Jolie Blonde (Vigilare Book 3) (20 page)

Returning her lip service, his mouth trails provokingly over her breasts and her neck before coming to rest above hers. “Mary Jane makes me feel numb, Brie. You make me feel alive,” his body reciprocal of his words, his stroke increases, relishing in the awareness.

“Lon,” Brianna moans, her hips keeping time with his. Her abdomen quivers giving way to a strained voice, “it hurts.”

He hinders his momentum, this virgin stuff completely foreign to him.

“Don’t stop,” she urges. “It doesn’t…hurt like that.” Her body writhes beneath his. “It feels incredible. It just…aches. Like something’s supposed…to happen…but…it’s not.” Her chest clashes against his, their rigorous and taut forms experiencing years of pent-up emotions.

He coddles her trembling form against his chest, slowing the rhythm between her thighs attempting to refrain from coming without her. “I’m trying to get you there, baby,” his inflection desperate, wanting to fulfill her. “We’ll get it figured out.” The corners of his lips curve upward, promising, before delivering refuge to hers, flushed and parted.

Giving in to his aforementioned thought in comparing the woman beneath him to Mary Jane, Lon knows he has found his new drug. His lips saturated with her taste, his hands blazing with the feel of her flesh, his ears relish in her sounds of pleasure that his body delivers, each decadent stroke at a time. His proud heart pines that he will no longer be able to call it his own as he takes great privilege in claiming what is and has always been his.

Back at ETNA Laboratories, Dr. Godfrey works into the wee hours of the morning. His station stocked with centrifuges, microscopes, and other blood mixing and analyzing devices, he moves from one task to another at a hurried pace. His gut tells him that he is on the verge of a breakthrough.

“Young Lon’s blood type is AB-negative. Brianna’s is O-negative,” Dr. Godfrey mumbles aloud to himself, his usual mechanism of tying all loose ends together.

His mind reels with unproven theories of Rh-negative blood factor and its link to the
ancient astronauts—
the Annunaki—to some extraterrestrial researchers. Mulling over the fact that Rh-negative blood types, unlike their Rh-positive counters, are not linked to the rhesus monkey, he concedes with other hypotheses that Rh-negative blood types are of reptilian decent.

“Blue bloods,” he delves out the royal ancestral denomination.

In his line of work, researchers believe
blue bloods
are the direct link to the ancient astronauts, the bluish hue of this blood due to a high copper concentration as is seen in reptiles. He chuckles with the thought of how his unconventional beliefs would cause most to roll their eyes, fully negating such a premise.

“How else could it be explained?” he questions as if he is reasoning with a disbelieving crowd, the same as he has done in his numerous presentations on the subject to both believers and nonbelievers. “You see, the lack of Rh factor…hence Rh-negative…in the blood, means that one who has Rh-negative blood does not share DNA or evolutionary background with the apes. In essence, the theory of evolution only applies to those with Rh-positive blood. The origin of Rh-negative is unproven at this point.”

Knowing fully well that he chooses to believe Rh-negative blood factor originated with the gods as per his research, accompanied by the fact that it is much more exciting to think so, the proposition of a supernatural existence is utterly stimulating to a man who has spent half of his life attempting to establish such a fact.

“What says you?” he talks to the skull on his desk. The same skull Lon and Brianna found at the marsh three years ago.

His hands glide over the elongated, cone-headed artifact, its overly pronounced eye sockets stare back at him. Turning his palms over, he inspects the scars there. They are very different from Brianna’s and Lon’s pearly, beaded scars. His, discouragingly normal in their appearance, one on each palm, having given it the old college try on two different occasions. He rubs the smooth surface, considering another splitting contact with the razor sharp ridge at the top of the crown.

“Those kids know more than what they’re telling me. If only I, too, had Rh-negative blood,” he wishes.

He pulls his hand away, forgoing another experimental slicing. His blood—Rh-positive—appeared quite ordinary after his first two attempts, he saves himself the disappointment with a third try. Eyeing two vials of blood, one Brianna’s, the other Lon’s, he prepares a microscope slide.

