Page 26

26

MERCER

Mercer had done it.

He’d asked Rahil out. On a date. Well, a kind of date. Something like a date, at least.

Mercer stood on the sidewalk, staring aimlessly at the building’s front entrance, its crab shack aesthetics pierced by soft neon lights and crowded with laughter, pride flags hanging like drapes in the windows. He still felt like his head was somewhere in the clouds, if there were any clouds on the perfect, clear summer night, the twinkling of the stars glimmering past the boardwalk’s moderate light pollution to laugh at him. What had he been thinking—asking Rahil on a date ? Mercer hadn’t been on a date in a decade.

But looking at the vampire beside him, his dark hair pulled back in a long, thick braid and his flowy white top nearly falling off his shoulders, Mercer wanted to figure this out. He swallowed and tried to tug his lips into something like a smile. He must have failed because Rahil lifted his eyebrow in concern.

“Do you not like the Fishnettery?” he asked. “You told me to pick the place—you should have been more specific.”

Mercer gave a soft huff. “No. It—I’m sure it’s great.”

“You’ve never been?” Rahil concluded. “Oh, my dear Mercer.”

“Leah was never the clubbing sort, and then we had Lydia…”

Rahil nudged his shoulder gently into Mercer’s and the physical contact shot through Mercer’s body like a lightning rod. He barely had time to recover before Rahil was moving forward, waving back at him as he went. “Well, come on.”

Mercer pushed his fingers into his pockets and followed. Maybe he should have changed out of his work attire? He’d been wearing his better set for his meeting with Andres and Shane—a clean gray t-shirt and faded maroon pants—but the bright yellow bandana holding back his hair had smudges of something red on it, and he could have used the eyeliner he kept around on the off chance he had reason to go to something more interesting than Lydia’s teacher-parent meetings. He’d figured that interesting thing would be a renaissance fair or a convention; somewhere he could set up a stand, maybe, and sell trinkets.

He had nearly done it a few years ago. Here now, surrounded by people enjoying themselves, sauntering down the boardwalk or kissing in the parking lot or hanging off the Fishnettery’s porch with drinks and fried shrimp, he remembered so clearly the moment his imagination had gotten the better of him, turning the thought of a cute artist grinning at him from across the aisle into an afternoon of convention research so overwhelming that it had ended in nausea and panic. He’d impulsively closed all the tabs he’d been searching through and opened a reality show instead, and that had been the end of it.

Mercer paused at the Fishnettery’s doorway, the onslaught of sound and motion hitting him like a physical pressure. Rahil glanced at him. His fingers brushed the side of Mercer’s hand, his mouth nearly touching Mercer’s ear as he spoke over the rush of the crowd. “Let’s go around to the outdoor space. It’s usually calmer.”

“That would be nice,” Mercer shouted back, feeling himself leaning too, his face nearly touching Rahil’s.

Rahil nodded and began weaving through the crowd.

They picked up a pair of drinks—two colorful mixed concoctions Rahil swore by, with a sharp cherry flavor and a bitter edge at the end—and found a table for two near the water. Live music echoed from a stage beside the building, a small band by the bizarre name of Versatile Lemons avidly belting the lines to a catchy song, and the view of the lake boasted a fair number of lively boats and yachts, everyone out enjoying the beautiful summer evening.

“So, what do you do for fun?” Rahil asked, taking a sip from his drink.

“I have my shed.”

Rahil chuckled into his glass. “Something that isn’t work, please.”

“Hey now, my work is delightful.” But he paused, thinking. His mind went to the conventions he’d never attended, the ren faires, the community art gatherings, the cute little pottery workshop he drove past on the way to the grocery store every Tuesday morning, a group of seniors working on mugs inside. But he didn’t have time for that, or a need—he had a daughter.

“Lydia and I used to go do things. Kids’ museums, canoeing, the park, the theater. But she hasn’t been very interested in spending time with me lately.” He pushed forward, trying not to let his heart get caught on that unending pain. “I suppose I enjoy watching reality dating shows—don’t laugh.”

