6. Nix
Nix
The metallic scrape is quiet as I slide the security chain into place on my door.
It’s pretty pointless. If someone wanted to break in, I doubt a tiny chain would stop them. But it still makes me feel better to use it.
Door fully locked, I brace my hand on the wall and pry my boots off. Then I pull the shoulder strap of my bag up over my head as I cross the few steps into the living room and drop onto the couch.
Ten seconds later, I stand back up.
I put my hands on my hips.
Drop them to my sides.
Cross my arms over my chest.
Drop them back to my sides.
I feel like I’ve been drugged.
Or what I assume it would feel like to be drugged.
I’ve been high before, but it just made me sleepy. This…
I run my tongue along my molars.
This isn’t that.
And, obviously, no one drugged me.
Other than waving to a few adults I assume are professors, I didn’t talk to anyone today besides Jenny.
Maybe Jenny drugged me.
Maybe that paper was laced with… PCP or… I don’t know. I’m not a chemist. But maybe the paper was saturated with some mind-altering drug, and when it sliced my finger, it infected me.
Maybe the footsteps never happened.
Maybe I hallucinated the whole thing.
Maybe I didn’t soak through my panties thinking about a vampire.
Maybe nothing is real.
Grimacing, I turn and move through my living room-dining room-kitchen combo and head down the short hallway to the other end of my apartment.
I pass the small closet and bathroom, then turn into my bedroom.
Kicking my jeans off, I toss them onto the foot of the bed. Then I peel off my underwear.
Earlier, when I couldn’t ignore the dampness anymore, I used one of the public restrooms to clean up.
No one else was in the restroom, but my cheeks still burned with embarrassment the whole time I was in there.
I hadn’t come. But my body was acting as though we were seconds away from getting railed for the first time.
I toss my underwear into the laundry basket.
I’ve been turned on before, touched myself before. But even then, even in my most aroused state, I’ve never been such a mess.
Drugged.
It has to be drugs.
I press two fingers to the pulse point on my throat.
Then I drop my hand because I’m not a freaking nurse, and I don’t know how to count my pulse.
I toss the rest of my clothes onto the bed with my jeans, then turn to my dresser.
With no plans to leave the apartment until tomorrow, I grab clean undies, sweatpants, and an old, incredibly comfortable T-shirt, and bring them into the bathroom.
Avoiding my own reflection, I clean up. Again.
I’ve wanted to have sex.
But anytime I so much as kissed someone, something inside me revolted.
I tried to get past it. One time, I tried really hard. But instead of working, it traumatized me.
Pulling my sweatpants on, I push that night out of my mind.
Maybe I just needed time since then. Or maybe I needed the magical vibrations of vampire footsteps. Because clearly my body is still interested in sex.
Dressed, I head back to the living room.
This apartment came furnished, which is good because so were my last two places, meaning I have no furniture of my own. But I still have plenty of things. The stacks of cardboard boxes along the wall are proof of that.
Books and framed artwork. Kitchen stuff. Lamps and throw blankets. Two boxes of stuff from my childhood that neither of my parents wanted to keep.
I stop beside the first stack of boxes.
I’ve managed to put away my clothes and toiletries so far. But I might as well distract myself from these haywire hormones by unpacking the rest of my stuff.
Time to make this apartment my home.
I reach for the top box.
I…
My brows furrow.
I try to reach for the box.
Nothing happens.
I blink.
Okay…
I try to reach for the top box again.
My arm stays limp.
Panic bursts inside me.
I can’t lift my arm.
I can’t—
My right arm lifts straight out to the side.
I stare at it.
I wiggle my fingers.
They cooperate.
I try to move my arm to the front.
It moves.
I lower it to my side.
It does that too.
I bite my lower lip and look down at my left arm.
I wiggle my fingers.
Lift my hand and wave.
Flap both arms like chicken wings.
“Oookay.”
Shaking off whatever weird paralysis just happened, I exhale and reach my right hand out to open the box.
Except I don’t.
My arm doesn’t move.
The panic that had been subsiding flares back to life.
Reaching across myself, I use my left hand to grip my right wrist.
I can feel the hold. I have sensation in my arm. And I watch as I use my left hand to lift my right.
But when I set my right hand on top of the box, my fingers won’t move.
My pulse spikes, and I spin away from the box, turning my back to it.
The motion pulls my hand off the top of the box, and just like that, I can move my arm again.
Staring down at my hands, I flex my fingers.
“What…”
I turn my hands palm up, and tingles race up my arms.
“What the fuck?”
I shake my hands out, but the tingles continue to skitter through me, collecting in my stomach. Then dropping lower. To my newly slutty core.
I tip my head back. “What the fuck?”
Overwhelmed by everything, I cross to the couch and sit.
After taking three slow breaths, I lift my gaze and stare at the box.
I didn’t write on the side, so I don’t know what’s in it.
Maybe I accidentally packed something that doesn’t belong to me.
Maybe the box is haunted.
I lift my arm and give the stack of boxes the middle finger.
Hand works just fine now.
I narrow my eyes.
Maybe I’m haunted.
I slump back on the couch.
There’s no way any of that actually happened.
I’m just tired.
I repeat the statement in my head a few more times.
I’m not haunted. The box isn’t haunted. I’m not drugged. The box isn’t drugged. I’m just tired.
The last part is for sure true. I am tired.
I reach across the cushions and pull my laptop out of my bag.
Haunted or not, I have my first day of teaching tomorrow, so going over my lesson plan is a better idea than unpacking anyway.
Turning my computer on, I give it a moment to warm up. Then, instead of doing what I just told myself I’d do, I open the internet browser.
The same tingles from before bounce between my fingertips as I type five letters.
Volik.
Articles fill the screen. But I select the filter for images.
The tingles crawl up my arms, slower than last time, and settle in my chest as I select a photo and enlarge it.
I’ve seen images of Volik before. Everyone has. But I always looked at them with a layer of academic curiosity. Never interest. Not like I am now.
I lift the laptop, bringing the screen closer to my face.
Volik stares back at me.
His eyes are… enthralling.
Vampires have black eyes.
Solid black.
No white. No iris. Just midnight orbs.
All vampires have them. It’s the immediate giveaway.
Well, that and the horns. And the fangs.
But Volik’s…
I lean forward until my nose is inches away from his.
Volik’s eyes aren’t the voids I always thought they were. They’re… galaxies.
Balancing my computer on one hand, I reach for the screen with the other and trace along his jaw, pretending I can feel the bristles of his trimmed beard, a slightly lighter shade of brown than his hair.
He’s… handsome. But not in an aristocratic way. He’s too… burly for that.
I know he’s old. But no one knows how old.
I have to imagine he’s stood out his whole life. Being so big… built like a freight train. Tall. Muscled… Serious.
In every photo I’ve seen, his expression is always so serious.
Even without the vampire aspect, he looks dangerous.
That spot between my thighs throbs.
I want to see him this close.
In real life.
I lower my hand from the screen, down to my lap.
I want to see him with his shirt off.
My fingers work their way into the waistband of my sweatpants.
I want to touch him.