The Vampire Book of the Month Club (6 page)

When she finally got up and saw him lying there, she rolled her eyes and warned, “Don't fall in love with him, Nora. He's the nicest guy who'll ever break your heart.”

She'd been right, of course, but not too right to fall in love with him herself. It didn't last long, and it's not something any of us talk about much anymore, but the brief romance between my two BFFs is the elephant in every room—even if I'm the only one who still feels its crushing weight every time I see their knowing glances from across the room.

Now we both call him our best friend, even though we'd each agree to marry him—or fight to the death trying—if he ever even got close to bending on one knee.

For any reason.

I'm talking to pick up a piece of trash from the floor!

“I just—it's confusing,” I say. “He acts like he's all into me one minute. Showing up at my book signing like that, letting me see his schedule, begging me to show him around school. Flowers and chocolates. Then he dumps me.”

“Guys do that. It's all part of the game.”

“
I
don't play those games.”

“That's why you haven't been on a date since that stupid snowboarder broke your heart.”

“He
didn't
break my heart, OK? What is it with everybody? I got emotionally attached, he's in love with his stupid board and his money and his Xbox and anything in a short skirt—or preferably
no
skirt—so we very maturely decided to go our separate ways.”

He smirks. “Ah, so
that's
why you made the bad guy in your very next book a snowboarder. Because you're sooooo mature.”

I toss a silk throw pillow at his almost concave stomach. “So you
do
read my books?”

He puts one long, tan finger to his full lips. “Shhh, don't tell anyone, or you'll damage my street cred.”

“On what street do you have cred, Wyatt? Besides Rodeo Drive.”

He shrugs, grabs the bag of corn chips from the coffee table, counts out three, and chews them carefully while eyeing me from his love seat.

“Nora, obviously this guy wants something from you. The schedule-in-the-book trick? Classic come-on. You're just too insecure to realize it. So that didn't work, and he upped his game with the chocolates-and-flowers trick. Hey, just 'cause Bianca caused him to lose his mojo doesn't mean he's not still into you.”

“So then where did he go all day? And where was Bianca? You know her—she'd rather eat her arm than miss a minute of school. Nightshade is like her own personal catwalk. The only way she would miss is if some hot new guy convinced her to play hooky.”

“I don't think they call it hooky anymore. I think it's called ditching now.”

“Who cares?”

“Well, as a writer, I figure you'd want to pay attention to those kinds of details.”

“The only details I want right now are what happened between Bianca and Reece all day.”

“You sure about that?” he asks, looking at his watch.

“No. Not really.”

Scarlet Stain holds on to the fire escape railing, one trembling hand clutching the cold, hard steel of the ladder and the other gripping her sword. Count Victus's blood is still fresh and drips off the sharp blade to the darkened alley six stories below.

From above comes the rustling of what she knows to be a black satin cape, its edges curling around the count's ankles as he hovers just out of reach.

“I don't know why you won't let me turn you, dear.” He sighs, warm breath oozing like a summer breeze across the otherwise frigid
night. It splashes Scarlet's cheeks like an almost welcome embrace. “Life, or should I say the afterlife, would be so much . . . simpler.”

Then he bares his fangs, so glistening and white, his lips still red and raw from gorging on his latest victim, another innocent Scarlet pledged and failed to protect.

As he covers the distance between them, eyes piercing, Scarlet has only one escape: straight down. She lets go of the fire escape, so quickly that even the count, with all his miraculously immortal superpowers, can't stop her.

Nor, curiously, does he try.

She falls, the weight of the world on her shoulders, rushing her speedily toward the earth. Not even the count can save her now.

That is, if he even wanted to . . .

I hit Save and look away from the keyboard, rubbing my eyes with one hand as I reach for my coffee cup with the other.

Around me the bright café is bustling, the smells of freshly brewed cappuccino, frothy milk, hot chai tea, and nutmeg filling the air. The hum of informed, energetic conversation trills from most tables, while the rest feature solitary keyboard-tapping caffeine jockeys like me.

