THIRTY-TWO Bites and Nibbles
T RISTAN
I’m not proud of it, but I’ve been keeping myself scarce over the past few days. I did it because I knew my mood wouldn’t be fit for public consumption, but time got away from me. I didn’t expect to stay fucked up for this long. I’m lucky Elliana hasn’t fired me.
I’m ashamed to say that it took another threat on her life for me to pull my head out of my ass.
Ever since seeing that card at her workstation with that goddamn blood all over it, I’ve wanted to clock myself for being such a self-involved fuckwad. Even after she and Jackson return from Blingblang with Detective Ruiz’s update about the blood being fake, I don’t feel any real sense of relief.
So, I return to my regular go-to and bury myself in the kitchen.
That night she discovered the card at her workstation had been a serious wakeup call for me. It actually felt amazing to be back over the stove after remaining absent for a few days, to have my hands on cups and saucepans, on measuring spoons and containers of spice.
It’s the irony of all ironies that by becoming a hermit, I punished myself as much if not more than I neglected my housemates. Neglected Elle. I’m beyond grateful that she encouraged me to spend some platonic “us time” on her lounger that evening. Since then, I’ve been determined to be whoever she needs me to be again.
I’m in the midst of doing just that by preparing dinner when Jackson and Elle wander in from the garage.
“Like something to drink?” he asks her, and on a superficial level, there’s nothing noteworthy about this. But upon closer inspection, there’s a tone in his voice that I’ve never heard when he addresses her. Not quite antagonistic, but not his typical flirty and friendly banter either.
It’s far more stuffy than usual. Almost formal. Or maybe it’s resentful.
There’s a discernible tension there, and I can’t help but wonder what the hell it’s about.
She pauses on the opposite side of that stucco half wall. “Some mint tea would be nice.”
Jackson doesn’t offer his typical, “Here you go, sweet thing,” one of his smirks, or anything similar. Instead, he maintains a glaring lack of expression as he prepares the tea and hands it over. Then, he advances right past her without another word.
His glacial demeanor just gave me goosebumps, and I stare after him.
This is why I can’t check out. Not even for a day or two. Because I miss shit like this.
Elle wears the mask of someone upset but trying not to show it. I’m about to ask about it when Noah bursts in. I peek over at him only to almost gag as he passes by. He reeks of grease smoke.
“Whoa, did you just fight a restaurant blaze?” I ask him, being all too familiar with the distinct odor.
“You can still smell it, can’t you?” The kid wipes a hand down the front of his jacket as if it’s to blame. “I took a shower at work and changed into fresh clothes, but it keeps clinging to me somehow.”
Elle approaches and taps on his shoulder. He bends down—way down since she’s such a pixie—allowing her to sniff at his short blond locks.
“It’s here in your hair. Try shampooing and rinsing twice. That ought to do it.”
“Thanks, Elle.” He offers her a wan smile, and she gives him a peck on the cheek. She’s often cute like this with him. But then, she whacks him on the ass.
“Go. We’ll wait for you to get back before we eat.” She meets my gaze as she states this, and I bob my head at her, message received. In fact, I go one step beyond that. I make a selection of sandwiches that can be consumed by hand along with a veggie and olive platter.
“What if we have a movie night?” I suggest to Elle, gesturing toward the living room. “I’ll bring dinner in there, and we can watch something together.”
She peeks over at Jackson who is scraping his guitar pick on her lace curtains as he peers out the living room window.
“Sounds good to me.”
Once Noah has returned sans scent of eau de stinky, we all sit on her sofa lounger. As I situate the platters of finger foods across her coffee table, it doesn’t escape me that Jackson has put as much space as physically possible between him and Elliana.
Definitely some trouble in paradise.
I go back to retrieve everyone’s preferred drink except for Elle since Jackson already took care of hers. Wine for me. Craft beer for Jackson. Ice water for Noah. The kid hasn’t touched anything alcohol related since his birthday. I go to the home screen on the television and peruse the different offerings from her collection of streaming services. She has all of them.
When Noah spots Bram Stoker’s Dracula —the Gary Oldman, Winona Rider version—he speaks up.
“Hey, can we watch that one?” He sounds like an eager child asking his parents for permission to eat a cookie. “One of the truckies was talking about it last week.”
“Truckie?” Elle scrunches up her features.
“Firefighter who works on one of the ladder trucks.” He waves dismissively. “So, can we?”
She grins. “Sure. Why not?”
