Chapter Nineteen--Haha, You're Dead

“Is this...normal?” I asked tentatively.

“Not remotely.” Maxim’s expression was inscrutable.

I paused. “Does this...ever happen?”

“Not that I am aware of,” he continued, still troublingly poker-faced.

“Huh,” I nodded. Awkward. Very, very freaking awkward. “And...uh...is there someone you could ask about this? I mean, so we would know why––”

Without emphasis or inflection, he responded, “And to whom, pray tell, would I address such an inquiry?”

“Right,” I tried and failed to force a laugh, sounding somewhat strangled instead. “I guess there’s no Vampire Hotline for unsettling turns of events, huh?”

“No.”

Still no discernible reaction from Maxim.

“This isn’t my fault, whatever this is!” I protested, jumping on the defense, my voice jumping to an unfortunate shrill octave.

“I never suggested it was.”

“Then stop looking at me like that! Can you please let some form of emotion register on your face? It’s seriously freaking me out!”

He blinked. “My expression is what’s freaking you out? Not that you can communicate with me telepathically, or the knowledge that I’ve never once heard of that happening in all of the centuries I’ve been alive?”

“Yes!” I cried, still at that awkwardly high decibel.

Now Maxim, to my incredible relief, looked absolutely confused. “Why is that what has you so upset when I’ve just told you that––”

“Because everything about being a vampire is weird to me, Maxim!” I cut him off. “Everything is unexpected, everything comes out of left field, everything is occurring to me for the first time! How can I react to something as abnormal when everything is abnormal?! I mean, as far as I know, this is all because you’re my...creator-maker-person-thing and––”

“It’s not,” he shook his head.

“Well, okay, then, but does that make it a bad thing? From the get-go, our interactions haven’t exactly been typical––for either of us! Maybe you need to accept that. You don’t think I ever react the right way, but at least I do something! Your deadpan non-reaction is just weird!”

“This makes no sense,” Maxim groaned, bowing his head and grabbing fistfuls of his tousled hair.

“Neither does spray cheese, but you don’t see anyone agonizing over it!”

He looked up at me––even without employing our new little skill, I knew exactly what was thinking––if it were possible or wise to have a vampire committed to the nearest mental ward. “Were you dropped on your head as a child?” he asked idly, raising a brow.

“Well...maybe. Maybe you were, too. Maybe that’s why we have this freaky thing. We’re brain-damaged.”

“Going by that logic, those who have undergone lobotomies ought to rule the world by now.”

“Well, you just have to find fault with everything, don’t you?”

• • •

Perhaps because it freaked Maxim out so much, or perhaps it was due to decades of speaking like normal people, he and I didn’t take many opportunities to employ our random “gift.” It seemed to be that as the days passed, the least said on the subject, the less awkward it was.

Unless, of course, we were using it for the more sinister practice of creating embarrassing and confusing situations when in public places:

“Holy shit! Duck! Throw yourself on the ground! Now!!!...Haha, idiot, you fell for it again.”

“I wonder if she knows her skirt has ridden up and she is giving me quite the show...ah, made you look, my dear.”

“If you drink too much blood on accident, does it still count as murder?...Oops, I’ve said too much.”

So, yes, we had the maturity level of five year olds.

Though to my delight, being in public places was becoming a more frequent occurrence––still very rarely off on my own––and it was still rather important that I could return to the suite and “decompress,” as it were, to avoid any close calls of going psycho-Nosferatu on someone.

To that end, I found myself nearly a week later circling around Maxim while he attempted to read and I attempted to play my favorite game––Vampire Twenty Questions.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something important.”

Maxim raised his eyes to the ceiling, “No, I have never had a crazy insect-consuming minion named Renfield.”

“That isn’t what I was going to ask.”

“Then no, I have never met Anne Rice. Lestat is not real.”

“Will you shut up and let me talk?”

“Apologies.” He waved his hand, “Proceed.”

