Page 43 of Inked & Bloodbound
Lily:“Leaving now, will let you know when I get there. x”
Time for another. I tap the phone screen rapidly, adding, then deleting an “x” on the end. One is friendly, right? Two kisses are more serious; it’s practically a declaration.
Lily:“Made it to my stepdad’s. I’m safe. Hope you’re good, wherever you are.”
I hit send, then immediately wonder if it’s pointless. Where do vampires go during the day? Do they sleep, or do they just…exist somewhere in a kind of limbo? The thought of him lying motionless somewhere, hiding from the sun, makes me strangely worried.
The whole drive here, I have been thinking about him and about last night. About how I felt when I saw those sharp fangs in his mouth or when I put the puzzle pieces together and realized what he was. I thought learning that I was able to talk to the dead was a mindfuck, but next to an infatuation with a vampire, that’s nothing.
When he asked me if he’d ever see me again, I told him I didn’t know, but that was a lie. Ineedto see him again. He’s key to finding the truth of what really happened to Mom, but he’s also in my head and under my skin like an itch I’m desperate to scratch.
I toss my phone across the mattress. It’s ridiculous; he’s undead, he’s probably fine. For all I know, he could be lying in a plush, silk-lined coffin with a flatscreen TV stuck to the lid, watchingVanderpump Ruleswhile he waits for the sun to go down.
“Lil, food’s nearly ready!” comes Pat’s voice from the bottom of the stairs, and I drag myself off the bedspread and pad to the kitchen.
The table is already laid when I get downstairs. Pat’s got an oven glove on one hand and a dish towel over his shoulder, dancing through the space to rock classics like a well-coordinated ballerina twirling through a crowd. He busies himself between the oven and the countertop, and when he sees me lurking in the doorway, he motions for me to sit at the head of the table.
“Come, come! Sit!” he sings, bumping the fridge closed with his hip.
“This is too much,” I say, sliding into my old seat at the kitchen table.
It’s the same spot where I used to do homework while he tuned his guitar, the place I sat and cried after my first teenage breakup, where Pat consoled me and jokingly promised to break Josh Waterson’s legs for hurting me. It’s where I grew up, and where I felt normal. We’ve done everything at this table, even eating the occasional meal.
I laugh. “I’d be totally happy eating it off a tray in front of the TV.”
He drops a hot dish of buttered green beans next to the ketchup beside me and snorts. “Don’t be daft, Lils! You’re never home, and you know I like to make a fuss of you. Will you have bread?”
“Sure,” I say.
There’s truly no place like home. Perhaps it’s the Irish in him, but since I was young, Pat has insisted on serving a plate of brown buttered bread with almost every meal. Soup, gravy, pasta—you name it, and Pat’s probably spread it on a piece of bread, folded it in half, and declared it a meal in itself.
“What are we having, then?” I ask, picking up a piece of bread and nibbling the crusts.
The air smells of thick gravy and onions, so I already know what’s coming. Mom’s favorite. My favorite. The meal he’d make for us after every bad day or celebration. Sometimes he’d make it just because it was a Wednesday.
“Cottage pie,” he announces proudly, with his hands on his hips. “I thought since it’s a special occasion and all.”
“Sounds perfect.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, the way we often did. It feels like a warm hug. Pat never felt the need to fill every moment with chatter, one of the things that made living with him so peaceful after years of Mom’s chaotic energy.
“How’s life then, Lil’? Any new lads I need to worry about? You send them to me if they’re giving you trouble.”
I push a forkful of potatoes into my mouth, buying time. I’ve never liked lying, especially to Pat, so I’m not sure how I do this.
Oh yeah, sure, there’s just one, Pat. He’s a nice guy, very attractive, big dick from what I can tell from grinding on it. He’s Italian but doesn’t like to talk about it for some reason. He’s got incredible green eyes that only occasionally glow in the dark. He’s oddly kind, and we had a chance encounter at a tattoo shop where he helped me discover my deep-rooted psychic abilities, which in turn stopped me from wanting to kill myself because the pain of suppressing them was becoming unbearable, so I quite literally owe him my life. Oh, and by the way, he’s undead. A vampire. That’s right. He drinks blood to sustain himself. Whose blood? No idea. It didn’t seem polite to ask. Will he drink mine? I hope not, but also, I kinda hope he does.
Yeah, I don’t think that’ll fly, so I settle for a half-truth instead and hope he doesn’t pry for details. “I met someone. We’re just friends right now, but I think maybe it could grow into something more.” Pat’s head is tilted, listening intently, and my cheeks flush. “Anyway, we’ll have to see. He’s nice. He’s a tattoo artist. He did my tattoo, the one I got for Mom.”
Pat studies me over the top of his tortoiseshell glasses. “A tattoo?”
A tingle of fear creeps up my chest. I’m almost thirty for fuck’s sake, but Pat has that disapproving look on his face, and suddenly I’m sixteen years old and getting scolded for staying out past curfew, coming home late, and smelling of weed because I was too busy making out with skater boys to get a ride home.
I drag the confession out slowly, watching his reaction. “Yeah. It was an impulse thing, but it’s very discreet, honest. I got laurel leaves, one for each year I knew her. Nowhere visible, just for me.” I show him a picture of the design on my phone.
His narrow eyes focus and then soften as he lets out a deep exhale of relief. “She’d love that, you know that? She really would.”
“I know.” I seize the opportunity to play detective, picking at the edges of a piece of bread while I avoid his eyes. “Mom had tattoos, didn’t she?”