“That’s true.” I yawned widely, throwing my head back in doing so.
“Why are you so tired? How long has it been since . . . well, you know.” He looked at me, his eyes crinkling with concern.
“I should be fine. I, hm, how should we word it delicately. . . . I ‘recharged’ last night.” I used air quotes around the word.
“Last night?” he snapped.
“Before we met—before I even knew you were there.”
The hardened stare softened. “Well, that’s . . . good.”
“Good?” I didn’t want him to be enraged with jealousy, but I didn’t want him thinking it was good, either.
“I mean, not ideal—bloody Hell, Monica, I don’t know. I wish that as a demon I could recharge you. But, it’s good you’re . . . er . . .
charged
.” He smiled as he used the word.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I said through a chuckle.
His smile dropped and he ran a finger along the lip of his teacup. “Trust me”—his voice was softer—“I definitely don’t enjoy the idea of you being with other men.” He looked up at me with sad eyes. “But I understand. It’s just part of the demon deal.”
I grabbed his hand from across the table and nodded. “Unfortunately. Speaking of—what exactly were the terms of your—uh, contract? With the—uh, you know who.” I looked around the café without moving my head. After the first couple scotch and waters last night, I had completely forgotten to ask him what his job was for the big guy downstairs.
He shrugged. “I’m not exactly powerful. I do kind of clerical work, I suppose you could say. With my financial background, I’m a sort of accountant for the underworld. It was boring as a mortal, and it’s just as boring as a demon.”
“Wow. That sounds—painful.” I laughed. “Of all the badass jobs to get—you definitely got the vanilla pudding job of our realm.” I spoke in a whisper so soft that only an immortal ear could hear us.
Wills laughed loudly and tilted his chair back on the hind legs. “Well, not all of us can have sex for a living.” He spoke loudly, and there was an edge of hostility to his voice. A bitterness that cracked in the back of his throat.
A mother at the table to our left glared at us, her eyes lowering. She handed her son a coloring book and scooted her chair closer to him. “Hey, listen, Wills . . . if we could keep the demon talk to a minimum around the café, I’d appreciate it. I try my best to keep the two lives separate.”
He nodded. “Of course, sorry.” His eyes darted over to Drew, who was taking an order from two college-aged kids. “So—he doesn’t know?” His head jerked toward Drew.
“No.”
“Okay.”
There was silence at our table for what felt like hours. I checked my watch, not to see the time as much to find an excuse to leave the conversation. “Well, I should get back to work.”
Wills nodded and stood. Holding my face between his hands, he pulled me in for a soft kiss. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“Me too, soldier. Me too.” I kissed him again.
“You never knew me as a soldier.”
“No. But in the war, I always looked for you. Every time a soldier was rushed in, I ran, half hoping it was you, but always feeling somewhat relieved when it wasn’t. I might not have known you as a soldier . . . but you were still
my
soldier.”
He gave no response, just stood there studying me.
The silence made me uncomfortable. “I work tonight. How about dinner tomorrow?” I shifted my weight to the other foot.
A smile crept over his face. “Perfect.” And with that he walked quickly toward the door.
He has a very distinct walk with the best posture I’ve ever seen. It’s sexy, but in a distinguished way. I watched him as he walked past the café’s long storefront window. He brushed shoulders with another man. Dark brown, trim hair. Dark, low eyebrows. I
know
that guy. He was in the back of the club the night before. I ran to the window to get a better look, but he had already passed the coffee shop by.
I put him from my mind. Just a coincidence. Tossing the dirty rag over my shoulder, I went back to work. I walked to the back room to get some more coffee filters, and as I swung open the door to step down the stairs, my knees gave out on me. There in front of me as I went crashing to the floor was Drew carrying a big bag of espresso beans. He landed on his back. I landed on his stomach. And Illy beans flew into the air and sprinkled down on us, pelting our bodies like raindrops. Drew was chuckling despite the mess and the lost espresso product surrounding us.
We were nose to nose, breathing heavily after the crash. His hands had somehow landed on my hips, and he started laughing.
“Ugh,” I said. “Sorry. Guess I was just rushing too much.”
I heard a clacking sound and saw Adrienne’s plastic platform heels before I looked up and saw the rest of her. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Her voice dripped with snark. “Am I interrupting anything?”
