Page 33 of Bite Back

ASHER

I pull up outside the address Delilah gave me the next morning.

It’s in the East Village, warm red brick stretching up four stories above a maroon and black awning.

The bright morning rays stretch over the rooflines of the buildings, casting stripes of bright light and harsh shadows, and I grimace.

Maybe I should have picked a later start time.

New vamps, like Delilah, struggle with the sun.

Normally, these are the easiest hours to do the groundwork for hunts.

I’m active, and a lot of my targets are sitting ducks.

But there she is, bright and early, clad in a leather jacket, dark washed jeans, and dark tinted aviator shades.

And she’s staring at my motorcycle. I can’t blame her.

It’s my pride and joy. I got it custom painted, so it’s all sleek black with navy blue accents.

Although looking at the scene before me, the cherry in Delilah’s dark hair gleaming in the morning light, I picked the wrong color.

Yeah, definitely going to need to get it repainted.

“That’s our ride?” Oops. I guess I neglected to mention I was bringing the bike.

“Yup.” I pop the p, relishing the look that crosses her face, eyebrows raised and mouth pursed. “You’re not scared, are you?”

“Should I be?” She frames her question like a demand, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Depends if you’re a scaredy cat or not.” A chuckle escapes. Her face remains stony. Shit. Her parents and sister died in a car crash. Maybe now’s not the time to joke. “I’ve been riding for years, never had an accident.”

Her shoulders relax briefly before she re-squares her stance.

“Could just be luck.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. If my joking affected her, she doesn’t show it.

I like this version of Delilah. I like to challenge her. So many of the people I’ve dated treated me like a prize to be won. Delilah’s not like that. She treats me like competition. I may not like being a prize, but I love playing games. Like her, I play to win.

I toss a helmet her way, and she catches it perfectly.

I don’t usually think of vamp’s quick reflexes as a good thing.

But on Delilah, it’s different. I admire the grace her movements have gained in the last few weeks.

I’ve spent years honing my physical skills.

But despite my years of practice, she carries herself with an athletic poise I can rival but never quite match.

I’d never admit it to her, but I love it.

“A helmet?” She quirks an eyebrow, and, while I can’t make out her eyes behind those dark shades, I can imagine the amusement sparkling there. She’s right. She’s not my usual passenger. A bike crash can’t hurt her. Not permanently at least.

It takes a lot to kill a vampire: a stake to the heart, decapitation, or immolation. Anything short of that—other than fangs—regenerates eventually. Broken bones mend, lost limbs grow back.

“If it makes you feel safer.” Technically there’s always risk, but I wasn’t kidding about the lack of accidents. I take bike safety very seriously.

A smile flirts across her lips. “You’re not inspiring trust in the safety of this, Mr. No Accidents.”

Touché. But she grabs the helmet and climbs on the back of the bike without hesitation.

I inhale sharply as her scent washes over me.

Her knees bracket my hips, and her hands come to slide around me, one wrapped around my waist and the other resting on my shoulder.

I’m not sure this is a good idea after all.

How am I supposed to focus? All thoughts vacate my brain.

I can’t think because if I did think I’d imagine all the things I want to do with her body pressed close to mine.

Other parts of my body, though, respond to the contact.

At least she’s behind me so she can’t see how suddenly tight the front of my jeans have become.

She elbows me in the side. “Hey, Van Helsing, I’m ready to go.”

I choke at the mention of the famous, very much so fictional vampire hunter. “That’s the nickname we’re going with?”

“Do you have other suggestions? Buffy?” She offers the suggestion in an unacceptably chipper tone.

“In retrospect, Van Helsing is good.”

“That’s what I thought.” She gives an almost catlike purr, stretching behind me on the seat.

“Am I the only one that gets a nickname?” It’s only fair that she gets labeled something equally as silly.

“Oh, be my guest.”

“Hmmm, let’s see. There’s always Count.” I confess I’m drawing a blank.

She tilts her head back and gives a full-throated laugh. “Oh, Count, huh? That’s the best you can do?”