“It’s about being killed,” I started.

Maxim looked at me flatly. “If there is any justice in this world, neither you nor I will ever die at the hand of someone named ‘Buffy.’ Good God.”

I sunk down in the chair, slamming my forehead into my hands, “I am trying to ask you a serious question. Stop. Talking.”

He smirked, “Go on, then. You’re right. It’s very rude of me to interrupt.”

“You told me the night you, er, changed me, that if I were very unlucky, someday I might stumble upon one of the few ways we can be killed. I was just curious––for future reference, you understand––what those few ways are. I mean, is the stake thing true? Because honestly, I find the idea that a practically immortal being can be killed by a really big splinter a little fucked up, you know?”

He chuckled, “You will not die from a splinter––large or small.”

“So staking’s out?”

“Yes.”

“Silver bullets?”

“If I have my mythology correct, those are for werewolves,” he replied dryly. “I’ll thank you not to confuse us with very large mutant dogs.”

“Oh. Wait, are werewolves real?”

Maxim lifted his shoulders in a light shrug, “Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve never come across one or met anyone who has, so that would lead me to assume they are not. However, most people spend their entire lives never coming across vampires, so I’m not quite sure I’m willing to put money on it. As far as I know, they do not exist.”

“Okay, so back to what can kill us––decapitation?”

“That would be a problem,” he admitted. “Though I should say it’s far more difficult to behead a vampire than a human. Hence why some of my friends during the French Revolution managed to escape the guillotine unscathed.”

“But if you do manage to behead a vampire, they die?”

“Yes.”

“Burning?”

“That, too, would eventually lead to our demise. Though that is also a bit challenging to accomplish. For example, if you were to lie out in the sun all day, you would be in horrible pain and looked like someone just stuck you in a pot of boiling water, but you wouldn’t die. It would take you awhile to recover, though, and you would be vulnerable, I suppose. You would have to actually be in a fire, and it would take you far longer to burn to death than it would for a human.”

“Actually, most people in fires die from smoke inhalation. They asphyxiate from carbon monoxide fumes.”

He gave me a look, “Well, you wouldn’t. And thank you for that factoid.”

Ignoring him, I went on, “What if I go too long without drinking blood?”

“That would leave you so weak as to render you immobile. But you cannot starve to death. You would just lie there pathetically for the rest of eternity until someone took pity on you and fed you––if someone took pity on you. And your body would lose the ability to heal itself, so if you were injured, you would remain perpetually so.”

“That sounds worse than dying.”

“That’s the idea, my dear.”

“How long can I go before that happens?” I asked.

Maxim shrugged again, “I’m really not certain. I’ve never been masochistic enough to experiment with it. Four or five weeks, maybe? You would go insane from the thirst long before you reached that point, though.”

“What’s the longest you’ve ever gone?”

“A week, maybe?” he said. “And that was quite painful. As you are learning, one needs to drink at least every two days––once a day is best, though. Past that, you start to lose control and your more...predatory side takes over. And once you find a meal, there is a far greater danger of not taking in moderation. Which, as you can imagine, causes some unpleasant side effects.”

“Noted.”

• • •

I was seeing my mother more. Not as much as I’d like, of course, but it was an enormous improvement. I was going every other day or so, and Maxim would always take me there and back. Partially because he was a gentleman and he thought it proper to see a lady home (whichever home that might be), and partially, I had to admit, to ensure that I avoided bloodlust issues. I was still too freaked out from the other night, the sight of Maxim’s teeth sinking into that girl’s throat, that incredibly calm nonchalance as he did it, to attempt biting someone again, so it was back to the blood bags.

But imagine if you had spent your life eating veggie burgers. They weren’t bad, certainly, and they were technically filling. Perhaps you’d even really enjoyed them––loved them. You’d seen real burgers, but you’d never tried one. You didn’t know any better. And then one day, the incredible scent of a hamburger patty sizzling on the grill hits you––it’s an intense rush you can’t deny. And then you taste it and it’s absolutely overwhelming. You have become a complete carnivore, savoring the powerful flavor, the fact that it isn’t dry. It’s delectable; it’s freaking orgasmic.