Drew kept laughing. I guess he felt as though we clearly had nothing to be guilty of—I, on the other hand, could feel the flush rising to my cheeks. He was right, of course. We did nothing wrong—but if that was the case, why was I blushing like a teen caught parked at Make-Out Point?
“Trust me, babe.” He got to his feet and lifted me up as well. “I wish this was as bad as it looked.” He leaned in and kissed her lips, to which she grunted a response.
Bad answer, Drew,
I thought.
“You know I’m not nearly suave enough to pull off any kind of sordid affair. Especially not with this one.” He grabbed my head and gave me a noogie.
Drew has never
ever
in the history of us ever given me anything resembling a noogie. We have a special sort of affection, yes, but it’s less brotherly and more Gatsby-esque. Forbidden yet classy. What the Hell was wrong with me today?
“You’re bleeding all over the floor,” Adrienne said, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “I’m getting out of here.” She lifted her ten-dollar Payless shoes and clomped out of the room on her tiptoes—like she feared them being
ruined
by a little blood.
Bitch, please,
I thought,
my blood is worth more than those shoes will ever be.
“Oh, my God,” Drew said, looking down. “She’s right, your shin is gushing.”
“Oh.” I didn’t even feel the pain until they mentioned it. “That. It’s fine, it’ll stop in a second.” And normally, I’d be right. Our bodies regenerate very quickly. I shut my eyes and waited for the wound to stop bleeding. I made sure to shift it so that it wouldn’t close up too quickly—that type of thing tends to freak mortals out. Normally this task would take no effort at all. I opened my eyes even more exhausted than when I had sat before my break and looked down to find the cut bleeding even more. I had never before stood in a pool of my own blood. The crimson sight and coppery smell hit the back of my throat, and a wave of nausea wrenched my stomach. A tunnel of black closed in around my eyes, and the last thing I saw before I blacked out was Drew’s arms reaching out to catch me.
5
London, 1939
I
t was 1939, and I was a singer at the Shim-Sham Club. It was actually now called the Rainbow Roof—but I hated that name. Shim-Sham was far better. I sat in Soho Square smoking a cigarette, wearing a lovely belted navy dress. It had been a gift from one of my most recent conquests. It was a beautiful dress, expensive and elegant. It clung to me like a sticky reminder of my torrid affairs. The fog around London seemed to envelope me, combining with my cigarette smoke like a giant, hazy hug, and I breathed it in, letting the smog and mist fill my lungs.
I looked down past my pleated skirt and saw that my thigh-high stocking had slipped down and was gathering in a pool of wrinkles by my ankle. Pressing the burning cigarette between my lips to free my hands, I flipped my skirt up past my knees and tugged the stocking, stretching it back up to its place.
“Well,” said a delicious voice above me, “this might be the most inappropriate thing I’ve seen all day.”
“Not to worry,” I said, the cigarette bouncing with each word, “the night’s still young.” When I looked up into the young man’s eyes, I saw naivety and a flicker of lust. Even as a young succubus, I could sense the raw emotions. “Sit,” I continued, “share this cigarette with me.”
“I don’t smoke.” He stood a little taller—as if this fact made up for the bulge in his pants.
“Mm.” I narrowed my eyes, assessing the man. He was handsome. More than handsome. The sight of him made my bloomers damp. He was way better than the cigarette, I decided. I put the smoke out on the ground and stepped on it. “There, now I don’t, either. Come. Sit.”
He hesitated—eyes darting around to see who could be watching—and then sat. At a respectable distance. He swallowed, and I saw his Adam’s apple bob up and then down.
“Nervous?”
“Well, shouldn’t I be? I’ve never sat with a prostitute before.”
I should have been offended, but I’d been called much worse. “I’m not a prostitute,” I said. At least it wasn’t a total lie. That wasn’t my official profession, though I suppose it could be argued that succubi are whores of the highest caliber.
His face turned crimson and he immediately looked me in the eye. “Oh, I apologize. I-I-” He dropped his head into his hand, swiping his palm across his carefully combed hair. “Bloody hell, I shouldn’t have said that. What was I thinking?” Though embarrassed, he looked relieved. After he finished stumbling through an apology, his chest collapsed as a breath he had been holding escaped his lungs. “Well—what do you do, then?”