“It all comes down to this,
Gerry Boy,”
he calls himself by the childhood nickname his mother gave to him, a fitting representation of his first name—Gerald.

Delicately mixing a drop of Lon’s blood with Brianna’s, he preps it under his microscope. Mindful that neither blood on its own proved anything more than normal, his curiosity bounds with the thought of what their blood may produce together. He rubs his palms one off the other, scrunching up his round face, his eyes wincing above his bifocals in preparation for a keen view through the lens of his microscope.

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” he stammers.

Standing up from the microscope, he rubs at his eyes, implementing another look. The image does not change. There under his magnification and amidst the mixture of Lon and Brianna’s blood is a fluorescent emerald green glow.

“Sweet Jesus, Sir Isaac Newton, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Queen Elizabeth, JFK, Cleopatra,” his amazed regard drags on, naming famous leaders with the most rare Rh-negative factor. “What lies dormant in each of their individual blood becomes activated with the combination of the two,” he continues to deduce at a whisper, completely yet happily flabbergasted, “something out of this world.”

“Still talking to yourself, I see,” Dr. Shaw enters the office just before sunrise, his eyes rolling exaggeratedly at his bemused cohort.

Dr. Godfrey jumps, spooked by the intrusion, the look on his face similar to that of a child who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“You have something there I should see?” Dr. Shaw grows suspicious.

“No. No.” Dr. Godfrey waves him off, backing away non-territorially from his microscope. “Just wasting my time, that’s all.” He chuckles, self-deprecating.

“Those two kids are no more special than Edward Bentley’s research,” Dr. Shaw berates Brianna’s father, who was once his greatest competition. “Shame about those faulty brakes,” he makes mention of the Bentleys’ accident, once again blaming it on fallible vehicle maintenance. “Just like Edward to be unprepared.” He gives Dr. Godfrey an elitist, supervisory glance. “You’d be wise to
prepare
yourself with another project. Preferably one that merits your salary.” He rolls his eyes at the hematologist before passing him by.

“Indeed, I will,” Dr. Godfrey calls after him, busily cleaning up his work station, sure to rid the locale of any proof of his latest discovery.

The overhead sprinkler system, a fail-safe in the event of a laboratory fire, spontaneously goes off emitting tiny streams of water down upon the entire facility.

“Son-of-a-bitch!” Dr. Shaw’s uncanny high-pitched voice escapes his tall, robust frame. “What have you been playing around with Godfrey?” He insinuates the humble hematologist has caused the nuisance with his overnight experimentation.

“Nothing,” Dr. Godfrey defends. His trembling hands nimbly plucking Lon and Brianna’s blood-smeared slide from the microscope, he tucks it securely into his lab coat. “The only thing I put any heat under was a coffee pot.” He shuffles to the beverage station, the coffee maker intact, having turned itself off after several hours of inactivity.

Dr. Shaw hastily grabs at files loitering the top of his desk, shoving them into drawers away from the damaging water. His hands slap against the sides of his head, protecting his ears from the forthcoming fire alarm—a built-in backup system to the sprinkler activation in alerting the fire department. He hurries to the exit, having indulged in a morning shower already.

Dr. Godfrey follows loosely behind, a foot shorter than Dr. Shaw, his choppy gait no match for the lanky one. Under his arm, he carries a small, portable lunch cooler.

Outside the perimeter, the sun has fully risen as Doctors Godfrey and Shaw retreat to the main facility across the way from the laboratory. They resemble a parent and child, Dr. Godfrey lagging behind attempting to keep up with a chastising Dr. Shaw who continues to verbally reprimand his colleague, assured he is solely responsible for the sprinkler mishap.

Dr. Shaw’s tongue-lashings are effectively muffled with a loud
BOOM!
The men fly through the air, the blast catapulting them up off their feet with a startling forward projection.

