My station is fastidiously neat, all my ingredients and bowls and two sheets of warm, brown cookies already laid out. I don’t know how my mother stands this schedule. She’s here by three each morning.
She lives upstairs, and has ever since the divorce when she opened the shop. She goes to bed earlier than most people’s grandparents. I think she chose this life to shut men out so she’ll never be hurt again. I know she still loves my dad because she keeps his picture out and never takes off her wedding band—even to bake. I was never told why they separated, but deep down I can’t help feeling it’s somehow connected to the people who broke in that night.
My parents don’t see each other much, but when they do they are always friendly. I don’t remember any hostility when they split, so I can’t understand why they aren’t together. But whenever I ask either of them about it, they close off and refuse to discuss it, so I’ve stopped asking.
Mom turns her attention back to her dough, dipping it in the cinnamon and rolling it into the classic cinnamon roll shape. Without a word, I go to my bowls and frosting and colored food dyes. We like to mix our own colors instead of buying them pre-made. Or, I like to. Since this has become my very part-time job, I get to decide how the colors are made. I’ve never gotten tired of the thrill of creating the exact right shade. It feels more creative.
As I mix the frosting and start filling piping bags, I think about the test I have this morning. Organic chemistry is not my best subject, but I need it for med school. I’m pulling a high B, but I need to study more.
I allow my mind to drift as my mother puts on music. There is something otherworldly about being in here, icing sugar cookies in the middle of the night while Pavarotti plays in the background. I feel like I’m in some elegant foreign film that only a small segment of the population can even pretend to understand.
Some days my mother and I chat about everything and nothing, but she knows I’m not in the mood after one of my insomnia nights. So we each do our jobs in silence, our baking or frosting becoming our morning meditation.
When I’m finished with my work, I look back at the glass, behind which are my trays of freshly iced sugar cookies. Somehow, I think they are less inspired today than they were yesterday. But no matter. The only one who notices the difference is me.
My mom comes out to the front, white powder caked all over her. She can’t make a thing without looking as if she’s been rolled in flour, maybe double-dipped in it for good measure. “Good luck on your test. I hope you get a good nap in today. Is it the test that kept you from sleeping?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
I’ve invented one excuse after another for my uneasy relationship with the night, and today is no different. She smiles a little as I slip out the door, stealing a fresh-from-the-oven cinnamon roll off the counter on my way out.
I kill a few hours, take my test, then nap. I sleep so much better during the day that I sometimes wonder why I don’t shift my entire schedule so I can sleep when the sun is out and then stay up all night. Everything seems safer in the day. It’s the one time I get deep and restful sleep anymore.
The sun has just set when the doorbell rings. I check to see who it is, even though I know it’s Devon. I’m not sure if I love him. If nothing else, I think I care for him enough to have sex—at least that’s tonight’s plan.
I feel absurd being a nineteen-year-old virgin, a fossil from another time. Part of me is just glad to do the deed and get the fucking thing over. I feel like I’ve got a white V emblazoned on me, or as if I give off some type of scent. I don’t like the idea that something that should be private feels as if it’s somehow being broadcast.
I open the door a little bleary-eyed, my hair still mussed from oversleeping.
“Did I wake you?”
He’s got this stupid grin on his face. And flowers. I want to smack him. I know this is all because I’ve decided to give in and put out after three months of dating. I feel like I
should
love him if I’m going to do this.
I run my hands self-consciously through my hair.
“You look great,” he says, holding out the flowers.
No I don’t. I know it. He knows it. He’s just so happy to be getting laid tonight that he’s seeing me through horny-guy glasses. I’m still too sleepy to be annoyed.
I put the flowers in a glass of water and slip some flip flops on. It’s Southern Florida. Flip flops are a year-round joy here.
He’s got something romantic planned at the beach. Black cloth goes over my eyes as we get out of the car—a blindfold. I almost panic, but then I realize if I make a fuss, it will invite questions I can never answer. So I smile shakily and allow him to lead me down to the beach. My flip flops are still in the car. I breathe slowly in and out, listening to the waves crash against the shore, inhaling the crisp, salty scent of the sea, feeling the instability of sand collapsing beneath my feet.
