Unwelcome (30 page)

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Authors: Michael Griffo

BOOK: Unwelcome
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Those were the same words Vaughan shouted when he opened his door and Michael attacked him. Without warning, Michael lunged at his father, grabbing his arms and pushing him to the floor. Caught up in the speed and momentum of his actions, Michael flipped over, his back landing squarely on the hardwood floor, and even though the crowns of their heads were touching, Michael still held on to his father's arms. “Why did you kill my mother?!” Michael shrieked, his voice bouncing off the ceiling and plunging down onto Vaughan.
So Michael found out,
Vaughan thought,
somehow he uncovered the truth. Well, if he knows that I killed Grace, he must know my other secret; no sense hiding that from him any longer.
Flinging his arms to the side, Vaughan broke free from Michael's hold and used the preternatural strength in his legs and thighs to jump up to a standing position. He whirled around to face his son, but Michael was nowhere to be found. Because Michael was now behind him.
When Michael's fist slammed into the side of Vaughan's head, he realized that his son was much quicker and stronger than he presumed. He might be a water vamp, on the wrong side of eternity, but he was still incredibly powerful. And inquisitive.
“Tell me!” Michael demanded.
Shaking away the fog that threatened to take hold of his body and mind, Vaughan leaned his hand against the living room wall. “If I hadn't killed your mother, she would never have allowed you to leave that godforsaken Weeping Water and live with me,” Vaughan explained breathlessly. “If I hadn't intervened, your life would have continued on in the same endless, horrible cycle as before.”
“You didn't
intervene
. You killed her!”
His balance regained, Vaughan remembered he wasn't talking to another immortal creature but to his son. “And you should be thankful for that.”
“Thankful?! You killed the only person who ever loved me!”
Far from an immortal creature, Vaughan realized, his boy was still very much a product of his human upbringing. “Grow up, Michael. I loved you more than your mother ever did. I'm the one who freed you! I'm the one who set you on the path toward your destiny!”
Michael couldn't believe what he was hearing. This was the man who was always breaking promises and flying off to Tokyo or some other foreign country; the man who wanted him to be a lowly, repulsive vampire like him; the man who couldn't stand him because he was gay. This man didn't know the meaning of the word love. “Fine. Do you want to see how thankful I am, Dad?” With one hand, he lifted the sofa by its leg and held it in the air. Instinctively, Vaughan raised his arms to defend himself, thinking Michael was going to throw it at him, but instead Michael flung it into the dining room, not flinching when it broke through the window and he was showered with shards of glass. “Do you love me now, Dad, because I'm big and strong?!”
Without the couch to use as a barrier between himself and Michael, Vaughan slowly started to walk backward. “I did love you . . .
I do
, I do love you . . . in my own way,” Vaughan stammered. “It's just . . . it's been a long time since I've been a father.”
Watching his father try to slink out of the room, Michael couldn't believe he was actually this coward's son. “It's been an even longer time since you've been a man.”
Before Vaughan could escape into the bedroom, Michael caught him by the shoulders and hurled him back into the living room, his body not stopping until it skidded into the wall. Rushing toward his father, Michael allowed the hatred he had been feeling for days to take control of his body. Turning Vaughan over, Michael punched him in the face, the chest, he watched the blood spill from his nose; he was no longer aiming, he simply allowed his fists to land wherever they could. Michael was so enraged, he didn't notice that Vaughan wasn't fighting back. Vaughan might be a coward, but Michael was still his son and despite everything, he did love him. There was no way he could bring himself to assault his own child. All Michael cared about was making his father suffer as much as his mother had, but when he raised Vaughan's wrist to his fangs to make him feel her pain, he stopped.
Looking at his father's bloodied face, he saw himself. He knew that if he pierced his father's flesh, if he took his blood from him, he would be no better than he was, and worse, he would make his father proud by becoming just like him. Horrified, he let go of his arm and let it fall clumsily at his side. He forced his mouth and his hands to return to their original shape so he could look more like his mother, and fled from the room. He had to get out of there, he had to get away from that thing that was his father.
Exhausted, Michael stumbled outside. The wind was starting to pick up and the crisp breeze felt refreshing, almost medicinal. It took Michael a moment to notice how beautifully it lifted Jean-Paul's hair so it could float around his face. The driver was sitting on the hood of the sedan, holding his hat in his hands and smiling at him, his long legs dangling, a few strands of hair getting caught between his lips. Michael thought dark brown on red was a perfect combination. He felt his stomach start to flip, no longer with anger, but with something else. The sensation grew as Jean-Paul hopped off the car and opened the passenger side of the car. “Looks like you could use a quiet place to . . . how do you say? Oui, chill out.”
Yes, that's exactly what Michael needed to do, chill out, relax, erase all the images of his parents, all the blood, all the screaming, and replace them with the smiling face of this handsome Frenchman. Just sit next to him for a bit, nothing more, just sit, let the smell of spicy cinnamon envelop him, sink into the warm leather seats, close his eyes and listen to Jean-Paul's sexy accent. Yes, that's exactly what he needed.
“We need some music,” Jean-Paul announced. Instead of turning on the radio, however, he leaned across Michael to reach for a CD that was in the slot on the passenger-side door. He twisted his head so his hair fell on Michael's hand, the loose tresses caressing his bruised, reddened knuckles that had just punched his father's face. Seconds after he popped in the CD, the soft wail of a saxophone glided through the car. Jazz wasn't Michael's favorite, but he thought he'd give it a try, thinking it might be a sign that it was time to experience new things. “You're very strong.”
Opening his eyes, Michael turned to Jean-Paul, his body immediately tensing up. “What?”
Jean-Paul's fingertips felt even nicer grazing across Michael's hand. “I saw what you did in there. You have a solid right hook.”
Staring at Jean-Paul's face, searching for a sign that he was more than just handsome, Michael couldn't tell, he looked human, but until a few days ago, he never suspected that his father was a vampire either. Then he realized most people would look at him and never imagine he was anything more than a teenager and once again, he heard his mother's words echo in his ears:
Not everything is what it seems
. “Thank you,” Michael whispered. “How did you see us?”
Ignoring him, Jean-Paul looked up at Vaughan's living room window and then into Michael's eyes. “You are a much better man than your father.”
Shifting his weight, Jean-Paul reached his arm over Michael's head and placed it on the back of the seat. A whiff of leather and some cologne, something musky, hit Michael hard in the face and he couldn't tell if the smell was gross or enticing. Regardless, he breathed it in and held the smell for a moment before letting it escape his mouth. “Lean your head back and close your eyes,” Jean-Paul instructed. “That's the only way to really hear this music.”
Michael did as he was told and leaned his head back against Jean-Paul's arm. It was lean and strong underneath the leather jacket, the way he imagined R.J.'s would feel if he had ever been so lucky to lean back and feel R.J.'s body pressing against his. He heard the sound of metal clinking against metal, and his eyes fluttered but didn't open. He didn't want to disobey orders. There was the sound again and he assumed Jean-Paul was crossing his legs and accidentally hit the car keys that were hanging from the ignition. He was certain of it when he felt bone press into the flesh just above his own knee, not quite touching his thigh, but very close.
What a feeling this was. The knot in his stomach had finally subsided, his muscles were relaxed, his eyes felt as if they were floating in their sockets, and he was drifting deeper and deeper within his body. His heart started to race only when something tickled his lips. Michael couldn't stop himself from opening his eyes and he was glad he did. Jean-Paul's face was an inch away, his hair falling forward, and each time Jean-Paul breathed, his hair danced across Michael's lips. After Michael closed his eyes, he felt more breath than hair linger over his mouth and then he heard Jean-Paul whisper, “You have the face of an angel.”
That's because I'm a young king, Ronan.
This time when he opened his eyes, Michael was horrified. What the hell was he doing? Why was he about to let someone else, someone other than Ronan, kiss him? Recoiling, Michael felt the door handle jab him in the side. He hit the door a few times in a feeble attempt to unlock it.
“What are you doing?” Jean-Paul asked. “We're supposed to be relaxing.”
“I'm sorry . . . I can't do this.”
Finally, Michael unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stumbled onto the pavement. The chilly breeze acted like a tonic, washing away the spell Jean-Paul had cast, and allowing him to run, to get farther and farther away from doing something stupid, something that would stain everything that he and Ronan shared. Yes, Michael was angry with Ronan, furious, but he didn't want to hurt him out of spite. He just knew it wasn't something a real man would do.
Standing in the back of Archangel Academy, Michael had newfound respect for the angels, the immortal men, who adorned the stained-glass windows that decorated the walls of the church. Michael used to think that angels had it easy, an immortal life must be nothing but fun and adventure. He had no idea that immortality, like a more temporary life, didn't automatically give you good judgment or the ability to resist temptation. You still had to make choices. Today, Michael was lucky; he had ultimately made the right choice. But what about tomorrow? What about when he came face-to-face with the next temptation? What about the next time he had to look into Ronan's eyes? When he genuflected by the side of the last pew, he was relieved. Maybe what he really needed to do was stop asking so many questions and sit next to a friend.
 