I always come to the Hallowed Grounds café when it's time to write another chapter. My room is too small, and the dorm suite phone is always ringing if Abby's not there, or she's gabbing on it if she is.

Here I'm not Nora Falcon, best-selling author, but just another anonymous face bathed in the blue glow from my laptop monitor. Here I can be anyone I want to be. A high school senior, filling out applications for Harvard or Yale. A sexy (OK, not-so-sexy) single, writing up my profile for some online dating site. An irate customer, shooting off a profanity-laced complaint to the Hallowed Grounds corporate website. Or, considering my 90210 zip code, just another struggling writer, typing up a screenplay between waitressing gigs.

I enjoy the anonymity while nibbling on an almond biscotti and searching for the next scene.

I have no idea what's going to happen to Scarlet now that she's falling through the air with no net or hero to save her.

That's just the problem. I never do.

Either I'll figure out a way for her to survive the fall just before she lands in the wet, smelly alley below—or I'll go back and do a rewrite.

Unfortunately, I've been doing more rewriting than writing lately, which could be why my publisher keeps hounding me to deliver the fifth installment in the Better off Bled series.

I stare at the half-empty page, envious of the other writers scattered around me; their fingers seem to always be flying, their heads always down, writing with purpose and passion.

The way I used to do.

Back then I'd been just another vannabe, a freshman in Barracuda Bay High School, entering writing contest after writing contest with my crazy stories about Scarlet Stain and her archenemy, the evil vampire Count Victus.

We didn't have a computer at home (insert commiserating
aw
s here), so I'd get to school early, stay late, and even eat lunch in front of my favorite monitor in the computer lab: the last one all the way to the right.

I'd type and type and type and type. The lab administrator in his glass-walled office, a plump guy by the name of Mr. Mason, would shake his head in marvel as he downed another donut.

Nothing came of it, not a penny, not a ribbon, not a prize, until one day I got a call from the folks at Hemoglobin Press,
the
premiere publisher of fang fiction, otherwise known as vampire literature.

Months earlier I'd entered one of their contests, overlooking the fact that the first prize was a book contract from the publisher—and never in a million years expected to win.

But I
did
win, and everything changed.

Practically overnight.

Months later the first Scarlet Stain book was published. It took off like fresh hotcakes on a winter morning, and the rest is history.

My mom, a struggling waitress at the time, had heard about Nightshade Academy in one of her gossip magazines—that all the stars' kids and all the smart and talented and beautiful kids went there. She was convinced that it was the right place for a girl like me.

So after I made enough from the first Better off Bled book to get her out of the trailer park and into a big house in the nicest part of town, she signed me up and shipped me off.

That was freshman year, and I haven't been home since. The feeling I get from Mom and her new husband, Ronald, is that they'd rather see my monthly checks than little old me.

Fine by me.

Mom always said I was “just another mouth to feed” anyway; now I can feed Ronald and her via long distance, and everyone—including me—is happy.

But along with the very adult freedoms of making my own money and living away from home with all the beautiful people at Nightshade Academy came very adult pressure: the need to achieve, to keep up with a grueling publication schedule of two new books a year, plus a full course load, the rare extracurricular activities I'd need if I decided I wanted to get into a good college, and the normal social life of being a semipopular teenager in a place like Beverly Hills.

Sometimes it's heaven. I mean, who am I to complain, right?

Other times it's hell.

Right now I'm somewhere in between.

I sigh, polish off my first biscotti in frustration, and contemplate another when the bell over the door chimes.

I look to see who it might be—in this town, you never know when a Taylor or a Vin or a Kanye or even a Kim might stop in for a quick pick-me-up—when instead I see . . . Reece.

He has changed again, this time into black track pants, expensive sneakers, and a shiny silver hoodie, the kind you might wear while running a marathon—on the moon!—and walks straight to my cozy corner table.