Rahil was already cackling, though, one hand covering his brilliant smile. Despite Mercer’s fears, it felt like being laughed with, not at. Like he had told the joke, not been the brunt of it. “Which ones?” Rahil asked. “My housemate watches this show where they undergo challenges to plan the most outrageous weddings, and she keeps trying to get me to join her.”

“That’s one of my favorites! The season with the archaeology theme produced the best weddings, in my opinion, but I swear the music professors in season seven were the most dramatic couple in the history of dating shows.” Then Mercer added, genuinely curious, “So, why don’t you join your housemate for it?”

“I…” Rahil’s mouth hung open, then his brow slowly tightened. “I don’t know anymore.”

It was such an odd answer, but Mercer could feel the sincerity of it, and the vulnerability too. There was something wonderful happening inside Rahil’s mind, and while Mercer wasn’t privy to it, he was proud all the same. He let the moment linger, sipping his own drink before asking, “What do you do for fun, Rahil?”

Rahil snorted. “I trap myself in the sheds of overworked reality-show lovers, obviously.”

Now that was the opposite of his sincerity, the sarcasm no less a mask than the serious expression Mercer often donned unintentionally. He dug a little deeper. “What do you wish you could do, then?”

Rahil was quiet for a moment. He tipped the liquid in his glass back and forth, watching the maraschino cherry glide over the ice. “I wish I could work,” he said. “Getting to help you with Leah’s unfinished project has been… incredible. Truly, incredible.”

Mercer’s heart ached at the bittersweet joy in Rahil’s voice. He wanted, suddenly, to reach across the table, close the separation between them and take Rahil’s hand in his own, for whatever comfort that might bring them both, but he stopped short. Then he tried to unstop himself. They were here for this . For each other.

But the moment had passed, and Rahil cupped both his palms around his own neck, a little awkwardly out of Mercer’s reach.

Mercer scrambled to find something to carry the conversation, and his stupid, reeling mind settled on the worst possible thing. “So, you don’t have a job?”

Rahil visibly cringed. “I have… occasional gigs. Not a lot of people want to hire a vampire to come into their house at night, and if they’re going to bring the piece to you, they usually want a shop to drop it off at.”

That kind of financial instability sounded troubling, but at least Rahil had housemates. Perhaps they picked up the bills when he couldn’t. “I’d hire you,” Mercer said.

“You did offer payment, as I recall.” Rahil’s gaze darted suspiciously to Mercer’s neck.

The flood of desires that cascaded through Mercer was insufferable, and he wondered how people survived dating vampires long-term—how they lived with the knowledge of their vampire’s mouth on their skin and that glorious venom flooding their system and the thought of it all happening while they came into— fuck . Mercer should not have been thinking about that, not here, not ever, not unless—

He took a massive gulp of his drink, realizing too late that alcohol was probably not the best choice if he wanted to keep these feelings under control.

“Yeah,” Mercer replied, lamely. “But, um, in this case I mean a proper business deal. I’d take orders for my shop that include electrical components that you can assemble, and we could split the profit.” Was he just offering Rahil a permanent spot in his shed—in his life? God, what was he doing?

He didn’t want to take it back, though, not with the way Rahil’s expression transformed, moving through shock, then hope, then joy. “You’d really do that for me?”

“ With you. I’d do that with you,” Mercer corrected, and Rahil’s face lit up even more.

It left the warmest ache in Mercer’s chest, like a tiny sun had formed just for that.

And he knew wherever this night was going, it was going to be good.

One drink turned into two, then three, and Mercer’s inhibitions began to fail so hard that by the time they’d been at the Fishnettery an hour and a half, Mercer had to all but lurch himself out of his chair to stop from leaning closer to Rahil.

“Where are we going?” Rahil laughed.

Mercer could not frankly say, if I don’t give my legs something to do, I might end up with you sitting between them , so he said nothing, just grabbed the edge of Rahil’s shirt sleeve and tugged. That was appropriate. It was not skin on skin—not pushing things any farther than they’d already been—just a guiding force, manipulating Rahil with no more pressure than he had back at the shed. It was good, it was fine.