I laughed to myself. I had heard this question a million times and not once had I ever answered it truthfully. I leaned in closer to him, the stink of smoke still on my breath, and pressed my lips to his ear. He shuddered at the intensity . . . a good kind of shudder. “I’m here to steal your soul,” I said in a husky whisper.
And then—he laughed. I suppose it did sound a bit ridiculous. “Okay, then. I get it, you’re wicked. But what do you do to make money?” He leaned back on the bench and threw his arm behind me. He was letting his guard down around me—never a good thing, darling.
“I’m a singer,” I said.
“Really?” He perked up. Singing could be a respectable job, and considering his suit and pocket watch and hair that was perfectly placed, that’s what he looked for in a woman. Someone respectable.
“And a dancer,” I said a bit quieter.
His muscles tightened and I could feel him sit up straighter. He glanced over at me. “Ah,” he said. “Maybe I will take one of those smokes after all.” He smirked, his eyes looking at me but his head still facing forward.
“Why don’t we share one?” I lit my cigarette and passed it to him. He inhaled—much too deeply for a first-timer—and exhaled with a cough. I laughed. “Awww”—I combed my fingers through his hair—“that was cute.”
He was still coughing. “I can’t help it,” he said when he finally caught his breath. “I’m an innocent man.”
I glanced back down at his crotch, which tented his pants. “Oh,” I said, “I don’t know about that.” And I ran my fingers down his chest to his stomach, then slid my hand in his pocket. With a firm hand and wide eyes, I gripped his erection. Looking back to his face, I smiled. He was larger than I had expected. “Lust is a deadly sin.”
“But it’s not nearly the worst of them.”
“Are you the one to judge that?”
A pause. “Maybe I am.”
“What’s the worst sin, then?” I asked through a smile and rubbed him through the pocket. With the pad of my thumb, I circled over his head, and my body quaked as the tiniest bit of moisture soaked through the pocket onto my skin. If we weren’t in such a public place, I would have loved to take him into my mouth, taste all he had to offer.
He groaned, and his head fell back on the bench as I stroked his shaft. He grabbed my hand to stop me. “What is your name?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me.” His eyes were burning through me.
“Monica,” I said quietly.
“Monica,” he repeated. I loved the way my name sounded coming from him. “I’m Wills.”
“Nice to meet you, Wills.” I started stroking his length again, taking my time getting from base to tip. He grew harder and harder in my hand. Every now and then his cock would twitch; it occurred to me for a moment that Wills might still be a virgin. After a few minutes, I felt that familiar pulsation through the fabric. His breathing grew labored and he groaned. A sticky dampness covered my hand as I pulled it out of his pocket. I wiped my hand on my skirt. The surge of power I received from Wills was like nothing I had ever felt before. I was sure my skin was radioactive with his innocence—and just from a simple hand job. A quick flash of his life reeled before my eyes. It was a dull life; he both lived and died in a dreary, brown office.
“Can I hear you sing sometime?”
I laughed at him. “Cut to the chase, Wills. You don’t want to hear me sing. You want to see me dance.” My voice had a bitterness to it that I couldn’t seem to shake.
He shook his head. “I’d rather hear you sing. I’ll even leave before you dance.”
“You want to hear me sing? No one ever comes to hear me sing.”
“I do. I will.” He stated the words simply. “Then, I’d like to take you to dinner.”
I shook my head. “No, you don’t.”
He smiled, and he had one crooked tooth in the front. “Yes, I would. You’re not as devilish as you think, Miss Monica.” He stood up from the bench and removed his jacket. Slinging it over his arm and placing it in front of his stained pants, he stood tall, waiting for my answer.
“Your parents will kill you,” I said, not sure if I meant for his pants or taking me to dinner.
“Probably. They’ll get over it, though.”
I took a deep breath and stood as well, straightening my skirt. “Shim-Sham Club tomorrow night. I go on at eight fifteen. Maybe after, we can grab something to eat. Maybe.”
“You mean the Rainbow Roof?”
“Yes. Right. Rainbow Roof.”
He gave one sharp nod, took my hand, and brushed a light kiss on my knuckles. “Until tomorrow.”