“You know that’s R-rated and about vampires, right?” Jackson smirks at him half-mockingly, and damned if I’m not glad to see him return to his old self again.
Weird, right?
“Yeah, I know. But I’ve always been curious about it. I’d hear about movies like that, but Mom and Dad never approved.”
It hits me that this movie has some gore in it, and I study Elle. Yet, she seems unperturbed despite recent events. If she’s good with it, I’m good with it. Remote in hand, I click play, then spy on my housemates as much as I watch the film. Noah and Jackson have their eyes focused exclusively on the big screen, but Elle keeps stealing worried little glimpses at the musician.
During one of the slower, less intense parts at the beginning, Noah leans his head in her direction.
“Please tell me I got all the funk off.”
She buries her nose in his strands, playing with the spikiness of it. “You’re good, honeybunny. I love how soft yours is.”
“Are you saying ours isn’t?” Jackson indicates himself and me, but his usual mischievousness is only partially present.
“Noah has the softest hair. Your hair is curlier and bristlier while Tristan’s is a bit coarser but still silky. Just not as much as Noah’s.”
“So now it’s both silky and soft. I don’t know about you, Tristan, but I feel attacked,” the musician deadpans, or at least I think that’s his intention. Without his customary laying it on thick, it’s difficult to tell.
All I can think to do is play it off.
“Oh, yeah. Clearly, the kid here is the favorite.”
“Yep.” Jackson nods, with only a vestige of his cocky grin.
“I don’t have a favorite,” Elle claims, and I weigh that for authenticity.
We each have our own connection and relationship with Elliana, and up till now, it hasn’t occurred to me to compete with the other two for the top position. She’s most solicitous with Noah, and due to the lunch excursions, has sex more often with Jackson.
But I’ve never minded that. When Elle asks me to come to her bed, she makes me feel like the center of her universe. And I, in turn, return the favor. Even during the wilder times when I’ve been in the room while one of the others is fucking her, I’ve never felt left out.
The scene with the three succubae seducing Keanu Reeves’ Jonathan Harker comes on, and it reminds me of the memory of those women at the strip club. I’d forgotten all about that—or maybe I blocked it out—but I can’t change it. I make myself watch. Harker’s character has to deal with true peril because these creatures obviously mean him harm.
Did those women mean me harm that night?
I shove the memory all the way back into one small corner of my psyche. I no longer want to think about it. That’s old news, and I need to goddamn move on.
The scene continues on the screen, and the succubae bite Harker on the nipple, making him cry out. Noah flinches.
Jackson, snorting, makes this big production of plopping into the kid’s lap.
“So you don’t think you’d like to have your nipple bitten?” Jackson snaps his teeth at thin air.
“Heck no. That looks sick and messed up.”
“Biting anyone to the blood does sound painful,” Elle chimes in. “I’m not vanilla by any means, but that’s pushing beyond my bounds.”
“Sure, full-on biting would be uncool, but nibbling feels good,” Jackson insists, yanking up Noah’s long-sleeved t-shirt.
Before I realize what he’s going to do, Jackson brings his lip-wrapped teeth around one of the kid’s nipples and gives him a hands-on demonstration. I assume Noah will throw off the musician’s over-the-top ass, but he doesn't.
Instead, Noah groans, and it’s not one of pain. Grinning from ear to ear, Jackson hops up, his chin quirking toward Noah’s cock which is now a thick broom handle protruding from the top of his sweatpants.
“See,” Jackson cajoles, his own pupils blown. “You fucking liked it.”
My mind is as blown as his pupils when Elle says, “I for one love to have my nipples nibbled.” She tears her V-necked sweater over her head, exposing a neon yellow bra that’s cut so low it barely encapsulates those nipples she just talked about. Sliding each breast out of the cups, she leaves the bra on, making her tits stand proudly front and center. “Anyone care to try that move out on me?”
I haven’t had sex with her for nearly a week now, and I’m sick of being stuck inside my own head. Sure, that thing at the club happened. And yeah, my folks had better things to do than take care of me during my formative years.
Once, after getting knifed during a mugging when I was seventeen, I was told in no uncertain terms to man up and get myself home from the ER on my own. I wound up taking a taxi. But lots of people have less than ideal childhoods.
I’m more than ready to move past it at this point.
Maybe that’s why when Noah and Jackson climb over to Elle to do as she asks, I’m right there with them. Because it’s time to get over this shit, once and for all.