Chapter 16
Mentally, I’m still pretty deep in pity city when I arrive for my last night shift of the week at Pete’s. By contrast, Nick is in great spirits. It makes me wonder if the terminally star-crossed nature of our romance hasn’t completely hit him yet, or worse, if maybe he’s already over it.
“So I’ve been thinking about things,” says Nick. He’s waiting by the register for me to finish ringing up my sale so he can ring up his. “And I have a plan for tonight.”
I nod, frowning down at the keys. “For our training session,” I say.
“For our date ,” he says.
My eyes shoot up to meet his. “Nick,” I say. “We can’t. You know we can’t.”
He gazes down at me, and his dark eyes seem to dance, shining even brighter than the barbell piercing in his eyebrow. “Or maybe we can,” he says mysteriously.
***
After work, I meet Nick under the Ballerina Clown with mixed emotions. I want to share his optimism about us. I do. The butterflies I’m rocking right now at just the sight of him in his dark jeans and his Nirvana tee are proof enough of that. Except it feels to me like we’re starting something that we can’t finish. And that makes me question the wisdom of starting anything at all.
I turn in the direction of the beach, our usual destination, but Nick reaches out a hand to stop me.
“I thought we’d go this way tonight,” he says. He gestures toward Abbot Kinney Boulevard, the main drag through Venice. “Cool with you?”
I shrug. As we cross the street, Nick shortens his stride so I don’t have to rush to keep up, and we fall into an easy pace with each other. I only wish my slayer wasn’t along for the stroll, looming between us like an unwelcome chaperone.
“Are we going someplace in particular?” I ask.
“You’ll see,” he says playfully.
We walk together in silence for a bit, past an assortment of art galleries, shops, and restaurants, most of which are dark.
“Looks like everything’s closed,” I say.
“Not everything,” he says. He points up ahead at the one well-lit establishment on the block. It’s a karaoke bar.
I slow my pace. “Karaoke?”
“I’d like to get to know you better too,” says Nick, all smiles. “And I find that a person’s choice of karaoke song says a lot about them.”
I stop cold. My eyes go wide in horror. “You expect me to sing karaoke?”
Stopping too, Nick takes in my reaction. “Uh-oh,” he says. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“If I’m singing? Trust me, it’s a very bad thing,” I say.
We’re just a few steps from the entrance to the Full Moon Karaoke Lounge.
“I just figured since you’re an actor…”
“ Actor ,” I say. “Definitely not a singer.”
Nick frowns. “Is that a hard pass on karaoke?”
“If it is, do you hate me?” I ask with a little grimace as my compulsive people pleasing starts to rise to the surface.
“If it wasn’t, would your song have been ‘Wannabe’ by the Spice Girls?” he asks.
“God no,” I say.
“Then no, I don’t hate you,” says Nick. “So moving on to phase two of my plan for the night…” He takes a breath. “Would you like to come up?”
I blink at him, a little baffled. “Come up?” I ask. “Come up where?”
“To my place,” he says, pointing to one of the windows above.
Now the pieces start to fit. “You live over the karaoke bar?”
Nick gives me a sheepish look as he combs his long fingers back through his hair. “My plan would have gone a lot smoother if we’d hit the lounge first,” he says. “I could have plied you with fancy umbrella drinks and wooed you with a killer karaoke rendition of ‘Wonderful Tonight’ before I tried to get you upstairs.” He grins. “Now you probably just think I’m a creeper.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think you’re a creeper.”
He broadens his grin. “You haven’t been upstairs yet.”
I laugh.
My slayer isn’t laughing though. She’s listening. Closely. And like the disapproving chaperone that she is, I know she’ll intervene to separate us as soon as things get good. And she’ll use lethal force to do it.
“I want what you want, Nick,” I say. “But—”
“Shh,” says Nick, placing his index finger lightly on my lips. The brief, icy touch sends a river of heat flowing through my body, washing away some of my doubts. “I might have a work-around for our little problem if you’re up for it.”
Talk about an understatement. I mean, what we have here isn’t just a little problem . It’s not even a big problem. It’s literally life and death. And considering that Nick just chose immortal life? How can he be willing to court death just to be with me?
But knowing that he is? Well…
How can I possibly say no?
After a moment, I nod toward what I assume is the building’s residential entrance. “Lead the way.”
***
I follow Nick past the row of mailboxes and up the narrow stairwell. The wall to my left reverberates with music from the karaoke lounge. I can’t discern the exact song that’s playing, but I can feel the bass pounding in my chest. Or maybe that’s just my heart hammering in anticipation.