Think about it––even as a human, what separates a juicy, tender, delicious rare steak with a charred piece of crap? The blood.

Now imagine that you had to go back to veggie burgers.

Exactly.

Just as I had started getting comfortable around people, there was this mild snafu. I now drank twice as much from the bags to help quell the thirst, but now every time someone’s blood smelled particularly tempting, it was all the worse knowing just how wonderfully sweet it would be.

To compound on the problem, Sandra The Tasty RN seemed to be my mother’s primary caregiver and was there daily––and not always at the same time. I could smell the sugared honey of her blood before she walked into the building. While that gave me plenty of warning, it was hardly pleasant for my visits to suddenly be cut short. I suppose I could have called hospice and arranged for them to send someone else, make some sort of excuse, some small problem, but it didn’t seem fair to punish Sandra for something she couldn’t control or the occasional snippy comment when she thought I was out of earshot. And she was great with my mother.

No, I just had to live with it. Well, not “live” so much as...anyway, the point is still there.

So it was to my delight on Wednesday that Sandra had already come and gone and I was to have a nice long afternoon with my mother. While she slept, I planned the dinner I’d make her––knowing in the back of my mind that I’d never actually make it, that she’d be too nauseous and weak to eat much past a few soda crackers and some water, if that. The delusion was nice for the time being.

I was also going through my room, trading out a few shirts and other odds and ends I wanted to have with me back at the hotel. I particularly wanted a pretty little ebony hair clip and I pulled out my jewelry box, figuring that would be my best bet. But as I lifted the lid, another sight met me instead.

My cell phone. Randomly stashed in a jewelry box. Dead from not having been charged in weeks. What an interesting place to stow electronic devices.

Good move, Gen.

The charger was plugged into the wall near my bed and I hooked it to my phone, setting it on the nightstand as I turned back to foraging for my clip.

It may seem odd that, in this day and age, I managed to exist with my cell phone permanently attached to my person, like some sort of battery-powered appendage. But as someone who was both technologically backward and socialized very little, I was nearly always guaranteed to be at home or at work, both of which possessed land lines.

One might argue that I should be carrying it for saftey’s sake, but really, what amount of good would it have done me? I could just imagine a particular call...

“911, what is your emergency?” the dispatcher would ask.

“Um, yeah, I’m being attacked by a vampire.”

Silence would meet me.

I would continue, “Yeah, so, I’m also thinking that human policemen probably couldn’t do anything to stop him, so unless you happen to have an immortal task force on hand, I guess I’ll just let you go and deal with this problem myself. Bye now.”

Right.

Suddenly, as I was staring at it, the phone began buzzing loudly, the vibrations sending it spinning in little circles on the table. I yelped in alarm––did I have more crazy vampire mind powers and could make a phone ring by sheer will?

Doubtful.

I leaned over, approaching it curiously––who could possibly be calling me?

I picked it up, glancing at the name that flashed up on the screen.

David.

David. My date from a few weeks back. My first date since high school. My last social engagement as a human. It was as though I had just crossed back into some surreal dimension, where all was back to normal, where I was mortal, where...

And if I didn’t pick up the phone in the next three seconds, I was going to miss the call.

Automatically, I snatched it up, flipping it open and inquiring politely, “Hello?”

I’m not sure why people insist on doing this––answering the phone as though the Caller ID doesn’t exist and we haven’t a clue who’s calling. Maybe it’s the would-be-stalker/stalkeree in all of us feeling ashamed––acting as though we didn’t screen the call and choose to speak with the other person, deigning them normal or tolerable, or that we can’t see how many times they obsessively rang.

“Gen?” a man’s voice greeted him, sounding anxious and hopeful. “It’s, um, David?” Phrased as a question.