“Don’t move. I’ll be right back. I’ve got to get a couple of things.”
I try not to be in that dark closet. I try, but I can’t help it. I’m there again, my eyes squeezed tightly shut, silently begging not to be found, not to be killed. A hand is on my arm again, leading me away and I come out of the fog, remembering I’m here with Devon. Everything’s okay.
“Where are we going?”
“Shhh”
My heart starts to hammer faster in my chest. Then it pounds and vibrates in my head. My entire being is one rapidly thudding heartbeat with no slowdown in sight. Something is wrong here, but I can’t make myself remove the cloth from my eyes.
You’re being ridiculous. It’s just Devon. He has a surprise.
I find myself in the passenger seat of a car. It’s not Devon’s car. I just know. Even blindfolded I know. This is the point where I should rip the scrap of fabric off and run. There is no evidence this person has a weapon, and he or she hasn’t spoken to me yet. But before my hands can move to the blindfold, the driver’s side door is shut and the car has started.
It’s so fast, I assume there must be more than one person involved. Tears gather and absorb into the thick cloth covering my eyes. Terror freezes me, keeping me from taking off the blindfold, from trying to leap out of the car that’s moving too fast now anyway. I’m suddenly thirteen again. The dream is real, and I believe that if I don’t see them, they won’t kill me.
I’m silent and they are silent. The only sound is the wheels scraping against the rough road and the occasional bump. My tears are coming harder now. Why can’t I fight back? Scream? Beg? Try to escape?
Just take the fucking blindfold off!
But I can’t do it. I may as well be tied up because I’m so scared I don’t know what to do or what to think.
A little while passes and the car stops. Again, too fast for me to react, my door is open and someone is helping me out. How many are there?
I cringe away but find my feet moving in the direction I’m being led. “Don’t hurt me. Please.”
Then I feel stupid. What if it’s Devon? What if this is part of some stupid frat thing he’s gotten himself into? It would be just like him to combine my deflowering with a secret frat party or something.
I expect someone to start giggling or say I’m a spaz, but fingers gently grasps my wrist, lifting my hand. I feel the planes of his face as he guides me to
see
him. I shake my head in disbelief.
No.
I was good. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t tell anyone anything. This can’t happen. I did what I was supposed to do. But it’s him. It’s my nightmare.
“I missed you, Juliette.”
Christian.
***
I’m still wondering why I don’t put up a fight as he leads me indoors. A gust of air conditioning hits me hard. The humidity in the summer is so stifling that you forget what cool, dry air is like. Any introduction to it, though welcome, is a shock to the senses.
My mind is racing. Has he been stalking me? Watching me? Maybe that’s why the dreams would never leave. Maybe a part of me knew that somewhere in the shadows was a man with a plan to take me. Why didn’t he take me then?
His voice cuts through the silence. “You were too young. I saw your potential, but you weren’t there yet.”
Did he just read my mind?
“Yes. However, while I can read it, I can’t control it. Not like others. I discovered as much that night. I would be lying if I said that bit about you didn’t intrigue me. It’s a good thing you kept your eyes closed. If you’d proven to be trouble, I would have had to kill you. Then we couldn’t be here now.”
The musical lilt of his voice is almost too sweet, like a perfume that is a touch too cloying or a chocolate one percentage point too dark. I’m still confused by his apparent ability to read my mind and what he means by
control it
.
Before I can puzzle this mystery out, the blindfold is removed and I’m bathed in light. I think I expected to be in a dark basement or some kind of garden shed at the back of some disgusting psycho’s house. But I’m in a very nice parlor with crystal chandeliers, and it’s only the two of us. My assumption of there being others was wrong. Unless they’re lurking somewhere I can’t see.
This place is swank, a bit dusty and un-used, but swank. It’s got an old world elegance that makes me feel like I’ve been transported through time and across the Atlantic all at once. My gaze shifts to Christian. I take a step back, overwhelmed by his size. He’s as beautiful as I imagined he’d be, and more. There is a sublime perfection to him; he nearly glows. He doesn’t look older than 25, which I find confusing. How early did he start his life of crime?