Ciaran saw Michael and smiled. By the time Michael sat next to him, he had stopped writing in his journal, relocked it, and tucked it back into his bag. For a few minutes, the boys sat next to each other quietly, looking at the cross that hung over the tabernacle, empty except for blots of blood on each of the four points of the cross, until Ciaran, sensing that Michael couldn't find the right words to open a conversation, spoke. “After the lab, this is my favorite place on campus.”
Michael didn't know that, probably because he never asked. “I guess they're both kind of peaceful,” Michael stated. “You know, in completely different ways.”
Not so different actually, Ciaran thought. Science and religion were a lot more intertwined and reliant upon each other than most people imagined. But noticing Michael's sullen expression, Ciaran didn't think he'd come here for intellectual discussion. “You haven't been yourself lately.”
That's because I don't really know who I am.
“Sometimes I wonder if I should ever have come to Double A,” Michael said. “Maybe it was all a big mistake.”
Ciaran knew he wasn't talking about school because two other things that were intertwined and reliant upon each other were Michael and Ronan. “Do you have any idea how much my brother loves you?”
Michael wasn't surprised by this comment. Ciaran was quite perceptive. He nodded his head several times but still found himself saying, “That doesn't stop him from lying to me.”
Love doesn't stop people from lying to each other, Michael.
“That veneer of invulnerability my brother likes to wear is all an act,” Ciaran said, then chose his words carefully. “He's been, um, terribly hurt by guys that he's loved.”

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