5
Romy
This is officially the night that will never end.
Look, I know vampires don’t need sleep—or food or water, for that matter—but I, for one, could use a bed…or possibly a coma I won’t wake up from. Honestly, I’m not picky.
Abigail drags me over by the elbow to yet another group of women, officially making me the adopted puppy she can’t get rid of without a turn of conscience now.
I pick another flute of champagne off a passing tray, willing myself to sip it with intention rather than downing the damn thing—like I did with the two before it—because my head is starting to feel a wee bit tipsy.
I’m not much of a drinker, and my stomach is still empty, so the staggering effects of alcohol are well on their way to opening me up to even more vulnerability.
At the same time, the idea of numbing myself as a way to cope with the batshit-crazy enthusiasm of the gross majority of these women is compelling, to say the least.
“Romy, this is Chastity, Margo, and Hillary,” Abigail says by way of introduction.
“Romy, these are the girls.” They all giggle at Abigail’s mayoral ability to somehow already know nearly everyone in the room after an hour of mingling, and I suck in a breath before slapping on a smile and offering a halfhearted wave.
“Hi,” I say. “Nice to meet all of you.”
“I like your dress, Romy,” the woman I think Abigail said was Hillary adds. Her smile seems genuine, if a little timid, and I latch on to the authenticity immediately.
“Thanks. My mother didn’t love the yellow, but I convinced her because of the fabric. The only thing I’ve been wishing all night is that I could have talked her into a blazer. It’s freezing in here.”
“I know!” Hillary agrees, officially breaking us off into our own little conversation as Abigail and the other two cackle about something else and point to the big projection screens at the top of the wall.
“What is that that they’re playing up there?
” I ask Hillary, hoping she can break it down without sounding like it’s an opportunity to win a million-dollar lottery.
Abigail’s been great—really. I’ve been included and the time has passed exponentially faster than it would have if I’d been left to fester in my own thoughts, but the delight she holds in every fiber of her being over this whole charade is starting to wear on me.
“Oh. I think one of the other girls said it’s a slideshow from some of the past bonding nights or something. I guess it’s supposed to get us excited about meeting our own vampire.” Her voice doesn’t hold quite as much disdain as my own, but it’s not euphoric either.
I count the change of pace as a win.
“Is it working for you like it’s working for me?” I ask sarcastically, and she laughs. Thank God.
“It is what it is. I just…hope he’s nice. And hot. A six-pack and an unbelievably white smile wouldn’t hurt, you know?”
“Oh yeah. I mean, I could go for men who wouldn’t—”
Before I can reply fully, I’m hit with a sudden wave of discomfort. My stomach turns and jumps, sending a jolt of panic into my throat I can’t swallow down. It’s the weirdest feeling of awareness I’ve ever had, and for lack of a better explanation, it feels like someone’s watching me—closely.
Spinning in a tight but slow circle, I scan the women around me for a lingering stare, but I come up empty entirely. They’re all occupied, either chatting with one another or watching the sideshow slideshow above, and the security, too, seems to be conveniently missing.
It must be the alcohol taking a turn for the worse.
“Hey, are you okay?” Hillary asks. Not only did I stop talking to exercise a bout of paranoia right in the middle of a sentence, but I’m holding my stomach like I’m about to be hit with the shits. I can’t imagine how it looks, but truly, I feel too bad to care.
Increasingly worried that I’ll get sick right here in the middle of this reception, I excuse myself with a polite be right back to Hillary and take off at a speed walk for the main door.
The coast looks clear as I push through the heavy wood, intent on finding a bathroom and pronto, but just like this whole farce, it’s nothing more than an illusion.
A Hulk-sized security dude in a black suit steps in front of me and holds up a hand as the other goons come toward me from the opposite end of the hall.
They’re pushing racks of some kind of clothing, I think, and the wheels at the bottom all rolling together create an overbearing hum on the plushness of the carpet.
“I just need to go to the bath—”
“One moment,” the man with his hand still held out in front of me interrupts.
As the racks roll by me and through the doors I’ve just come out of, I get a better look at their contents, and my own—stomach contents, specifically—take a turn for the worse.
Holy shit. Those are racks of lingerie!
Panties. Corsets. Bras. Teddies. The whole nine fucking yards. It’s a mobile Victoria’s Secret in this place, and I am horrified at the possibilities of what that means.
If I weren’t already feeling sick, I’d be charging toward it now.