“Ahhh!” Dr. Godfrey screams as his airborne body comes to rest atop Dr. Shaw’s there in the dirt, nearly a hundred feet from the once upstanding laboratory now crumbled to bits.

“Get off me, Godfrey,” Dr. Shaw mumbles through gritted teeth, pushing the lightweight hematologist out of his personal space. “And shove this goddamned cooler up your ass!” He yells, heaving it, having grown tired of the hematologist’s territorial clutching of it—every morning and every evening—dragging it in and out of the office.

“Wh…wha…what happened?” Dr. Godfrey expels, his hands frantically pawing at the dirt in search of his glasses.

“Foul play, that’s what happened.” Dr. Shaw spits blood from his mouth as he sits upright in the soil. His hand tending a split bottom lip, his eyes fall vengefully on his once state-of-the-art laboratory now blown to smithereens.

“A mutiny? But why? Who?” Dr. Godfrey winces his eyes in the direction of the blown-up laboratory, a blotchy blur without his spectacles.

“You’re really not that naïve, are you, Godfrey,” Dr. Shaw snaps rhetorically. He stands, dusting himself off, assessing his injuries. “Ms. Bentley’s disgruntled
boy toy
is responsible for this.”

“Young Lon?” Dr. Godfrey baffles, doubtingly. “Where would he get the knowledge or the munitions to do such?”

There on the ground Dr. Shaw spots Dr. Godfrey’s bifocals. Mashing his heavy penny loafer into the frame, the lenses crack. “Oopsy,” he comments, a nefarious grin forming before limping away toward the main building with full intent to report Lon to the authorities.

“You blundering buffoon,” Dr. Godfrey whispers under his breath, hearing his glasses pop and crackle beneath the foot of his superior. His hands grazing the dirt, he manages to find an intact, albeit tiny, piece of lens from his bifocals. Holding it up to his straining eye, he peers through it until his
lunch
cooler comes into focus. The coy hematologist’s lips curve upward. “Clown. Half-wit. A fool you are.” He further admonishes Dr. Shaw for actually thinking that he would be that protective of his lunch.

The insulated box lies there in the dirt, its interior contents the furthest thing from a sandwich, safeguarding the remainder of Lon and Brianna’s siphoned blood, a few bags of each. Dr. Godfrey pats the area over his chest, elated to find the microscope slide containing the mixture of their blood remains unscathed and intact in his lab coat pocket. His mind whirling with wonder at how such an unfortunate accident as the lab explosion could result in a genius idea.

“What would happen if I were to transfuse their commingled blood into someone else?” He talks quietly to himself, the fluorescent emerald green glow he witnessed through his microscope still visible in his mind. “Who? Who else?” He considers any eager participants. “Would surely have to be a daredevil.”

His eyebrow arches, one blue-eyed thrill-seeker coming to mind. “He wouldn’t.” Dr. Godfrey doubts, thinking such cooperation (someone so close to Lon and Brianna) would be too good to be true. “Then again…” he considers the selfish and narcissistic tendencies of most bad boys, the mad scientist also well-versed in psychology, of his own
committed
accord.

I should be a damsel in distress

My life one big ol’ mess

Whine and cry

And lean on you for everything

Back in Baton Rouge and mid-morning, Lon escorts Brianna from the frat house. Sporting his t-shirt, a
shag shirt
nonetheless (commonplace among collegiate fraternity brothers—their sexual claim to fame), Brianna holds his hand as he leads her down off the porch steps toward her plush silver coupe sitting behind his earthy Scout.

“Wish you’d stay for breakfast or something,” Lon offers. “Doesn’t feel right, you leaving so soon this morning.” He contemplates the magnitude of what happened last night, their first official night together, her
first
ever.

“I have two twenty-five page papers due tomorrow morning,” Brianna reminds herself, law school no simple undertaking. “And I think that wretched Professor Broussard, my Intro to Law instructor, is going to surprise us with a pop quiz.”