Nick unlocks the only door on the second-floor landing and pushes it open. Waving me in, he flicks on the lights. Just inside, there’s a bike hanging on a whitewashed brick wall. A drywall divider separates the narrow entryway from the rest of the space.
He guides me around the divider and hits another light switch. Overheads illuminate an open loft space that stretches the full length of the building. Exposed air ducts and wooden support beams give the place an industrial feel. There are three large windows, but each is concealed by blackout shades pulled all the way down.
The loft is loosely arranged into three zones: first, a kitchen area; next, a living room/music room area; and finally, all the way at the back, a bedroom area.
“Meow!”
Startled by the noise, I look down and discover a small, short-haired black cat with white paws, bright green eyes, and a slightly crooked tail. He—or maybe she—begins to thread through Nick’s legs.
“Who’s this?” I ask.
“Eddie,” says Nick.
“Eddie?”
“Short for Eddie Van Halen.”
I smile. A he then.
I squat down on my haunches and give Eddie a scratch hello. He pushes his head into my hand, purring loudly.
“Fair warning,” says Nick. “He’s a shameless flirt.”
“Takes after his owner, I guess,” I say, grinning up at him.
“Ha!”
“You know, I wasn’t expecting a cat.” Much to Eddie Van Halen’s disappointment, I get back up to my feet. “Aren’t cats more of a witchy thing? Aren’t vampires supposed to keep bats?” I tease.
“Well, if they follow me home one night, I’ll take them in too,” he jokes.
“Of course you will,” I say after a moment. But I’m not joking.
Looking at Nick, I think about the little boy who lost his parents all those years ago, who never had a real home. Of course he would give a home to this homeless cat. I know that now, because I know him .
Earlier today, I got angry at Jonathan for judging Nick. But the fact is I judged Nick too. I made all kinds of assumptions about him based on what I saw or what I thought I saw. I did to him exactly what Hollywood does to me. What I hate that Hollywood does to me. I typecast him.
I am so stupid. So. Freaking. Stupid. If only I had gotten to know Nick—the real Nick—sooner! Then I wouldn’t have treated him like an enemy. I wouldn’t have become his slayer. And we wouldn’t find ourselves in this frustratingly impossible situation.
“Want something to drink?” asks Nick.
I blink. I didn’t see him move to the refrigerator, but I don’t think he used his vampire speed to get there. I think I just got a little lost in my own head.
He opens the fridge, and I see that it’s stocked with a lot of the predictable single-guy fare: beer, Gatorade, water, an obscene amount of condiments, and several leftover take-out containers. But on top of the large cardboard pizza box, I also spy a pile of… donor units of blood?
I recoil.
My slayer doesn’t like it either, but I suppress my revulsion and silently remind her—and me—that it’s a good thing. It’s evidence that Nick’s not an evil predator. But if he starts drinking like a vampire—even if it’s out of a plastic bag and not someone’s vein—my alter ego is definitely going to need some wrangling. And right now, I’d really prefer to concentrate on other things.
“What are you drinking?” I ask warily.
He follows the direction of my gaze, then he turns back to me and smiles. “Beer,” he says, amused. “Want one?”
***
Nick opens a microbrew for himself, hands me a bottle of water, and makes sure Eddie Van Halen’s food and water dishes are filled before he leads me to the middle zone of his place. Against one wall, there’s a huge old sofa that Heather would absolutely deem “fugly.” A functional but nondescript wooden coffee table sits in front of it. There’s no TV, I notice—something the actor in me would notice, of course. There is, however, a laptop, open on the table.
The opposite wall is clearly the heart of this place. It’s a literal wall of sound. A turntable occupies the place of honor in the center of a massive shelving unit that houses hundreds—maybe even thousands—of vinyl albums. Three guitars—one acoustic, two electric—are propped up on a rack. I notice that the acoustic bears a strong resemblance to the tattoo on Nick’s forearm.
A simple chair and a metal music stand crammed with handwritten pages curling at the corners are positioned near the guitars. A few papers and pencils litter the scuffed hardwood floor. Next to the chair, a dirty coffee cup rests atop a knee-high pile of well-used notebooks, apparently serving as a makeshift end table.
“What should we listen to?” asks Nick.
I survey the seemingly endless selection of music. “You choose,” I say.
“Nope,” he says. “You’re the guest. You get to pick.”
I turn to him and narrow my gaze. “Is this some kind of a test?” I ask. “Like the karaoke thing?”