“Please,” I beg. “I really need to go to the restroom. I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
Eyes widening in terror, he says something curt into a microphone attached to his chest and waves me forward, and I follow him in a hurry to a door at the end of the hall.
It’s just a swing door—no lock or anything that would make me feel even remotely good about going into a supposed bathroom—but I don’t hesitate for fear that he’ll rescind the offer.
Moving quickly, I take the trash can from the corner and prop it in front of the entrance when it closes behind me just for some modicum of comfort.
I know in reality that the strength of a trash can is nothing against the strength of a vampire—or worse, many vampires.
If they want in here with me, they’re coming.
Still. Maybe they won’t come in if they hear me cry.
Gripping the vanity with mottled hands, I do the kind of deep breathing I learned in Pilates.
Long-count inhales, hard, audible exhales. It’s like I’m in labor and Lamaze-ing it up.
But I’m so fucking overwhelmed it’s not even funny. To not want to be here in the first place was enough. But to be slapped with the reality of those racks of nothingness they’re trying to pass off as clothes is worthy of all-out panic.
My heart pounds and my ears whoosh as I work to find some semblance of calm in the chaos.
Okay. Okay. It’s okay. I don’t know how it’s okay, but it’s going. To. Be. Okay.
It has to be.
Breathing in through my nostrils and out through my mouth, I take gulps of air and do my best to hold on to the nourishment of oxygen as they move through me.
I consider myself in the mirror—my makeup and curled hair and too-low-cut dress—and try to filter through the emotions that got me here.
Disgust. Obviously.
But more than that, it was intuition.
An overbearing feeling that sent me running for this bathroom for a moment of clarity and the, possibly na?ve, hope that I could find some level of comfort in what’s happening.
I don’t know why I thought any of those things or why the gut instinct persists now, but when the ogre outside the bathroom bangs a comically gentle fist on the door, I move my ass.
First to the toilet to empty my bladder and give my stomach the chance to settle, and then to the sink to both wash my hands and splash a minuscule amount of cold water on the back of my neck.
Moving the trash can carefully back into place, I pull open the door and step outside to find the man blissfully gone.
He’s down the hall now, wrestling a final rack of lingerie with another dude, and it takes everything inside me not to take off in the opposite direction of the big, fancy, and now risqué-bra-and-panty-filled ballroom at a dead run.
Short-term, it sounds amazing.
Surely there’d be a door to the outside and a patch of woods I could navigate to a road where I can hitchhike.
But I’m too smart to pigeonhole myself into a scary movie outcome where the woman blindly runs right at danger while the whole audience is chanting for her to stop. These are vampires, Romy. Compared to theirs, your run is the equivalent of a legless crawl.
With one last huff, I adjust my dress and take a step back toward the ballroom. But a door across the hallway opens and pulls me up short.
It’s a man—dressed in formal attire and a far sight more important-looking than the ogres working security—and the door swinging closed behind him is the male bathroom mirror of my own.
Adjusting his jacket and buttoning it with one hand, he looks up from the carpet and straight into my eyes, and I’m transported to a simpler time in the blink of an eye.
To playgrounds and colored pencils and plaid-skirt uniforms. To fantasies of noble princes and castles in the country and a fairy tale of my own.
I’m not in Dracula’s scary lair anymore—I’m back in my adolescent days at the Boston Preparatory Academy in Massachusetts.
To the days when I was a little girl with a big crush on an older boy, and the stars in her eyes to prove it.
He’s all grown up now, but he’s the same boy I fawned over back then. I’d bet on it.
“Cal?” I ask, my whole being incredulous beyond belief. “Calloway Slater? Is that you?”
His eyes snap up into a scrutinous scan of my face and then body, widening noticeably as he takes me in. It’s the weirdest feeling—it’s as if he saw me before, but seeing me now that I’ve said his name, he’s seeing me for the first time all over again.
“No fucking way,” he murmurs in answer, which, completely despite myself, makes me laugh and nod at the same time.
“Yep.”
“Romy Spencer?” he asks then, seemingly still needing the confirmation.
“That’s me,” I reply dumbly, raising my hands out to the sides. As the nostalgia wears off, the reality of seeing the boy I once fantasized about all grown up and here , of all places, sends me to the pits of despair. “What…what are you doing here?”
His jaw is tight, and his voice is painfully quiet. “You know why.”
He’s here…with the other male vampires …to select …
I swallow hard, taking an involuntary step back.
He notices, but I’m not surprised. Calloway Slater always noticed everything.