“David!” I said brightly. “It’s great to hear from you!”

“Hi, Genny.” I could hear the relief in his voice. “God, I’m so glad you picked up. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for more than a week now. I was about ready to give up and accept that you hated me––or forgot me––or you dispappeared––or...yeah.”

“Oh, God, no, I’m so sorry you haven’t been able to reach me! Please don’t think I wasn’t taking your calls! I’ve been...well...things have a been a little...um...hectic, lately.”

That was one way to put it.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he agreed. “Work’s been killer for me.”

Oh, no, you don’t know what I mean, Davey-boy.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Work. Right. It’s...murder.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I could stand a break from all that drudgery. Are you busy this Friday?” David asked. “I’d love to take you to dinner again.”

Oh. Shit.

A date. A date with a David. A normal human date where we would eat normal human food. The idea was undeniably appealing––the comfort of normalcy.

I hesitated. I wonder if it would upset Maxim and I shouldn’t––

But then, it wasn’t as though Maxim and I had anything romantic between us. It wasn’t as though he cared for me in any other way than...

I swallowed the horrible lump in my throat.

It wasn’t as though he’d even give a damn.

“Gen?” David asked uncertainly. “You still there?”

“Huh? Oh...yeah, sorry, I just––there was a––um...” I struggled to find a viable excuse for the long awkward silence. There was a what? A fly? A grisly murder outside my window? A demented clown singing “There’s No Business Like Show Business”?

Hearing him try to hide the mortification in his voice, David went on, “I mean, if you’re busy or not interested, that’s cool. I mean, I want to––I––you––that is, I––”

“Okay,” I heard myself saying calmly, almost flatly. “Friday? That sounds good to me.”

“Yeah? Really?” New light was in his voice.

“Yes. I’d love to,” I nodded.

Maxim didn’t want me. Maxim would never want me.

I felt sick.

“That’s fantastic!” David was saying. “So how about I pick you up around seven or seven thirty and––”

“Um, can we make it eight?” I came back down to earth. Give a chance for the sun to go down so I didn’t start turning searing red in public. “And I actually work on Friday, so it might be best to just meet you somewhere––if that’s all right.” Oh, lying...

“Sure! That’s fine! You want to meet in Union Square––like in front of Emporio Rulli?”

“Sounds great,” I said. “I’ll see you then.”

I hung up then, taking a breath. What an odd turn of events. A date with David. It seemed like it had been years since we had met. In reality, it had been less than a month. I remembered it very well.

Four Weeks Ago, Déjeuner Triste Café, San Francisco...

I scowled at the little folder in my hand. I had spent the last three hours catering to a family of three, including a toddler who had thrown at me, in turn, his sippy cup, his mother’s water glass, two bread rolls, a grimy toy truck, and a salt shaker. His mother had merely laughed it off, cooing, “Aww, he just likes to throw things, don’t you, Braten? Ohhh, yes! Braten’s such a good little boy, aren’t you? He just wuvs to throw things, doesn’t he??”

Braten. What drugs was this woman on, and who, in God’s name, had allowed her to breed and produce her demon spawn?

Their bill had totaled fifty-six dollars.

I held the folder containing our copy of the receipt and my tip.

My tip of two fucking dollars.

Were people that dense? The wait staff at a restaurant typically does not make very good money; the majority of their income comes from the tips they receive. And unless you had received dreadful service (which they had not), it is customary to tip at least fifteen percent. Correct me if I’m wrong, but two is not fifteen percent of fifty-six.

Or you could always apologize for your diabolical devil-child.

“Dude,” Marissa saddled up next to me, grinning widely, “that guy is staring at you!”

“What? Who?” I blinked in confusion, breaking out of my state of server indignation, looking around for who she meant.

“Him! The one in the booth in the far corner!” she squeal-whispered. “And he’s cute!”