He's so confident, so smooth, like a predator on the hunt. Is it any wonder my heart skips a beat and he is instantly forgiven?

I try to look away, to act bored, or at least disinterested, and fail miserably.

Does he act so confident because I'm desperate?

Or am I desperate because he acts so confident?

I close my laptop out of habit. I hate anyone, no matter how beautiful, reading my work until it's finished, polished, and printed.

And even then, I prefer they do it as far away from me as humanly possible.

“Nora,” he says, taking a seat across from me. “I am so sorry.”

“Are you, like, bipolar?” I somehow find the courage to ask before he can make himself comfortable.

He doesn't smile. “No, I don't think so. Why do you ask?”

I look at him in amazement.

Is he that cold?

Or just that clueless?

“Dude.” I lean in just a tad so we don't become a spectacle for the rest of the Hallowed Grounds patrons. “You have stood me up twice, brought me chocolates and roses, and now you've tracked me down to my favorite café—all in less than twenty-four hours. It's like you're Jekyll and Hyde or something.”

“Wrong book,” he murmurs. Before I can fake a coughing fit and ask him,
Dillweed says what?
he adds, “It was unforgivable, but I must ask,
can
you forgive me?”

I shake my head, too tired to play these games. “I don't
want
to forgive you. We don't know each other well enough for forgiveness at this point. What I'd like is for you to either quit doing things I
need
to forgive or just . . . leave me alone.”

He arches one eyebrow. Remains silent. His dark eyes are hypnotic, so I look away.

When I do, I see the two actress-slash-model-wannabes in their brown-on-green Hallowed Grounds aprons, gawking at him and whispering behind the cappuccino machine.

That's just the thing: a guy like Reece? He could have any girl he wanted, anytime.

What would it be like to stroll into a coffee shop and set two voluptuous teenage girls all atwitter? And if you had that power in a town like this, why would you ever, in a million years, make a play for someone like me?

I sigh and when I look back at him, he is smiling.

“You're quite the wordsmith, aren't you?” he asks, his grin dazzling, his cheekbones haunting.

“What does that even
mean
, Reece?” I snap, finishing off my coffee. I'm desperate for another biscotti but just try getting one now with a Greek god sitting across from me and the cashiers drooling.

“It means you don't save your eloquence just for your books. You speak just as articulately in real life. I so hoped you would.”

“Hoped I would what? I'm confused. That's the problem. Nothing here adds up. Didn't we just meet? Like last night? Didn't you transfer here from Manhattan because your parents thought a change of scenery would do you good? Stop acting like I'm the reason you're here. It's
not
flattering. Frankly, it's vaguely creepy.”

“Creepy or not, you
are
the reason I'm here.” He's not smiling. In fact, those chocolate-brown eyes—now a shade darker—are kind of drilling into me, pinning me into my chair, making me want to sit somewhere—anywhere—else.

“How is that even possible? What, because you've read a few of my books? Because you've got a crush on Scarlet Stain and think just because she came out of my twisted teenage brain that somehow I
must
be like her? Here's a news flash, pal: I'm
nothing
like her. OK, maybe I have red hair, but I don't know karate, I don't dress in all black, I don't practice black magic, I've never kicked anyone's butt, and I've definitely never seen a vampire, let alone hunted one, so if that's your twisted little game, then—”

“Oh, but you
are
like her.” He leans forward now, that spicy cologne intoxicating, his breath fragrant as it caresses my cheek. “Much more than you know. You have that same savage tongue, and you're not afraid to use it.”

“OK,” I say, unplugging my laptop and sliding it into my laptop bag. “You're clearly delusional.”

“Am I?” He leans in and drops his voice an octave. “I came here for
you
. I haven't just read your books; I've memorized them. They're . . . brilliant. Not in a classic sense, mind you; but as part of the vampire canon, they are nothing short of brilliant.”