He let go the instant Rahil followed, and despite all of his mental reassurances, he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks.

They left the Fishnettery through the side entrance, but instead of leading Rahil back to the car, Mercer turned right, heading onto the boardwalk. With the summer heat tamed by the night, the long lakeside walkway held a vibrancy specific to tourist seasons, teams of mobile merchants hawking handmade trinkets and lit chariots pulled by bicyclists, a few artists hosting outdoor gallery viewings and even a man with a giant snake offering to let people hold it for donations. Without the security of the gay bar, Mercer spotted the looks a few individuals gave Rahil’s fangs, but there were enough people moving around them that most didn’t even notice, and no one lingered close for long.

Rahil himself seemed oblivious, his grin bright and his gaze dancing from one spectacle to the next. When they passed live music, he swayed to the beat, and when a teenager in a dance circle landed a backflip, he cheered for them. He was so alive, so spontaneous and open to the joy around them, that it made Mercer want to release a little of the tension in his chest and just breathe. That was what he’d come here for, wasn’t it? To be a part of this world, with someone like Rahil.

Mercer momentarily directed them off the boardwalk to an ice cream parlor for two scoops of Butterscotch Delight for himself and one of Cherry Garcia for Rahil—Mercer was starting to see a theme with the cherries.

“You have a type,” he muttered, nodding to the pink ice cream.

Rahil lifted a brow. “Are you saying your taste is better?”

His taste was limited yet highly varied, and right now it was perfect: long hair, brown skin, a pair of gorgeous fangs in an even more handsome smile. But he shrugged. “It’s adequate.”

Quick as a flash, Rahil slipped in to lick at the ice cream in Mercer’s cone.

In place of the horror and disgust Mercer knew he’d normally have felt at the intrusion was simply a quiet affection, born of a feeling he couldn’t quite place, much less name. He chuckled. “So?”

“Disgusting,” Rahil concluded. “I don’t know why you’d ever go for it.”

“Well, it does something for me, I suppose.” He felt his lips quirk and he let them, the awkward grin undeniable, if not unabashed. The joy must have secretly been an intoxicant because not only did he add, “You’ve got a little something,” but his body reached over to wipe a smudge of tan cream off the tip of Rahil’s nose. Before he could stop himself, he instinctively tucked the fingers into his mouth.

Mercer couldn’t decide if the way Rahil looked at him then was worth everything and more, or the force that would end his life. Probably both. At this rate, he was starting not to care so much about holding back.

And that meant the anxious part of him had begun to worry over whether or not the things he wanted were even on Rahil’s radar. He hadn’t been very specific when he’d asked Rahil out. He’d implied casual , when what he now realized he’d wanted was the option of slow , and those could be very different things to different people.

“So, besides the blood and such, you’ve been primarily invested in hookups?” He remembered Rahil telling him there were only ever first dates: bleed ’em and leave ’em style.

“I… mh.” Rahil grunted, looking decisively at the lake. He picked at the edge of his cone with his nail. “Usually my dating is just for the meal, you know? Sometimes the sex is nice, too, but it’s mostly a quid pro quo.”

Mercer did not think this was how Rahil had described it last time; that sometimes seemed to be doing a lot of work for him, and it made Mercer’s heart ache. Here he’d gone weeks refusing to let Rahil bite him, when they could have both gotten a very nice trade out of it the whole time. It seemed stupid in hindsight. Then again, if he’d let Rahil bite him in the beginning, maybe it wouldn’t have felt good to him then . He’d found Rahil a gorgeous specimen to look at, certainly, but he hadn’t trusted him, hadn’t been soothed by his touch or seen the deep secrets in his past, hadn’t witnessed Rahil look into his soul in a way few others ever had.

It was those things that had made the experience breathtaking; they were their own part of the toxin.