As her laughter rings in my ears, I press down on the gas and take us away.

In the end, Delilah doesn’t don the helmet, leaving her dark strands loose.

The wind tangles and dances through them as we dart through the streets.

I go fast because I like that and it seems she does too.

We weave around pedestrians and bounce over the cobblestone streets.

Wherever possible, I route us through side streets where I can increase the speed even more.

I round a sharp corner, and a laugh escapes her lips.

She removes her hands from my waist, extending her arms out to capture the wind.

I stifle my own grin. This version of her, hair streaming behind her, arms extended in victory, reminds me of the woman I first saw at the club. Fearless, bold, free.

We zoom by Central Park, the green breaking up the black and tan that dominate the city. It kills me that these moments of happiness are just that for her. Moments. She deserves more than that. What was she like before he got to her? I know what that’s like, living in the after.

My thoughts tangle as I navigate through the congestion around us.

For a long time, I felt like a stranger to myself.

All the bits and pieces of my life rearranged suddenly.

Over time, I got to know the stranger. I came to like the stranger.

And over time, I recovered little bits of myself I’d thought I’d lost forever.

Not everything, of course. I was never the same, and I wouldn’t want to be.

But somewhere along the way, I recognized myself in the wreckage.

We think of hurt and healed as a binary.

You’re one or the other. That’s not true though.

Healing’s not a journey, at least not one with a final destination.

Things are going smoothly only for the wrong word, the wrong phrase, hell, the wrong sound to send you careening back to the pit you thought you’d crawled your way out of for good.

At first, I beat myself up over those moments. I blamed myself for backsliding, for failing. But that’s just how it is. Progress isn’t linear, and grief doesn’t have an expiration date.

A bicyclist zooms past us at an intersection, running the red. Horns blare in their wake. Classic New York.

It’s funny, in some ways, the person I was before everything happened has become the stranger now.

Just like I’ll never know the Delilah from before.

But I hope she learns that she’s her whole past. Not just the bad parts but the good parts too.

And she’s also so much more than anything that happened, good or bad.

We can’t erase our pasts. But we get to write our own futures.

Her fingers squeeze my waist through the leather of my jacket, and, just for a moment, I imagine we’re not following a lead. It’s just us.

But I can’t change who she is or who I am. I have a job to do. One that doesn’t leave time for romance. And certainly not romance with vampires. It’s not strictly forbidden, but, well, like I said, the past never stops haunting you.

It hangs there in my mind, bright and false. Everything I wish we could be. And everything that will never come true.

The city streets turn to suburban roads, which turn into country lanes.

The sun beats down above us as we wind our way through small town after small town.

We spend most of the ride in between places, asphalt stretching straight ahead then vanishing on the distance horizon.

It’s right somehow. This is where people like us belong, maybe, neither here nor there.

The sky stretches overhead, bright blue and bold, an infinite dome uninterrupted by clouds.

Golden sunflowers hug the roadside, thin stalks extending up to drink in the sunlight.

They ripple in the wind and twinkle in the light, a gleaming golden tide blanketing the rolling hills.

The sunlight kisses my skin, warming me against the early autumn breeze.

There’s a beauty here, so different from the jumble of buildings that tower overhead in the city.

Here, we're free from all that, free from the expectations that crowd us in.

I love the city, love its noise, the hustle and bustle. But I could get used to this. Sun overhead, Delilah at my side, wind in our faces. In the city, I carry the weight of so many expectations. Here, I just am.

“It’s peaceful here,” Delilah’s voice slips in, soft and surprisingly sweet.

Her lips tickle my ear, the barest brush sending goosebumps pricking up across my arms. “Beautiful.” Like for a moment she forgot everything that’s passed between us.

And while I love to push her buttons, hearing her like that does something to my insides, turns them all soft and gooey and melted.

Damn. I really am a goner. There are so many things I wish I could say, and even more I wish I could unsay. But where would I even start? And my head still tells me what my heart wants is a bad idea. So I keep it simple.

“Sure is. Absolutely beautiful.”

Her. The view. All of it.