I glanced over to where she was indicating. A young man sat before a cobb salad, pushing the bacon and lettuce around with his fork, and appearing to have very little intention of actually eating it. He was good-looking in that generic sort of way––very clean cut, with short blondish-brown hair gelled and spiked up. He looked a little nervous, sneaking us brief, furtive glances every few seconds.

“He is totally checking you out!” Marissa said.

I scoffed. “He is not. He’s looking at you.”

Just like they always did.

I tended to fade into the background, go unnoticed. Marissa, on the other hand––well, it was difficult to miss the pretty, effervescent Booby McImplant.

“Wanna bet?” she grinned. Before I could respond, she sashayed off, making a point to strut directly past his table.

He didn’t even glance at her.

Holy mother of God, someone was actually looking at me.

Of course, that led to me immediately giving myself a once-over to check for giant food stains, gaping wounds, hair sticking up at some odd angle as to suggest I had very wrongly confused hair gel with something else, etc.

Marissa quickly made a circuit around the restaurant and came back to me, giving me a shove. “Go talk to him!!” she commanded with incredible glee.

“But...but...he’s not at one of my tables!” I protested.

“That’s, like, the most retarded excuse ever!” she huffed, continuing to push me forward as I tried to dig my heels into the floor. I was half-expecting to hear a screeching sound as I slid unwillingly towards him, leaving scuff marks in my wake. “It’s not like he’s gonna know that! Duh!”

“What would I even say?!”

She gave me a look that suggested I was mentally incompetent––not a proud moment, considering this was a girl who once wrote on a receipt: “Thank you have a grate day!!!”

“Um, I dunno, like, ‘Do you want a refill?’” she raised a brow.

“Oh. Right.”

“Go!!” she gave me one final violent shove, catapulting me forward. Summoning my courage, I took a breath and walked over to him.

“How is everything?” I asked, nodding to the cobb salad he was making more of a point to rearrange than consume.

“Uh...it’s...um...great! Thank you!” he stared up at me, looking simultaneously awed and frightened, as though I had suddenly transfigured and starting glowing in a holy fashion. “Really! Wonderful!”

“Glad to hear it. Can I get you anything else?”

“Um, well, maybe your number?” As I stared at him in shock, he groaned, “Oh, God, that sounded lame. I meant to say that...I...um...that is...uh...” He hesitated, his face red, and then buried his head in his arms. “Christ, I’m awkward.”

As I made a move to back up, he held up a hand, “Wait, God, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to just come out and say that...like that. I just...I mean...look, can we start over? My name’s David.” He paused. “Please feel free to, you know, walk away or something, because I’m probably coming off like a creeper. Really, I’m sorry, I don’t normally do this. Not descend into mortifying word vomit, I mean...or come off as slightly insane.” He stared down at the table, resigned to his defeat. “Epic fail,” he muttered.

Unsettling though it was, I had to admit that his bumbling was kind of endearing––in an adorably awkward way. If I had ever had the courage to approach a guy I found attractive, I’d be lucky to string a coherent sentence together, let alone attempt to ask him out. I had to give this David guy props for effort. I smiled, holding out my hand, “My name’s Gen––Genevieve, but I go by Gen. Or Genny. Or...yeah.”

See? We had awkwardness in common.

A sense of renewed hope came across his features as he shook my hand. “Nice to meet you, Gen.” He hesitated for another moment. “So...I was wondering if I could take you out to dinner some time...if you’d like.”

“But...you don’t even know me,” I blinked.

He glanced around in alarm, “Um, ye-eah...”

Oh. Right. That was sort of the point, wasn’t it?

He rushed on, “You don’t have to! Just, like I said, if you want. And if you don’t have a boyfriend or husband or significant other or you’re a nun or...something. You probably do have a boyfriend, and if so, I’m sorry again, but––”

“Sure,” I said. “Dinner sounds nice.” What the hell? I hadn’t been on a date in four years. Even if it didn’t go well, I’d at least have a story to tell.

