Chapter 2
Devon woke the next morning to the loud patter of a surprise Texas hailstorm hitting the roof. It matched the pounding in her head. With a groan, she sat up and pressed the heels of her hands against her temples. Her heart was racing. The storm must have startled her from sleep.
What the hell had been in those drinks last night?
She remembered going out with no specific destination in mind.
Just somewhere she could get lost in the music and the darkness and forget her life.
Be another nameless person in the crowd.
Before she knew it, she’d found herself in front of The Caves.
“Exclusive” wasn’t quite the word to describe that place.
More like “you were never here or we’ll have to kill you” was more apt.
The owners were a secretive bunch, and she couldn’t say she blamed them.
She’d be secretive, too, if the majority of the human race didn’t know she existed. And if it weren’t for her old job, she’d never know about them, either.
Getting in had been easier than she’d thought it would be.
While she’d been sitting in her car, debating whether or not to try her charms on the bouncer—more out of morbid curiosity than anything else—a pickup truck with oversized tires and a pair of balls hanging from its hitch had pulled up alongside her and parked, and a typical Texas good ole’ boy had climbed out.
With a glance in her direction, he’d plopped his hat on his head and hitched up his Wranglers.
Devon had hesitated only for a second before she’d jumped out and caught up to his bowlegged stride, locking her car behind her with the remote.
Linking her arm through his, all it took was a smile and a promise for a dance, and she was admitted into the club as his guest.
Once inside, she looked around and couldn’t help thinking she fit right in with that crowd. All people like her, dressed in black or similar dark colors to blend in with the shadows, hiding from the rest of the world.
Her cowboy, on the other hand, with his ten-gallon hat, orange patterned shirt, and pointy-toed boots, stuck out like a sore thumb. But that didn’t deter him from bellying up to the bar like he owned the place. Devon followed him, ordering a drink from the bartender.
There was only one time she thought they weren’t going to allow her to stay, and that was when her date’s “friend” showed up.
But after the vampire ran his eyes up and down her body in a rather cold, blatant way, causing shivers to chase each other across her skin, he shrugged and told her to have a good time.
Then he threw his arm around his cowboy and pulled him away to a dark corner.
She didn’t see either of them for the rest of the night, but she didn’t feel there was cause for concern.
There hadn’t been a vampire blamed death recorded for many years.
Besides, she had her own problems.
After they’d left, she remembered dancing for a bit, then going to the bar to order another drink.
There was another bartender there helping the first one.
One with sweet brown eyes and strong, tattooed forearms. Butterflies had erupted in her stomach when he’d focused all that charisma on her.
Just thinking about it now, she had to press her palm to her belly to calm them.
He’d known right away who she was. And had given her a drink for free.
Not because he’d wanted to fuck her—which would have been her preferred reason, vampire or not—but because he’d pitied her.
God, even the undead felt sorry for her.
Devon barked out an ugly laugh and immediately clamped her palms over her temples to hold her brains in.
When she was relatively certain they weren’t going to explode from her eye sockets, she rose carefully from her bed, reached over, and closed the blinds that covered her window.
She didn’t even have to strain herself to get to them.
She could cross the entire width of her room in seven steps or less.
As a matter of fact, she could walk the length of her entire apartment in about twenty steps.
But she didn’t mind. It was cozy. It had a great view of downtown Austin.
And more importantly, the space was small enough that it made her feel safe.
She came out of the bathroom showered, with her unruly hair pulled back from her face, and dressed in her least-ragged yoga pants and a hoodie, feeling somewhat more human.
But when she opened the fridge, she groaned again.
There was nothing in there but a few eggs, a near empty jar of salsa, and a container of butter.
Her hangover definitely needed something more to soak up the alcohol.
Shutting the door—gently, so as not to disturb her fragile head before the Advil kicked in—she left the refuge of her apartment and knocked on the door across the hall, wincing at the noise.
Frank, her neighbor and only friend in this place, opened it wearing a huge smile on his entirely too handsome face, Superman boxer briefs, and nothing else.
