Chapter 17
All is well, beloved stud muffin o’mine. I have
decided to forgive you.”
I was smiling at
Sinclair from our bedroom doorway. Yep, time to forgive him for
whatever it was he did, and get laid. It had been—jeez, was that
right? Four days? Four? No wonder I felt so bitchy and out of
control.
“Mmm,” the love of my
(un)life hummed. His back was to me as he was sitting at the small
shaker-style desk in the corner, working on his laptop. We usually
had a please-no-paperwork-but-how-about-oral-sex-instead rule in
our bedroom, but exceptions were made now and again. I mean, he was
a rich powerful king-type guy. When we weren’t putting our
footprints on the ceiling, memos had to be read. Or written. Or
whatever the hell he did on that thing.
“So, I didn’t see you
here last night when I came back.”
Nothing.
“In fact, I haven’t
seen much of you in the last day or two. What with our little, uh,
you know, and the devil dropping by.”
Tap-tap-tap of his fingers hitting the
keyboard.
“So, the devil.
Dropped by. But I took care of it.” Yep, never underestimate the
negotiating power of felony assault.
“How fortunate none
of your thoughtless actions will come back to haunt us. Or hurt
us.” Tap, Tap-tap,
“Uh ... okay. Are you
all right?”
Tap, TAP-TAP-TAP, I wondered if the tips of his
fingers were going to punch through the keyboard. “No,” Sinclair
replied. “I am not. I have an inordinate amount of paperwork. I
must clean up another of your messes. I have asked you no less than
four times to be at my side for a significant social
obligation—”
“What, this again?
C’mon, Sinclair, teatime with vamps? Barf. And again, I say
barf.”
“I. Wasn’t.
Finished.” Still he wouldn’t look at
me. Why wouldn’t he turn around and look at me? More: Why weren’t
we having sex right now? “You say you want our people to be more
independent, less predatory, and—how did you so charmingly phrase
it? Ah. ‘Less sucky in all things, pun intended.’ ”
“Heh.” Good
one.
“But you resist any
opportunity to give them positive reinforcement. You resist any
opportunities to appear at my side as a show of our concentrated,
combined ruling authority. You—”
“—are wondering who
bit you on the ass.” I knew it wasn’t me, literally or
figuratively. Could he have a headache? A fang-ache? Overworked,
maybe? Hard to imagine ... Sinclair lived for this shit. Grumpy
because he was on the same four-day-sexless streak I was?
Bingo.
I crossed the room
and put my hands on his shoulders, surprised to find his muscles
were thrumming like steel cables. “Yeesh, you’re grumpy tonight.
But I have a cure, which will entail you making that sexy-clinkey
sound when you unbuckle your belt, and then I will make that
oh-God-put-it-in-right-now sound, and—”
“Do not say
that!”
“What? What?” I was
astonished; he hadn’t shouted it so much as roared it. Then I
realized a God had slipped out, which felt to most vampires like a
paper cut. On the genitals.
“Oh, jeez, I—oh,
jeez! I mean, sorry. Uh, sorry. It just
slipped out.”
“It continually slips
out. You have no interest in modifying your behavior even when it
harms those closest to you. You have had years to implement this
adjustment and have not troubled yourself. This, while those around
you risk their lives. Or lose their lives. I find it ...
dishonorable.”
Was it possible I
never left Payless Shoes with Laura the other day? Instead of
coming here for the Saturday Satanic Movie Fest, perhaps I’d passed
out in Payless and everything that had happened since was some sort
of crappy-shoe-induced fever dream brought on by lack of sex and
impending November.
I guess he got tired
of me just standing there with my mouth unsprung, because he put
the final spank on his verbal cat o’nine tails with, “I require
your absence.”
“Uh. You
do?”
“Remove your hands.
Then remove the rest of you. Quietly, if you can manage such a
feat.”
I yanked my hands
back as though he’d gotten lava hot. Then I took a slow step
backward. Then another.
Something was
seriously screwed up. Had I been that much of a brat the other day?
Well, sure. But this was not new behavior. Certainly not new to
Sinclair, who ran up against my self-involved brattiness about
eight seconds after we met.
“You seem ... um ...
upset. D’you want a smoothie?” Or a tranquilizer? I wondered if
Marc had made it back from his AA meeting yet; I had the feeling
I’d need his shoulder again, and there were only so many burdens I
dared put on Jessica this time of year.
Marc had a love-hate
relationship with AA. As he described it, AA was like a high school
girlfriend who was hot, one you’d known for a long time, but who
also cheated on you. So Marc and AA broke up at least once a year
but always got back together. And why the hell was I thinking about
Marc’s easy-come-easy-go alcoholism now?
I wrenched my
thoughts onto a more relevant track. “When did you feed
last?”
I was surprised to
feel my shoulder blades hit the bedroom door. I’d let him back me
all the way across the room. Or, rather, I’d let me back me all the
way across the room.
I had seen Sinclair
enraged, despondent, joyful, horny, worried, irritated, tender,
motivated, goaded, annoyed, terrified, ravenous, and provoked. But
the stranger hanging out in my husband’s suit? I’d never met him
before. Cold and hateful were sentiments I never dreamed my heart’s
love, my only love, would use on me.
Also: he hadn’t
bothered to answer my question. For a weird moment I thought maybe
this time, I was the ghost.
“Maybe I’ll just ...”
What? Kill him? Kill myself? Race for Tina’s vodka collection? Set
the house on fire? Smack myself in the face until I woke up? That
last was probably not the worst plan in the world ...
“Why are you still
here?” He didn’t bother to raise his voice that time. And he sure
hadn’t turned around to look at me. He was re-engrossed in his
work; I no longer rated strong emotion.
Then, a life
preserver was tossed my way when I’d never wanted an escape hatch
more: “Living Dead Girl” started blaring from my
pants.
My ring tone. My
hands shot into the pocket of my cargo pants (hurrah for eighteen
pockets of varying sizes even if khaki made me look like I recently
escaped basic training!) as I clawed for the Rob Zombie—blaring
lifesaver.
“Oh, thank God. I
mean, hello?”
“Betsy?” A small,
crumpled voice. A tearful voice. “Betsy, are you
there?”
Sure, Laura, I just
don’t know where here is right now, what with my husband channeling
Joey Buttafuoco. “What’s wrong? You sound—”
“I’m
naked!”
“Uh, figuratively,
or—”
“I just woke up
here!” she whisper-screamed. “I don’t know how I got here. All I
remember is going to bed last night in my room, and now I’m naked
in the spoon!”
As someone born and
raised within an hour’s drive of the Walker Art Center in
Minneapolis, I knew at once what the problem was and, even better,
where it was.
“I’m coming,” I told
her, dropping the phone back in my pocket and all but diving out my
bedroom door.
It wasn’t running
away. It sure wasn’t a retreat. A family member needed help. I had
to go, no matter what just happened with my husband, no matter how
much I wanted to stay and thrash this out.
Yup. That was my
story. It even had the advantage of sounding almost
true.