“Your personal effects minus your ruined clothes are in a box in the closet by the front door. Your car is parked in the garage.” He grimaced. “I can’t believe you drive that jalopy.”
“Neither does my mechanic,” I quipped. I headed for the closet and located the box that held my stuff. I slid on my grungy shoes and snagged my purse. The phone inside was dead.
“Where will you go?” he asked.
“Home. Duh.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Fledglings do best when they’re mentored until they can get their impulses under control.”
“I am not going to pounce on people to suck their blood.”
“You will when the hunger gets too strong.”
"Oh my god,” I huffed, watching him surreptitiously to see if he flinched. He didn’t. “Stop with the vampire schtick. It’s not working.”
“You need to listen to me very carefully, Skylar. Your need for blood during this fledgling stage isn’t the only thing you’ll require help with. During daylight hours, you’ll want a secure location.”
“I have curtains,” I stated, rather than question how he knew my name. The guy had seen the mole on my inner thigh, so figuring that out when he had my wallet probably wasn’t that hard. “And besides, didn’t you say sunlight only burns?”
“Burns me because I’m old. It would kill you. Fledglings have little resistance to threats.”
“I'm not staying here with you." Handsome didn't mean trustworthy. Not to mention, why was he trying so hard?
"Did you hear a word of what I just said?"
“Yes, and I didn’t believe any of it.”
Cillian’s lips pursed. “Very well, then. Go. I’ll see you tomorrow night, if you survive.”
I laughed at his certainty. “Oh no, you won’t. As the Terminator would say, Hasta la vista, baby.”
With that, I stepped outside his house—which turned out to be a newer-looking McMansion in a very posh area. No wonder he parked my car in the three-door garage. Speaking of which, how did I?—
Whir.
The rollup door exposed my vehicle parked beside a sleek, dark-colored sedan. I might not know much about cars, but damn, it looked expensive and nice.
I jumped into my car and then prayed it would start. It did, with a small backfire that made me blush. I chugged out of the garage and, as I pulled onto the street, took note of the house number—in case I needed to talk to the cops and bring them back with a search warrant to check Cillian’s basement or yard for bodies. Then again, maybe he wasn’t a serial killer; after all, he let me leave.
I memorized his street name before heading in the direction of home, the difference between his neighborhood and mine a stark reminder of my impoverished lifestyle.
Why had I been so gung-ho to leave the lap of luxury?
Because Cillian’s interest in me made no sense. Ignoring his whole vampire bullshit, why come to my rescue when a guy like him could literally get any chick he wanted?
Twenty minutes later, I parked in the potholed lot the landlord had the nerve to charge for and headed to my apartment. It felt more depressing than usual. The ceilings low, unlike Cillian’s nine-foot ones in the bedroom and the two-story expansive space of his great room. His holiday décor also had me eyeing my unadorned apartment with pursed lips. I’d not put up a tree this year because I couldn’t stand the fact Fluffykins wouldn’t be around to destroy the ornaments on it ever again.
Maybe I shouldn’t be such a Grinch and at least put out my display of nutcrackers. The uglier the better. My sisters called my obsession with them creepy, whereas I found them wildly entertaining. I mean, a mermaid nutcracker? Hilarious. Santa with his wife beater and beer bottle? Classic.
I’d lug out the bin from my locker in the morning. First thing I needed to do? Take a shower. Probably not the wisest course of action as I possibly soaped away DNA evidence, but I didn’t care because I highly doubted, despite my nude state, that Cillian fucked me while unconscious. And if he did, well, it would be more action than I’d gotten in a while. We were talking years.
I’d broken up with my last boyfriend after finding out he was a porn addict who pretended I was someone else when we screwed. Since then, I couldn’t be bothered to make the effort.
After my shower, I peeked in my fridge and grimaced at everything. The leftovers in the plastic recycled margarine and sour cream containers would most likely give me food poisoning. Best if I chucked them. My freezer held some frozen meals, but nuking my favorite—chicken tenders with mashed potatoes, corn, and a little square of brownie—made my stomach turn. I managed two bites before pushing the tray aside. It didn’t taste right.
Disgruntled, and still starving, I ordered a pizza via an app. Nothing like a hot pie smothered in gooey cheese to please a hungry belly.
It arrived forty-five minutes later and smelled… okay. Usually, my mouth would be watering. Whatever. Pizza was one of my favorites. I grabbed a warm slice and chomped. Chewed. Chewed. Swallowed. Grimaced. It tasted off. I still forced myself to eat the whole piece, and I mean forced. I’d never struggled so hard to eat something. It made no sense. Had the restaurant changed their tomato sauce recipe? Even the cheese tasted bland.