But that was the thing––it had gone well. Very well. David was considerably less fumbling and nervous at dinner––still overly anxious and eager to please though. He turned out to be really nice and funny. I wasn’t head over heels in love with him or anything. I wasn’t even sure afterwards that I necessarily wanted to pursue something romantic with him, but I had had a very nice time. I would gladly have agreed to go on a second date or hang out again, just to see where it would go, or even just for a pleasant evening with lovely company.

Now, of course, there was a new vampiric complication. But I could still enjoy a date, right? And surely my undead companion would be happy for me, proud that I was adjusting to the point where I could function on a human level again.

Surely.

I was actually kind of excited the more I thought about it. A real date. I finally had a real date, I could finally go back to being myself––as much as I could possibly do.

• • •

“I’ve got a date for Friday night,” I said smugly to my blood-drinking associate upon return to the suite. He was walking across the room towards the desk, but froze mid-step, whirling back around to face me.

Frowning, he asked, “Would be so kind as to repeat that for me, please? You either just said, ‘I’ve got a date,’ or ‘I bought a grape,’ neither of which make any sense. I must have misheard you.”

“No. I have a date. I didn’t buy any grapes. Or just one grape. Do they sell grapes individually?”

Maxim blinked, an unreadable expression on his face––nearly akin to that awful blank, haunted look I so hated to see. Almost instantaneously, however, it was subsumed by his usual smooth, unruffled poker face. “I beg your pardon?” he asked almost indifferently. “You...have a date.”

“M-hm. David, the guy I went out to dinner with before we, erm, met? Anyway, he just called while I with my mom and wants to take me out again. This will be my first second date––if that makes sense.”

He stared at me flatly, as though I had just expressed a wish to become a nomad in the Gobi Desert. “No. It will not.”

“Yeah,” I rolled my eyes, “I know I’m lame. I haven’t dated much––that is, barely––so this is my first time with a second date. Crazy, right?”

“That isn’t what I meant,” he shook his head. “This is not going to be your second date, because there will be no date, period.”

“What do you mean?” I frowned. “We’re going to dinner on Friday. That is a date, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t know what your definition of a date is, but last time I checked, that sort of fell under the typical interpretation.”

“No, Genevieve, you are misunderstanding me. I meant that I cannot let you go. It is too risky.”

Now surely I had misheard him.

“Oh, come on, please!” I begged. “You don’t understand! I haven’t been on a date in years! You can’t tell me I can’t go!”

He raised a brow, “I thought you just said you went out with him a couple weekends ago. And that this was supposed to be your ‘second date.’”

“I meant before this guy! Not only is he my first date in an insanely long time, on vampire or human scale, but he actually wants a second date!” I grabbed onto his shirt collar, bouncing on my heels and pleading like a child, “Pleeease!”

He regarded me coolly, “So you just want to go out with this boy because he has shown an interest in you, and not because you particularly like him?”

“I didn’t say that!” I frowned. “I mean, it’s nice to have the male attention, don’t get me wrong, but he’s a genuinely nice guy!”

“I do not think it’s the best idea.”

“Why not?!”

“Well, I presume you wanted to have him with you during dinner, not as your dinner.”

“Oh, don’t be stupid!” I pshawed. “I’m not going to bite him.”

“You don’t know that. You’re young; you might lose control.”

“I’ll take precautionary measures and have my actual dinner beforehand. I won’t even be hungry––er, thirsty.”

“And that brings up another point. I told you that you will be able to force food past your lips, but don’t you think he might find it odd if you’re cringing in disgust? He might take offense and think it’s him.” He paused and said almost to himself, “On second thought, that’s not such a bad idea.”

“I won’t. I miss food. And even if I find it horrible, which I sincerely doubt, I can always feign date nerves.”

A hint of a smile curled his lips, “So you admit you’re not actually interested in this boy?”

“Don’t twist my words. I’m interested in him.”

“You’re interested in the attention––as you admitted. That is all.”