He frequently answered his door in this manner of dress—or undress as the case may be—but Devon couldn’t complain. The guy was in great shape.
“You look terrible.” The smile never slipped as he issued his greeting, which also ranged in the “things you never expected” category. At least for those who didn’t know him.
She grinned back. “Nothing a tortilla or two won’t fix.”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling as hail continued to pound the roof.
They lived on the top floor of their building, and sometimes it sounded like the weather was coming right through the tiles.
“I guess I can’t make you go out for your own in this weather.
If you make the eggs, I’ll bring the tortillas. ”
“Deal.”
“See you in five.” And he shut the door in her face.
Devon shook her head. She almost rolled her eyes, but it was entirely too painful to move them.
So, she went back to her place to start scrambling up the eggs and salsa.
Breakfast Taco Sundays were a thing they’d started shortly after Devon had moved in, after the first time she’d knocked on his door to borrow some tortillas and he’d let her have some as long as he was invited to breakfast. They’d hit it off immediately, and Frank remained her one and only friend in this city.
The conversation normally revolved around the latest series on Netflix and the occasional breakdown of the previous night’s activities if either of them had happened to brave the singles scene.
Or sometimes they watched the latest horror flick (in the morning when the sun was out and the monsters couldn’t get them) and hardly spoke at all, but it was nice to have another body in the room either way.
Five minutes later, on the dot, Frank strutted into her apartment, and he’d even had the decency to throw on some lounge pants. “Don’t worry, Dev, my love. I have exactly what you need.”
“Tortillas?”
“And Ma’s famous hangover recipe.”
Devon’s stomach heaved. “I couldn’t possibly drink that stuff again.”
“That’s what you said last time, but it worked, didn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know. My body went into evacuation mode as soon as I choked it down.”
“And you felt better, right?”
She had to admit, she had. But she would only ever admit it to herself.
Never to Frank. He would tell his mother, and like any good Italian woman, she would immediately take the compliment to mean Devon was the woman who had finally—finally!
—managed to capture her only son’s heart.
His mother had been set on this outcome since the moment she’d laid eyes on the new neighbor when they’d passed in the hallway a few months before.
She liked Devon. Enough that she would even overlook the unfortunate fact that Devon’s family was originally from Kenya and not even a smidge Italian, though she was convinced there had to be at least a dab of it somewhere in Devon’s ancestry due to the lightness of her skin and her love of pasta.
She also conveniently overlooked the fact that her son was extremely gay.
“So, I actually had a date last night,” Frank said as he set the jar of green stuff on the counter.
Devon turned off the stove and grabbed a plate from the cabinet.
She glanced over her shoulder as she opened the tortillas.
“You did?” she asked with genuine enthusiasm.
“How did it go?” Much like her, Frank was a bit of a homebody, and didn’t get out much, despite the fact that he looked like a younger, more masculine, yet at the same time prettier, Richard Gere.
She was a recluse, too, but she had good reasons. Frank did not.
He shrugged. “Okay, I guess.” His eyes widened. “Oh! I almost forgot. When he left this morning, there was some guy lurking around your apartment door. I asked if I could help him. He glared at me and left.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Guess I’m not his type.”
Turning with the plate of breakfast tacos in her hand, she frowned at him. “One. I’d say your date was more than okay if he spent the night. And two, who was it?”
“Just a guy I met on the hike and bike trail the other morning when we had that warm day. Thomas? Magnus? Something like that.”
She rolled her eyes. “No, dufus. The guy lurking around my door.”
He shrugged. “Don’t know, my love. Never saw him before. And he wasn’t real chatty.”
She frowned, trying to place who it could’ve been, and headed to the small table tucked into the corner of the kitchen, plate of tacos in hand. Frank placed his hand on the small of her back as she passed him to escort her to the table.
Devon immediately stiffened, her feet tripping over each other. Not because he was touching her; Frank was a very touchy guy. But for some reason, the warmth of his hand on her back plucked at something in her brain.