“Yes, he is just as I remember.” Bruno shot a meaningful look toward you. Had you warned him I was spoiled brat? My terrible teens, Dad called it.
My face flooded with shame—Papa would be so embarrassed by my rudeness. I knew better than to pick fights with your friends and act petty. But I couldn’t help the envy welling up inside me. I liked believing I was the most important person in your life.
I slouched over to a lawn chair in the shade and sulked. Christ, now Bruno was applying suntan oil to his sculpted chest and ripped abs. Was hetryingto make me feel inferior?
“Are you hungry?” you asked, blocking the sun and my view of Bruno’s hot bod.
I grumbled a no, but my stomach argued back, so you reached into the cooler and tossed me a blood bag. Your boyfriend must know something of our appetite already, even though neither of us advertised it.
“When’s the last time you ate?” You gave me a concerned look. You meant blood. Youalwaysmeant blood. You were kind of obsessive about my feedings.
“I missed breakfast,” I admitted. I had been too upset about this introduction to eat.
“You shouldn’t skip bloodmeals.”
I resisted the urge to say something smart in response and instead, sucked down my “juice” in silence. The knot in my throat made swallowing difficult.
You took up the chair beside me, probably sensing my sour mood. Bruno came over and sat at the end of my chair like we were buds. I had to move my feet to make room for his perky ass. Sweat had beaded up on his chest and shoulders, and his scent was intoxicating. I’d bet his blood tasted good, silky smooth going down, just like the texture of his skin. Crap, I was getting an erection. I dropped my towel on my lap and tried to hide it. What was the point of this meeting again?
“Henri tells me you recently won a fencing competition?” Bruno said.
“Yeah, at a tournament in Orlando. I took gold for my age group.”
The two of you exchanged another look. It was friggin annoying.
“What?” I snapped. I hated it when adults talked over my head.
You swallowed and adjusted your sunglasses. Not being able to see your eyes made it difficult to read you.
“He’s small and quick. Very light on his feet,” you said proudly. “His coach says he’s talented enough to train for the Olympics.”
“But I can’t,” I reminded you. My medical records had been falsified my entire life, but that level of competition drug-tested so frequently, it’d be impossible to fake.
You frowned, and again, I felt bad. I shouldn’t complain. I had a good life. I didn’t want to dwell on the limitations of my “condition.”
Seeing you all glum made me feel like crap, so I asked Bruno a few questions about the production he was involved with for the Miami City Ballet. He was on loan from the Royal Ballet in London to perform here in the U.S.
“So, you’ll be staying here awhile?” I asked, trying to gauge how many more of these awkward encounters I’d have to endure.
“Eight weeks,” he responded nonchalantly.
“Great.” I tried to sound sincere. Meanwhile, I felt your eyes burning holes into the side of my head.
“Join me for a swim,” you said, less of a request and more of a demand.
Bruno spread a towel on a nearby chair and laid himself out like a five-course meal. His skin was so slick, I could skate a quarter over it. Or my teeth. I sat on the edge of the pool with my legs dangling in the water as you got in.
“You don’t like Bruno?”
“No, he’s fine. I’m just in a funk.” At least you hadn’t called him your boyfriend. Or your fiancé.
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. AP exams, SAT prep… the grind don’t stop.”
You nodded sympathetically. “It’s a stressful time. You have to relax, though. You’re brilliant, and you work very hard. Are you still looking at the University of Miami for college?”
I shot you a suspicious look. Were you trying to get rid of me? Bruno lived in London, and if the two of you got serious…
