, maybe, if you are interested—»

"Your name, Jolee— is that as in French for pretty?"

The question caught her off guard. She smiled wider at the idea, but then she said, "Hardly."

"No, I thought not," he said coolly. He reached for the doorknob. She didn't stop him this time as he stepped outside.

Jolee remained rooted to the spot, unable to react. Finally, she managed to gather her thoughts enough to go get one of the metal chairs in the living room and wedge the back under the door handle. She needed to get a better lock, she thought to herself. A chain lock. Or a deadbolt. Or…

She'd nearly been stabbed by her brother over money she didn't have, and now her weird neighbor had just called her ugly. What a great night.

She laughed out loud, the sound more hysterical than humorous. Thinking about better security wasn't going to erase the embarrassment tightening her chest. Here she'd been thinking her neighbor seemed attracted to her, and he essentially told her how unattractive he really found her. Man, was she that clueless?

She shook her head, telling herself his opinion didn't matter. After all, he had to have issues. A person didn't have the clothes and car and cultured voice he had and live in a rundown trailer park. Something was not right with him. Not to mention he seemed more than a little socially dysfunctional. She had enough of that in her own family. She didn't need to go befriending it.

Still, his words and his arrogant look stung. And reminded her that unlike him, she did belong here. No one would be surprised to find a Dugan in a place like this. No one expected her to make anything out of herself. But she was damned well going to try to. And she wasn't going to waste her time dwelling on her snotty neighbor.

Christian entered his trailer, shutting the door tightly. Then he twisted the lock for good measure.

This was crazy. He was anxious over a mortal. A mortal woman. Why? It had to be this strange agitation he'd been feeling all night. That was the only answer. But what was different? He didn't know. He just knew that he had to get these feelings under control.

But even now, he felt inexplicably drawn to her. He walked over to the window and looked out at her trailer. All her lights were on. He could go back over.

And do what? Be friends? What did he have in common with a mortal woman? He'd given up his vampire ways to reinvent himself. To no longer be the Christian Young who… He didn't actually plan to hang out with humans. Okay, Step Eleven: Making Contact, did sound like he was supposed to do just that. But he blogged— and that was contact.

He turned away from the window. He needed to focus on his plan. He went to the refrigerator. He must have been tempted by the scent of her blood. He'd just been hungry. Maybe he needed to up his pre-measured portions of blood to ten ounces from eight. That was probably it.

"Calm down," he told himself, going to the refrigerator to read his list of steps. "Step Three: You must surrender to the fact you do have a problem, and then find a way to deal constructively with the problem."

But you didn't have the urge to drink her blood. He turned from the list, pacing the small kitchen. He'd wanted to touch her. Feel the smooth texture of her skin, taste the softness of her wide lips. And he just didn't have those kinds of feelings about mortals.

He pulled in a deep breath. It had been a fluke. A little unexpected side effect of his strict feeding plan. No big deal. And he wasn't going to see Jolee again. Not to talk to. He'd insulted her to guarantee that very thing. An image of Jolee's surprised, then wounded expression flashed through his mind. A twinge of guilt pulled at his gut.

He looked around as if the voice in his head were real. Lilah's voice, deceptively sweet. The voice of his vampire lover, and evil incarnate.

Why would he think of her now? The vampiress who'd crossed him over, crossed over his brothers, and destroyed his family. He'd forced her out of his thoughts. Yet, he could see her clearly in his mind. Her patronizing look when he'd been horrified by the results of his first feeding, by what he'd done to another human being.

"But you aren't a human being, not anymore," Lilah had informed him. "You are a vampire, and you are mine. That makes you far more important than any mere mortal."

And he'd believed her. He'd become what he was because he'd believed.

Why was he thinking about this? He wasn't that vampire anymore! He wasn't. He'd changed. His self-imposed exile, his routine, his self-therapy. It was all making him… better.

Yes, and how Lilah would laugh if she could see him now. Living in a trailer, drinking blood through a straw, hiding from his neighbor.

Again his thoughts took on Lilah's lilting, mocking tone.

No! This was a good plan. It was working. He just needed to be more careful. He needed to adjust his blood intake. He needed to avoid situations where the hunger might appear. He needed to stay calm. His reaction to Jolee was hardly "falling off the wagon."

"You just need to be a little more vigilant. By tomorrow night, you will be fine," he told himself. He shook his head, chuckling derisively. "You also need to stop talking to yourself."

