Chapter 12 New Century, New Me
I’m sweating bullets.
Despite the house being only moderately warm for the weather.
I’m sticky in my shirt and shorts, which I changed into when we got home.
That was after I gagged at the six-hundred dollars I’d just spent on my credit card.
At least I got a ‘family and friends’ discount to offset the total.
Not by much, but it was better than nothing.
Taking care of a vampire was way more work than I was expecting. Especially when he asked me to cut and color his hair, per Emma’s instructions. She knew I could do it, too, since I have my cosmetology license. This is her payback for earlier, I know it.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask again, my mouth dry. The smell of the bleach on the makeshift workstation is starting to get to me.
“Positive.” He leans back, scarlet eyes finding my face. “Emma insisted.”
“And you’re just going to take her at her word?”
“Why not?” He shrugs, the muscles in his shoulders moving with him.
His button up is bunched around his elbows, but it’s fully open otherwise—which means bare-chested, which means half-naked in one of my granny’s old kitchen chairs.
The exception to this is the set of chains still around his neck.
Still, the visual is giving me heart palpitations.
I’m trying extra hard not to scope out the goods, but it’s more difficult than I anticipated.
I thought the chemical smell of the bleach would keep me focused, but I think it’s making things worse.
“Just out of curiosity,” I begin, picking up my shears, “what did she say to convince you?”
“She said that a new wardrobe requires a new look, and that you would know what to do with me.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and curse Emma. Definitely payback.
“Besides,” he says, sitting back up, eyes forward, “new century, new me. I think that requires a full change, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. I guess I can’t argue with that.” But just as I attempt the first cut, I pull back. “Wait, won’t your hair just grow back?”
I remember watching Interview With A Vampire, recalling that Claudia’s hair grew back after she chopped it all off in a rage.
“No, it won’t. So don’t make a mistake,” he says with an edge of warning. I can’t tell if he’s being serious or joking.
“Right, no pressure.” More sweat drips down my back. Dax has been at the mercy of my clippers before, and Emma, too, but I really only cut my hair on occasion. I don’t mind messing mine up, but his? Different story.
Gray waves me off dismissively. “Get on with it. We haven’t got all night.”
I suck in a deep breath, and with the little reference I pulled up on my phone, I get to work.
At first, I’m nervous to do too much damage, but once I get into a rhythm, I feel my confidence climb.
As strips of hair fall to the floor around my feet, I frown at the loss.
Clipping his hair away feels like a crime.
It’s thick and soft, with a beautiful shine.
It wasn’t like this the night we met. In fact, it was stringy and clotted with dust, dirt, and blood.
Who knew he would have such a killer head of hair under all that grime.
Shifting from shears to clippers, I keep going until I’m satisfied. Once done, I reach for the mirror on my workstation and pause. “Dumb question.”
“What is it?”
“Can you see your reflection?”
Gray gives a short laugh and shakes his head. “Yes, I can see my reflection.”
“Good to know.” I circle the chair and hold out the mirror. “I’m not done yet. I just wanted to get your opinion.”
Nothing in his expression changes as he sees himself, at least, not at first. He leans forward and assesses, turning his head to the left and then the right.
He tips his jaw up at the chin, then looks at me from under long black lashes.
It’s then I can see the approval, the satisfaction glimmering in those red eyes of his.
“I like it.”
“Great!” I wouldn't know what to do if he didn't.
With that, I circle back behind him to hide my blush.
That’s happening to me way too much these days.
I’m not usually a blusher. Hurriedly, I put on my gloves and busy myself with the bleach.
Application is an easy and mindless task, but I still find myself focusing on it like it's the most important step. Once that part is done, I wrap it up, discard my gloves, and set a timer. I forgot how long of a process it is just to color someone’s hair.
It feels different when I’m doing my own hair.
I just hope that he’s happy with the end product.
Especially when I only have one color, I think.
“So, if your hair doesn’t grow back, and you can see your reflection, what other myths am I missing?” I ask as I sweep up his hair.
“Plenty,” he says. “For one, silver can be deadly to us. Mirrors used to be made with them, and jewelry…”
My eyes bulge as I snap upright, my gaze falling on him.
Gray shifts the chains around his neck to the side and I see the bright, angry red of his skin marked from the accessories.
Thoughtlessly, I extend a hand out to touch him.
The ridges of his irritated skin are raised and hot to the touch, as if he’d been burned.
Gently, I skirt my fingers along the indents, stopping short of his collarbone, which is where I linger for one second too long.
“Are you… okay?” I ask, choking on the question. When I lift my eyes to his, I find him watching me with a careful, steady look. My hand doesn’t move, even though I know I should pull away and break whatever connection this is.
“I am,” he says lowly.
“Still.” I lick my lips. “Maybe you shouldn’t wear that.”