“Okay, first off,” he says, “the karaoke thing wasn’t going to be a test . It was going to be a way to get to know you better. And this time,” he continues, “there are no bad answers.” He waves his arm across his substantial collection of vinyl. “I like it all.”
I take a sip of my water, thinking. Then I nod, accepting the challenge, and cross over to the shelves.
I begin to run my index finger along the spines of the albums, scanning the titles. Nick’s vinyl collection, like his T-shirt collection, is heavy on rock bands from the 1970s, ’80s, and ’90s, although it does span all decades and genres of music. The records aren’t organized alphabetically, but I suspect they’re organized nonetheless, arranged in some way that makes intuitive sense to their owner. As I continue to browse the titles, I get the feeling that I’m looking at more than just an extensive music library. It’s like I’m peering straight into Nick’s soul.
I get to the Eric Clapton section and stop. I remember that Nick’s karaoke song—the one he planned to woo me with—was going to be “Wonderful Tonight.” Taking my best guess, I pull one of the albums off the shelf and check the playlist on the back.
Score.
It’s the second track.
I hold Slowhand out to Nick. “Let’s listen to this.”
“Nice choice,” he says with a smile that tells me he knows the reasoning behind my selection. “I don’t like a lot of what the guy says, but I can’t fault his music.” He takes the album from me, and heat—the good kind, not the slayer kind—begins to rise between us.
With a smile of my own, I go over to the sofa. Somehow, I feel both unsteady on my feet and like I’m walking on air. Then I sit down with my water and watch as Nick carefully removes the record from its sleeve and places it on the turntable. He hits the power switch and drops the needle, and the bluesy-rock guitar opening of “Cocaine” fills the loft.
Nick pauses, listening for a second or two—out of respect for the guitar work, no doubt—before he comes over and joins me on the sofa. “So,” he says.
“So,” I reply.
So , my slayer seems to echo. Damn her.
“Can I ask you something?” asks Nick.
“Uh, yeah. Sure.”
“Why such an oh-hell-no on karaoke?”
“Oh,” I say. I shake my head. “I just hate performing in front of people.”
Nick gives me a funny look. “But you act,” he says.
I drag a finger through the moisture gathering on the outside of my plastic water bottle, trying to figure out how to explain. “Acting is different,” I say. “When you’re really in a scene, really connecting with another actor? Using what’s stored up inside you to create something good, something honest and true? There’s nothing better in the world. But getting up in front of people? Being judged?” I shake my head again. “That’s like an audition. And I’m terrible at auditions.”
“But it’s not an audition,” says Nick. “It’s karaoke. And almost everybody’s terrible at it. That’s half the fun. Nobody’s judging you.”
“Are you kidding? I feel like everybody’s judging me,” I say. “All the time. Like, my parents think I’m not successful enough. And my agent thinks I’m not pretty enough. Not to go up for the lead roles. And—”
“But you’re beautiful,” interrupts Nick.
I look at him, and the way he’s looking back at me makes me genuinely speechless. I don’t know what to say. And even if I did, I doubt I could say it. A lump the size of planet earth is rising in my throat.
Nick reaches over and runs his fingers lightly through my bangs, brushing them off my face. “The first time I met you, I thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Like a ray of light,” he says. “And since we’ve been hanging out, you’re even more beautiful to me than ever.” He grins. “And not just because of my super-duper amped-up vampire vision.”
Wow.
I mean…just…
As if on cue, the first song ends, and the slower, sexier opening strains of “Wonderful Tonight” surround us. The electric guitar licks are full of yearning—kind of like me right now. The soulful sound fuels the electricity already sparking in the air.
Nick takes my water and puts it on the coffee table along with his beer, and isn’t he clever to think to free up our hands like that? As for me, I can barely think at all. My brain is turning to certified mush. My limbs are nothing but quivering slabs of jelly.
Moving carefully, like it’s one of our training sessions, Nick scoots a little closer to me on the couch. “Is this okay?” he asks softly.
“Yes,” I somehow manage to answer. My voice is so husky and deep, I almost can’t recognize it.
Nick slides his hand around the back of my neck. His fingers slip up into my hair. “Still okay?” he asks as a delicious shiver zips straight through me.
“More than okay,” I whisper.
He leans in toward me, and my body throbs. I want him so much I could weep for the longing.
“Still okay?” he asks again.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I say. I’m seriously about to explode. “Just kiss me already.”
His dark eyes flash in amusement. “Bossy-pants,” he says, teasing me.
“Slacker,” I tease in return.
“Take that back,” he says with a grin.
“Make me,” I say.
And with a look that tells me he’s more than up for the challenge, Nick goes to work.