That night six years ago, he’d seemed to be somewhat in charge of things. His voice held the same maturity and dark command back then that it holds now. And then I go back to him reading my mind. Pieces start to come together in a sort of subconscious way, but I can’t bring myself to call it forth into a more tangible thought. I can’t bring myself to admit the thing that is tickling the edges of my mind.
“You know what I am. Let me just say I’m impressed you’re putting it together so fast. And without even a visual demonstration.” Fangs make a
snick
sound coming out of his gums, and his eyes take on an eerie glow. Then he moves so fast around the room, he’s a blur. He stops right behind me, holding my head to the side. I tense, waiting for a stinging bite that doesn’t come.
I can only imagine the evil Nosferatu glee on his face right now. He chuckles because of course he’s in my head. I’m only moderately comforted by the idea that he can’t hypnotize me to do his bidding. Or so he says. Of course with that much power, there are a million ways to make me do his bidding.
I haven’t screamed yet. I wonder if he finds this refreshing or annoying. I can’t bring myself to do it. The enormity of the situation I’m faced with makes screaming or even begging seem ridiculous.
“Oh, you’ll beg, my little slut.”
I feel my face heat at that; I’m far too innocent for my age. I don’t know why. I had opportunities, and I tried to go farther with boys, but we always got interrupted. I assumed I wasn’t very good at sneaking around. Now I have my doubts. The timing of my capture is too convenient: right before the grand deflowering. I wonder if perhaps all those interruptions were instigated by him.
So I ask. Because really, this whole business with him in my head and my entire side of the conversation being conducted in silence is beginning to freak me out even more than my current circumstances.
“Yes,” he confirms. “I stopped them. I wanted you pure for me.”
The glint in his eyes implies some sort of subtext that I’m not quite catching just yet, more than a mere fixation with purity. But I don’t ask for more. If he wants me to know something, he’ll tell me. There are few mysteries between us, at least on my end. Christian is nothing
but
mystery.
I realize all at once that it was the other vampires I was most afraid of. At least I assume they were other vampires. Though I was scared that night, Christian’s voice soothed me, his hand on my shoulder steadied me, his mercy in leaving me even after I knew enough to tell gave me an odd sort of peace.
And yet.
I am beginning to become more genuinely afraid of him. He seems to have shut off whatever power allows him to eavesdrop on my mind because he isn’t watching me in the same shrewd way or reacting to my thoughts. I assume he can turn this power on and off at will, otherwise it’s more of a curse than a gift. He’s walking circles around me, studying me.
I shiver as his eyes caress my skin so intimately. I don’t feel like a virgin right now. I feel like what he just called me. A slut.
“Christian?”
“Yes?” His tone is sort of absent, as if he’s lost in me, cataloging all my parts, making arcane lists in his mind.
“Are you going to hurt me?” I hold my breath. There is this stupid part of me that believes he won’t because he hasn’t in all this time even though he must have had opportunities. And he didn’t that night.
“Yes.”
His matter-of-fact response unhinges me, but I still can’t work up a full-bodied scream because I know no one would hear me. I’m also afraid if I have some kind of fit here that he’ll get angry and just end me now. The tears start coming in earnest, and though I try to be quiet, it’s deafening in the stillness of the room. It’s loud even to me, and I don’t have super-hearing. Considering the other talents he’s displayed, I assume heightened senses come with the vampire package.
“I’m used to it,” he says, having opened the door to my mind again.
I’m not sure if he means he’s used to girls having meltdowns in front of him, or if he’s used to the extra noise. After awhile you probably don’t even notice heightened senses. They just are what they are.
I close my eyes and focus. Just like the night I had the insane urge to touch him, to see him in my head, now I have the crazy need to block out his ability to see so deeply into me. It’s too naked. I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I think it’s possible I can block him. After all, he can’t control my mind. Maybe there’s something special about me. Maybe I’m just stronger.