“No?” he asks, one hand closing over the hand hovering above his collar. With a slight tug, I fall forward and barely catch myself as I brace against his shoulders. “Go ahead then, darling. Take it off.”
I swallow. I know he’s talking about the necklace, but the way his hands are planted firmly on my hips, my first thought is taking off my shorts.
Nixing that entirely, I plant my feet firmly on the ground and reach around his neck for the clasp.
The second it comes away, he hisses with relief.
I take the chains and hold them close, whispering a small ‘thanks’ as he sets me upright.
“Appreciate it.” His throat bobs as he pulls his hands away. Tension coils in the pit of my stomach.
“Of course.”
I feel the ghost of his touch well after, even more so when I’m back at my workstation checking his progress.
This is dangerous territory, and I’m walking myself right into a minefield of unknowns.
To save myself the mind-numbing practice of self-doubt, I shift my focus back to his color.
Satisfied with the lift, I haul him into the kitchen, where I rinse it all out.
I feel better and less sexually frustrated when he’s back in the chair and I’m mixing up his color.
“Do you do this often?” he wonders as I start dabbing the color into his bleached hair.
“Not anymore,” I start. “I got my license after high school. It was fun for a while, but I wanted to do what everyone else was doing, so I went to college. Eventually, it got to be too hard to balance classes and a job, at least until I stumbled across String Theory.”
It wasn’t a bad gig. Classes during the day, stripping at night.
I made a fat chunk of change taking off my clothes for randos more than I ever did cutting and coloring hair.
Still, it felt like a waste, and I didn’t want to lose the skill, so I colored my own hair and sometimes someone else’s when I felt like an extra five bucks or a coffee on campus.
“This was all still new when I… well, when I went to sleep.”
“Was it?”
“Mhm,” he hums. “Though none of the women I knew then were quite as colorful as you.”
“Is that a bad thing or a good thing?” I apply the last of the color and set the bowl aside, wrapping his hair again for the final stretch.
“I suppose that depends. You’re only the second mortal woman I’ve bothered to acquaint myself with.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“It means”—he stands from the chair and shoulders his shirt back up—“I’ve only truly known two mortal women. The rest have been inconsequential.”
When he finally turns to face me, I’m sure I look confused. “And I’m consequential?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” He doesn’t bother to button up, instead letting the shirt hang open. His chest is still red, outlining the spot where the chains burned him. I wonder how long it will take for that to go away. “We do have a deal, don’t we?”
I nod, dropping my eyes to the floor. That’s a definite fact. Just a deal and nothing more, so there’s no sense in getting all hot and bothered over him. I toe at the floor with my bare feet, and before I can stop myself from asking, I open my mouth, “So, who was the first?”
He’s quiet as he considers answering.
“Francesca,” he replies. “She was a nun.”
“A nun?” I think back to the night I met him, and the careful way he approached me. Would he have withheld himself from taking a bite out of me if it wasn’t for the costume? There would have been nothing to stop him from killing me if that was the case.
Gray crosses his arms. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“Did you save me because… because you thought I was her?” I ask, even though I don’t think I want to know the answer.
“Would it make a difference if I said yes? You’re alive.”
My body goes completely still. He’s so nonchalant, as if I should be grateful for the mix-up. “Only because you thought I was someone else!”
The tension in the room thickens. Gray’s face sharpens, his eyes narrowing to slits as he stalks toward me with a slow, intended purpose.
For the first time since we met, I see him for what he is: A creature meant to be feared.
A new look doesn’t change any of that, it just makes him more dangerous.
I don’t realize I’ve backed away from him until my back hits the wall.
He hovers above me, one arm caging me in.
“Don’t make the mistake of thinking that I am anything other than what I am.”
“Rude?” I swallow.
A small, humorless smile steals his perfect lips. “Vampire.”
“I didn’t forget.” Admittedly? In the middle of coloring his hair, I kind of did forget.
“Are you sure?” Cool fingers race along one of my arms as his other hand curls around my wrist. The breath leaves my lungs when he brings its bare underside to his lips. “Perhaps you need reminding.”
“You said… you said you wouldn’t bite me,” I stammer, but he ignores me.
“Did I?” He feigns confusion, then opens his mouth to reveal all four of his perfectly sharp fangs. I suck in a breath and brace myself for the impact of his bite. Twice now he’s had me cornered in my own home, and dammit if I don’t find it both annoying and hot.
Just bite me, I want to say. Bite me and get it over with.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Gray places a very light kiss against my wrist and releases me. With a taunting look, he says, “You’re too trusting.”
The desire to throttle him overtakes me, and just as I’m ready to swing, the alarm on my phone goes off. He takes a step back, and I almost collapse. I didn’t realize how badly I was shaking until now.
“Shower,” I say, unable to move away from the wall. “Now.”
“Say no more,” he says and blurs down the hall before I can blink.