“You’re wrong. And that’s a horrible thing to say to me! Do you really think I’m that shallow?”

“Regarding this, yes,” he nodded. “You are desperate for someone of the opposite sex to show that he is sexually attracted to you. I have full confidence that this dolt does not possess any outstanding qualities to capture your affections.”

“He’s not a dolt!” I exclaimed. “He has a degree from Stanford!”

Maxim scoffed. “And that is supposed to impress me? My dear, really. I have known plenty of fools in institutions of higher learning. I’ll have you know that I knew more than a few idiots all five times I received degrees from Oxford––and that isn’t counting other schools I have attended in my long life.”

I glowered at him. Arrogant freakishly well-educated vampire. “And what does that say about you, then? If a degree is no indication of intelligence?”

“I never claimed to be a genius,” he shrugged. “Though I guarantee I’m more intelligent and more stimulating than your...friend.”

“Get over yourself. He’s very charming. Something that can rarely be said for you.”

“And there we reach your only other reason for wanting to go on this ridiculous little date. You wish to annoy me.”

“Annoy you? Why, does it make you jealous?”

“Jealous, my pet?” he smiled. “My, my, you do think highly of yourself.”

“Stop calling me that,” I muttered.

“It’s a term of endearment,” he frowned. “It’s not my way of calling you my lapdog.”

“And why should you give me any term of endearment?” I demanded. “You just said that I annoy you and as good as admitted you’re not interested in me.”

For some reason, this bothered me more than I cared to acknowledge.

“Does that bother you?” he smirked.

Oh my God, he was in my head, reading my thoughts. I didn’t think he could do that unless I actually said––or thought––something to him. Shit.

Seeing my insanely pale face whiten further, he laughed briefly, “It does bother you! How intriguing. Why is that, do you think?”

“It doesn’t bother me,” I hissed.

“I’m not reading your thoughts,” he told me. “I can’t. As you know, it’s only what you want me to hear.”

Well, if he wasn’t a clairvoyant, he was putting on a damn good show of it.

He continued, “I see by your face that you don’t believe me. I’m really not. But after nearly three hundred years, one becomes rather adept at interpreting facial expressions. Or at least I would hope.”

“Right.”

“But back on the subject,” he said, “I think I’ve made your poor reasons for wanting this date quite clear.”

“You have not!” I fired back. “I like him! Why won’t you accept that? He’s fun and attractive, and I want to see him again!”

“Attractive,” he sneered. “I’m sure.”

“It’s not my fault you’re insecure and you assume I’ve got ridiculous ulterior motives for dating him or I’m just dying to get laid and told I’m pretty.”

“You do not need that pathetic boy to tell you that you’re pretty,” he scoffed.

“Will you stop calling him that? He’s twenty-five!”

“Then he’s too old for you.”

“Yeah, okay, Dad,” I rolled my eyes. “And if he’s too old for me, what does that make you?”

“Ah, but we’re not dating. And for all intents and purposes, we’re technically closer in age.”

“He isn’t too old for me.” I decided to ignore his comment.

“I feel I should tell you, my dear,” he smiled, “that if you are, in fact, wanting to date this boy to––how did you put it?––‘get laid,’ it is time you hear some disappointing news.”

“And that would be...?”

“You cannot sleep with him.”

I made a face, “Seriously, I get it. You don’t want me to go out with him. But that really isn’t your business.”

He raised his eyebrows. “No, I don’t want you to go out with him. But that isn’t why you need to refrain from it.”

“Care to elaborate?” I drawled, not believing him for a moment.

He looked at me flatly, “Because you would probably kill him.”

“I...what?”

“You would probably kill him,” he repeated. “And while I’m sure he would have no objection to have sex as his cause of death, I imagine you would find the experience...less than satisfying.” He smirked and added, “Even if he did manage to survive.”

“What are you saying?” I cried, horrified. “I can never have sex?! Ever?!”

“Did I say that?” he shook his head.