But it was also those things that had made Mercer sure from the start that he would never want a hookup, or even a casual date, with anyone, and he’d come this far trying to ignore that fact. “I know what you said about the—the term of endearment”—Mercer couldn’t quite get himself to form the word suddenly—“but are you ever looking for more than quid pro quo?”

Rahil shot the question right back at him. “Are you looking for anything at all?”

Mercer felt he deserved that. He grimaced. “Well, with the right person. I didn’t think so, but I’m less sure now. I’m hoping I’ll figure it out.”

“I’m hoping so, too,” Rahil said, and smiled.

Rahil paused by the railing to watch a party yacht cruise by, and Mercer joined him, feeling inches too close and feet too far from Rahil at the same time. What would it be like to wrap an arm around his back, to squeeze gently against his hip, to settle the side of his face into Rahil’s hair? Incredible, he imagined, better than his dreams. But how would it feel to have done all of that a thousand times, and to know he’d get to do it a thousand more? That was the sensation his heart had once yearned for. One he’d achieved, only to find that a time would always come when he couldn’t do it all again—when all he had was a cooling corpse and an imprint of fangs and a hundred-thousand invisible cuts in his heart.

The thought made him tuck his free arm against the railing and fling his mind out to sea.

The yacht that slowly drifted through the little lake-harbor in front of them seemed to glimmer with the effects of wealth: sparkling champagne and sheer dresses dripping with glitter and shiny silver Rolexes. Even in that perfect celebration though, a single pale-skinned young man with coiffed white-blonde hair sat alone at the back of the boat, his hands clenched in his lap. Alone. Unhappy. Perhaps those two things were unconnected, though. Perhaps this man was simply thinking of his baby at home.

Perhaps—

As Mercer watched, a tall, broad young man who seemed to be the life of the party—his jacket already off and his top button undone—detached himself from a gaggle of appreciators and slipped toward the back of the boat. He tapped the solitary man on the shoulder, laughing and shoving him before pulling him up.

Despite the distance, Mercer swore he could see the shift come over the loner, his meager protests giving way to a looseness, as though the person who’d come for him was a light against the darkness of the world and a shield for its pain. He let his exuberant friend coerce him onto a jet-ski beside the yacht and pressed up against his broad back as they roared away from the party.

Mercer’s heart ached, warm and wanting. He knew he was too invested in the simple emotions of two distant strangers not to be projecting onto them, but he could not deny the way their perceived friendship tugged at his chest. Who did he have, to pull him from the darkened edge of the crowd and whisk him away to better things? Lydia? But he could not even claim that anymore, and really, was it his daughter’s responsibility to ensure that he enjoyed the world? Without her, though, he had no one.

The back of Mercer’s throat caught. He could feel his ice cream dribbling down the side of his cone, over two of his fingers, but he couldn’t seem to go back to it. With Rahil standing at his side, he could feel his own empty chest in a way he’d been avoiding at home, surrounded by photos of his tiny two-person, one-dog family and mementos only they knew the secrets to—Mercer Jacques Bloncourt was alone.

His daughter had been right about him.

He was that lonely whale after all, his voice echoing not into an endless sea but within the prison of his own creation. He was the one sitting at the back of the boat, waiting, waiting, but when someone had finally come for him…

Rahil nudged his shoulder gently into Mercer’s, and it was like coming awake for the first time in years.

“You all right?” Rahil asked, and Mercer couldn’t wrap his head around what the words meant.

He genuinely, desperately, wanted someone in his life, someone permanent and his , someone who knew to look past his stony exterior, who teased him and cared for him and pulled him into the light.

Someone like Rahil.

No, not simply someone like him. But him .

Mercer wanted to spend the rest of his life having this moment over and over again with Rahil Zaman, vampire, people-pleaser, and the only living person in all Mercer’s life who’d managed to find the key to his soul. He wanted Rahil’s fangs in his neck and Rahil’s lips on his skin and a life where that was the routine they both held, glamourless but perfect.

Mercer wanted Rahil’s future, every last day of it.