I rescued him when he was just a kitten. Someone had packed him and several of his brothers and sisters into a cardboard box and then dumped it into one of the huge metal dumpsters behind my apartment building. His loud, incessant yowling got my attention, and I climbed into the dumpster—yes, it smelled terrible but I couldn’t ignore his little voice—and found the box. When I opened it up, there he was, staring up at me and literally screaming for his life.
Of course, I couldn’t keep a whole litter of kittens—one pet is the limit at my complex and even then I had to pay an exorbitant fee to have him. I took the rest of the litter to the animal shelter where they promised to try and find them homes. Mr. Mittens—so named because his black front legs end in two silky white paws—came home with me. He’s a hero as far as I’m concerned—he refused to be quiet and saved his whole family with his stubbornness.
He’s also the sweetest, most cuddly cat I’ve ever owned. He always seems to know when I’m feeling down and he insists on sleeping next to me on the pillow every night.
I stroke his soft fur some more before I head for the kitchen, pull out one of his cans of wet food, and pop it open. The smell is like death warmed over. Tuna Surprise! the can exclaims—I guess the surprise is that the fishy stench doesn’t kill you. But Mr. Mittens chirps with delight and dives in face-first when I set it down.
“There you go, baby,” I say, stroking his arching back some more as he digs in. “Enjoy yourself.”
While he eats, I check his automatic dry feeder and water station. Both are working fine, little green lights glowing reassuringly. The setup cost me more than I wanted to spend, but it’s well worth it. When tax season comes around I’ll be pulling late nights. But at least I know my baby won’t starve while I’m drowning in W-2s and 1040s.
I crouch down, scratch between his ears, and whisper,
“You’re the only man I trust.”
He purrs louder, as if he knows.
After making sure he’s settled, I peel off my clothes and head for the bathroom, my towel slung over one arm. Tonight’s plan is simple—a long, hot shower, then curling up with the new Book Club pick, Midnight Hunger.
The book is ridiculous—trashy Dark Romance—which is exactly why I love it. The MMC—or Male Main Character—is an overbearing vampire hero who insists his bride belongs to him, body and soul, and spends the entire novel proving it in increasingly dramatic ways. It’s fun to read—hilarious, even. But in real life? Hard pass.
Just imagine—some crazy vampire kidnapping you and demanding your blood whenever he felt like it! Yeah, no thanks. That’s the stuff of nightmares, not happily-ever-afters, as far as I’m concerned.
In real life, I tell myself, I’d take a pass on the morally gray, tortured hero. I’d want what they call a “golden retriever hero” instead. Someone protective but easy going and dependable with lots of emotional intelligence. You know—the kind of guy who doesn’t exist in real life.
It’s the difference in being married to a Darcy or a Bingley—at least according to Hanna, who’s a big Pride and Prejudice fan. In a book, you want the Darcy but in real life, nothing beats a Bingley.
But being swept off your feet by a huge, muscular, powerful vampire or Mafia Don or billionaire certainly makes for good reading. Which is what I intend for tonight.
I hang my towel across the shower rod and crank the shower on. The water pressure is decent, at least, but the stall is tiny, and the hard water stains under the faucet mock me. I’ve scrubbed them with everything short of industrial acid, and they still won’t budge. Tampa water is full of limestone—those stains aren’t going anywhere.
Still, the heat feels good. I stand under the spray until steam fogs the mirror and the tension finally starts to drain out of me. For the first time all day, I breathe easy. I’ll worry about tomorrow when it comes. For now, I have a sexy vampire to read about.
When I step out, the air is noticeably cooler. Did I turn down the AC and forget I did it? I’d better turn it back up again—I won’t be able to afford the electric bill otherwise.
I feel goosebumps prickling across my skin. I towel off, cinch the damp terrycloth around me, and push open the bathroom door. I step inside—only to stop dead.
My bedroom is gone.
In its place stretches a long, dark corridor. Stone walls rise on either side of me, rough and ancient, torches flickering at intervals in rusty iron brackets. The floor is cold under my bare feet, and gritty with dust. The air smells of smoke and something metallic, like old coins and blood.
“What the hell?” My voice echoes unnaturally, bouncing back from the stone like someone else is speaking.
I blink, squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again. Nope—it’s all still here. The torches…the corridor…the ancient, medieval smells.
Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming—right?
Because if I’m not… then I’ve just stepped out of my crappy little bathroom and into a nightmare.
7
Jules
I spin around in a circle, my damp towel slipping, my hair dripping cold water down my back. The bathroom is gone. Vanished. No shower, no sink, no cracked mirror. Just this long, dark corridor of stone stretching in both directions, lit by torches that hiss and spit in their iron brackets. Their shadows lunge and twist across the walls, like giant, distorted hands reaching for me.
It reminds me of the hallway scene in the Phantom of the Opera movie, where the Phantom is leading Christine down into his dark underground lair. Only I don’t see any sinfully sexy yet menacing Phantom here—I’m all alone.
“What the hell…?” I ask aloud.