“That’s what it sounds like you’re saying!” My voice had jumped about five octaves.

“I said that it would be wise to not have sex with humans. I didn’t say you could never have sex at all.”

“What does that mean?!” I squeaked.

“Think about it. Who do you think you would sleep with?”

“You?!” I nearly screeched.

“I meant vampires in general,” he replied dryly. “But yes, technically you could sleep with me without risking that one of us will die from it––well, at least that I wouldn’t. As I said, though, I wasn’t referring specifically to me––appealing as that notion does sound,” he finished, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I don’t want to sleep with you.”

“No? How shall I ever bear the pain?”

Jackass.

“And just so you know,” I put my hand on my hip, “and not that it’s really any business of yours, but I wasn’t wanting to go out with him just so I could sleep with him. I mean, I haven’t even––” I stopped abruptly.

Maxim’s eyebrows arched in curiosity. “You haven’t even...?” he beckoned me to continue.

“Nothing.” Yeah, real smart there, Gen.

“No. Not nothing,” he grinned slightly. “What haven’t you even done?”

“Screw you,” I scowled.

“I was already aware of that, my dear. But thank you for reminding me, lest I forget that you have not, in fact, ‘screwed’ me––or vice versa.”

“Stop. It,” I hissed through gritted teeth.

“No, no, this is far too amusing. What else haven’t you done––or should I say, who else? Anyone?”

“If pissing me off is your new plan for getting me to cancel my date, you are failing miserably,” I spat, sincerely wishing that my current stare of doom would make his head explode. “I’m still going whether you like it or not.”

“And what if he asks about your living situation? Do you think he would mind if you told him you were shacking up with a vampire?” he taunted.

“He won’t ask,” I told him. “He thinks I live with my mother still. There’s no reason for him to know otherwise.”

“What if he tries to come over for a visit?”

“He’s very polite. He wouldn’t do that unannounced. And ‘shacking up’? Really? Did you say that in an effort to sound more modern? And we’re not, just so you know. We’d have to be sleeping together to be considered as ‘shacking up.’”

“Which, of course, you find appalling,” he said. I frowned at him. He was grinning as he spoke, but there was something about his voice that almost sounded...hurt.

I countered, “Yeah? You didn’t seem all that keen on the idea yourself.” I was rather disconcerted at the fact that my voice was carrying a very similar inflection. I didn’t want to sleep with him, so, theoretically, I shouldn’t care.

Really. I didn’t.

And, of course, telling yourself something enough times is bound to make it true eventually, isn’t it?

“No, I––”

“You didn’t,” I cut him off, shaking my head. “So let me just...have a nice time. It’s not like it’s anything to you.” He winced, and though the words bit at me too, I went on, “It’s nothing to you.”

Maxim’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I’m sorry, Genevieve.”

“What?”

He looked up at me sadly, “I’m sorry. It is none of my business if you wish to go to dinner with...him. You’re right. I can’t tell you not to go. You’re an adult; you make your own decisions. I don’t why I presumed that I could tell you otherwise. Forgive me.”

I frowned, not expecting this. “Well, hey, you were just worried that I’d hurt him, right? That’s not so bad. I understand that. I mean, you’re being kind of a jackass about it, but that was all you wanted.” I paused. “Right?”

Maxim stared at the floor, not meeting my gaze. “Right.”

“So...” I paused, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, “does that mean you’re going to let me go?”

“I’m not letting you do anything. If you want to go, then go.”

“Seriously? No strings attached?”

“Well,” he managed a faint smile, amending his statement, “I still think it’s a positively horrendous idea. How about a compromise––if I’m just somewhat nearby? Just in case there’s some sort of slip-up?”

“I don’t really need or want a chaperone.”

“You won’t see me. I swear it.”

My eyes narrowed. “Is there any chance I can talk you out of this? Or that even if I told you no, you wouldn’t still follow me?”

“No, probably not,” he shrugged.

Well, this would be unique.