He strode into the living room and turned on the TV. The chatter of voices filled the room. A comforting sound. A sound that drowned out the whir of lawn ornaments and the drone in his own head.

"At just nineteen-ninety-five the Salad Shooter is already an incredible value. But that's not all you get. We are also including the World's Best Vegetable Peeler, the only peeler you will ever have to buy again. And the Super Corer— core apples, pears, even tomatoes with just a flick of your wrist. All this for one low price. But this offer cannot last. Call now!"

Christian stared at the beaming face on the television screen. Another infomercial. He'd seen this one before, but he focused on the adamant pitch of the salesperson as he continued his spiel.

Did mortals really live in a world where the Salad Shooter could make their entire lives better? The overly cheery salesperson certainly implied that, and Christian couldn't help but feel envious of the possibility. He thought of Jolee, wondering what would make her life better. Even thinking about her seemed to make his muscles tense, and his body react. This had to stop.

He strode back to his computer and punched it to life. He sat down, pulled up his blog and added:

There. He'd made contact. Step Eleven successfully completed. Now he could forget about Jolee.

"Damn it," Jolee muttered as she dropped another glass. Her third of the night. At least this one didn't break.

She couldn't afford new barware.

"What's got you so preoccupied tonight?" Jed asked.

She smiled at the old man who had sort of come with the bar. He lived in a building, which was no better than a shack, really, out behind the bar. Jolee had agreed that for his rent, he could handle the janitorial duties for the bar.

"Nothing. Just a clumsy night, I guess."

He nodded, but she didn't think he believed her. He was right not to, because everything was on her mind tonight. Vance's attack. Money. Her arrogant, rude neighbor with his snooty airs.

Money was certainly the biggest concern. After all, she'd spent years worrying about her degenerate siblings, and that had never done any good. She needed to expend her energies on her bar. And making it work.

The bar was relatively busy for a Wednesday night, which meant about twenty patrons. And twenty patrons a night wasn't going to keep her in business. But even with that very real worry, it was her condescending neighbor who'd been eating at her. Popping back into her mind over and over. Making her clumsy.

She didn't understand why. Maybe because she'd really hoped they might become friends. But he'd made it clear that wasn't happening. And as disappointed as she was to discover her neighbor was not friend material, she was even more bothered by his insult. So he thought she wasn't pretty. She could handle that. It was what else he'd implied that had cut her to the quick. His mocking comment had also implied she wasn't classy enough to have some fancy French name.

And that bothered her, because it was the same crap she'd heard her whole life. Her family was no good. She was no good. But she was more than her last name— or her first name, for that matter. She knew that, and she intended to prove it.

Her confrontation with Vance and her neighbor's comment just had her resolve a little shaken. But both men had shown her she just had to work harder to prove she could be a success.

She looked around the bar she'd owned for almost three months. She could do this. Other people's opinions didn't mean squat. She sighed. How many times had she given herself the same pep talk while growing up? But this time she meant it. Two jerks weren't going to stop her.

She got a new glass and filled the bottom with two fingers of rum, then she topped that off with ice and cola. She repeated the process two more times, setting each drink on a round tray. She picked up the tray and went out to deliver the drinks. Then she cleared some of the glasses from other tables, still chanting to herself that she could make this bar into a successful business. She had to.

"Hey, sweet cheeks, another pitcher over here."

Jolee nodded in acknowledgement without looking toward the table. She set down her tray of empty beer mugs, then turned her back to the long, dark wood counter. Bracing her hands on the edge, she levered herself up onto the nicked wooden surface and swung her legs around to jump down on the other side. She heard a whistle as she performed her little feat of acrobatics, but she ignored it. Whistles and cat calls seemed to come with the territory of being a bar owner. Well, a female bar owner anyway.

She quickly placed the dirty mugs into the sink filled with hot, soapy water, then she turned to grab a clean pitcher. Patsy Cline's "Walking After Midnight" played on the ancient jukebox against the far wall between the doorways of the ladies' and men's rooms.

As she filled the pitcher, she lined up three more glasses and poured shots of Jack Daniels into each. Not only was it busy, but the patrons were drinking. Always good in a bar.

Well, sort of good. As she loaded another tray, she cast a glance toward the table of men who insisted on using that lovely little nickname for her. The five men actually looked a bit more respectable than some of her other patrons in their tucked-in shirts, loosened ties, and chinos. But as they drank, they'd gotten louder and ruder. Several times they had attempted to touch her as she delivered drinks to them.