Chapter 11 #2
I’ve never ridden in a car this nice. Never even been within touching distance of one. I’ve only ever admired them from the sidewalk as they zipped past, wondering what it’d feel like to sit behind the wheel with that much raw power at your fingertips.
Elliott shifts into drive, pulling out of the garage and onto the street. The ride is smooth; effortless. Every bit as thrilling as I imagined. I soak up every second of it, listening to the engine purr through each shift and running my fingertips over the interior.
Beside me, Elliott navigates the city streets with practiced ease. Every few minutes, his gaze flicks my way– not long enough to be obvious, but just long enough for me to catch it. His dark eyes linger on the exposed column of my throat before darting back to the road, his pupils flaring.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I trail my fingertips absentmindedly over my pulse point, testing his response. His grip immediately tightens on the steering wheel, his expression pinching like he’s in actual pain.
“If you’re hungry, you can bite me,” I finally offer, hoping I don’t sound half as desperate as I feel.
“No I can’t,” he replies quietly.
“Um, yeah you can.” A little laugh slips out. “I’m giving you permission. Not that you need it, considering I signed a contract to be your donor and all.”
His lips press into a thin line. For a second, I wonder if he’s gonna take me up on it, but then he gives a small shake of his head, dousing what little hope I had.
“I haven’t fed from a live source in decades.”
I whip my gaze on him, mouth dropping open. “Seriously?”
He doesn’t answer. He just keeps staring through the windshield, his hands tightening on the wheel.
“Well,” I say after a beat, “that seems wildly inconvenient.”
“It is.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. The city lights sweep across his face as we pass beneath a streetlamp, carving his profile from shadow. I swear the man’s so beautiful it hurts.
“Okay, but why?” I finally ask. “You literally employ me as a blood source.”
“And as a research assistant,” he murmurs.
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“No,” he agrees. “It doesn’t.”
I stare at him.
He stares at the road.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything he’s not saying.
Fine. If he refuses to answer that question, maybe I’ll have better luck with another one.
“How old are you, anyways?” I ask, tilting my head.
“It’s rude to ask a vampire’s age,” he grumbles.
“And to drink their wine, apparently, but clearly I don’t ascribe to rules of etiquette.”
His mouth twitches– not quite a smile, but close enough. He flicks me a sideways glance. “One hundred and twenty-four.”
I gape at him. “Holy shit.”
His jaw flexes. “There’s nothing holy about immortality.”
“Well, you don’t look a day over forty,” I quip, smirking.
“I was thirty-six when I was turned.”
I blink. Thirty-six. For some reason, that surprises me more than one hundred and twenty-four. Maybe because thirty-six feels real. Human.
“And what about before that?” I ask, suddenly far too curious about his life story.
One dark brow arches. “Before what?”
“Before you became a vampire.” I gesture vaguely in his direction. “At thirty-six, you basically lived an entire life before all of… this.”
“I was mortal,” he replies flatly.
“No shit, Sherlock,” I snort. “I mean what did you do? Who were you?”
“Just an ordinary human.”
Cryptic bastard.
I roll my eyes. “That’s hardly an answer.”
“I find the older you get, the less interested you become in looking backward,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to me briefly before returning to the road.
I study his profile again, as if I’ll somehow find the answers hidden beneath the surface if I just stare long enough. Something tells me there are a lot of ghosts buried in all those years he’s lived.
“You vamps get off on being all dark and mysterious, don’t you?” I mutter.
“Perhaps,” he says. “Though in my experience, mortals would benefit from a little more discretion.”
I narrow my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His gaze stays fixed on the road. “If certain relationships remained private, we wouldn’t be here right now.”
The jab lands with surgical precision, heat flashing through me.
“Taylor’s my best friend.”
“I’m aware.”
The calm certainty in his voice only makes it worse.
“I didn’t realize it was a crime to actually care about people,” I huff, folding my arms.
“I wasn’t criticizing your friendship.”
“Sure sounds like it.”
His grip shifts on the steering wheel, gaze flicking my way. “I’m criticizing the assumption that every meaningful relationship needs an audience.”
“Oh that’s rich, coming from a literal celebrity,” I scoff. “Didn’t you have a very public relationship last year? Because I’m pretty sure I remember seeing photos in the tabloids of some leggy brunette hanging all over you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “What makes you think that relationship was meaningful?”
I open my mouth with every intention of firing back, then close it again, because arguing with this man is fucking pointless. I turn toward the window instead, glaring at my own reflection in the dark glass.
I don’t say another word for the rest of the drive, and even though the silence is intentional, that doesn’t make it any less oppressive. And the most infuriating part is that it probably bothers me a lot more than it bothers him.
Whatever. I don’t need to explain myself to Elliott Faulkner. I don’t need him to understand me, or sympathize with me, or try to be my fucking friend. This arrangement is purely transactional.
And maybe I needed the reminder.