Monday, 12 October 2009
03:53:45 PM (GMT)
CHAPTER ONE--You Look Young for Someone So Old
"I'm coming!" I shout as the doorbell rings for about the hundreth-thousandth
time. Mentally, I'm cursing out whoever's bright idea it was for girls to dress up so
fancily when going out to eat. (I mean, the clothes are just going to get dirty when
I eat and if I was in jeans and flip-flop then at least I'd be able to walk!)
I passed my mom mother in the hall as I run toward the stairs. She has this
sleepy-eyed look on her face which probably means she has been hitting the booze
again. But I'm too excited to really care, and, besides, that doorbell is just
continuing on now like someone was leaning against the button, holding it down.
"Where-er yooo goin'?" she slurs as I stumble past. "Wat chit, grrl, yooo
nearlee fell on me."
"Get the door. Gotta date. Say I love'd you but I don't like to lie." She just
stares numbly at my face, swaying side to side. For a moment, I think she would fall
down right there in the middle of the hall.
Hurriedly, I brush my shoulder-length brown hair out of my face. It had fallen
down when I'd run into the 'rent. Shaking it back, I trip and stumble my way clumsily
down the staircase. My wardrobe is not helping my natural clutziness as I fight to
natigate my way to the ground floor and to the door where my prince charming
Maybe it's him! Maybe it's him! Oh, God, I hope it's him! I think as I
rush to the door, throwing it open haphazardley. "Oh," I say in an imediately
disappointed voice, "it's you."
"Don't look so excited, Darling. You say that like you were expecting someone
else to come knocking at your door." The guy standing in my doorway smiles. He leans
around me to glance inside the house. "I hope you aren't looking for that boy who was
here earlier, Emmie Dearest. I think he may have been waylaid by a certain someone
who may have informed the boy that you, my love, are already taken. Oh, and by
the way, sweet, I love the dress. Very desperate." The smile widens, but he's still
being careful about it.
I frown, and resist the urge to hide behind a blanket. The tight black dress had
spaghetti-straps, was half-way down my thighs, and made it hard to breath. The
strappy heels had me swaying even when standing still and my reddish-brown hair is my
only protection, falling in my face as it always does. I blow at it, which only makes
fall farther in front of my eyes. "What did you do to Robert, James?" I ask him,
putting as much menace in the sentence as I can possibly muster towards a guy so drop
dead gorgeous as James Whittaker. I admit, being hot bought him off a lot of pain.
James smiles still wider, running a hand through his long white hair. Yes, white
hair. As white as his snow-polished skin and arching eyebrows and long, fluttering
lashes that I swear that boy could dust with and his white slacks and dress
shirt which has the first few buttons undone showing off his muscular and sexy
collarbone and...and I most certainly not ogling his chest. Nuh-uh. No way. I
look away and notice his pretty blue eyes watching mine, dancing because he knows I
was checking him out--that is, he thinks I was checking him out, but I totally
wasn't, but don't try telling that to him, the egocentric loon. His eyes are bright
blue, shining and glittering and not at all mesmerizing.
"I didn't do anything to Robert, honey. Not that he didn't have certain plans
for you, though. Speaking of you, why do you keep staring at my chest, darling? I
didn't realize I was showing so much of it as to catch you off-guard," James says
with the kind of flourish you can only get from being born to a French lady and an
English gentleman in the seventeenth century. Which, you know, is ironic. Very ironic
considering that happens to describe him very well.
My stalker is a vampire.
On the upside of that, he can't crawl into my room and watch me as I sleep
planning our wedding (blah!) as he does so. Forget Stephenie Meyer, vampires need to
be invited inside. So, he can only sit on my window and watch me sleep as he plans
our wedding. (Blah!) He is allergic to garlic so if I have a big meal of, say,
spaghetti, he'll keep his distance and tell me I have bad breath. Oh, and I get a
reprieve on Sundays. Not because I go to church (which I try to) but because he does.
Yeah, in the 1600's they were all really devote. He wears a cross a round his neck
and everything. (Hint, hint, wink wink, crosses don't hurt him.)
On the downside, no going outside. Forget waiting for dark, I was lucky enough
to catch the attention of one of the few 'Day Vampires" as James says. He is just as
strong in the day as at night. Stronger, actually, I think. If I set one foot
outside, he's on me like Peppy LePu on a cat painted black. He makes sure any and all
dates I have are 'taken care of' so that I never actually see them. He has no
scruples jumping from window to window in light speed to keep me in sight, and, oh,
did I mention he is crazy overprotective? Not cool if you are a normal plain Jane
like most people, but I happen to be a full blooded (haha blooded) adrenaline junkie.
Me, inside, and being protected, well, that is hardly the way to keep me happy. Or
sane. Or non-homicidal. Oh, and he heals really ultra super fast. No matter what I
hit him with. Pillow, stuffed rabbit, TV remote, chair, mattress, my neighbor's
dog--nothing. Not a scar. Might have helped if they had a pitbull instead of a
chihuahua, but still.
"I am not staring at your chest," I snap at him, just as I pull my eyes away
from the silver chain the cross hangs on. "And I know he had plans for me. We had a
date, remember? Whoa!" I wobble on the heels and tumble outside the treshold. James
catches me instantly and uses his hold on my upper body to pull my legs into the open
where he can get to them. "Let me go!" I stuggle but to no fruition. His grip is
tighter than a straight jacket.
"Careful, sweet," James warns me. "What is you would have fallen inside
the house? I would never have been able to catch you!"
"Some people think thats a good thing," I huff at him. Still struggling. Still
snuggled tightly against some very...nice...chest...muscles. It feels so good--I mean
bad! Bad, bad! These shivers are from hatred, not enjoyment! I absolutely do NOT
think James Lee Whittaker is sexy...I think he's drop-dead-down-right gorgeous. Wait,
stop this, Emma, you don't like him! Distraction time. "What did you do to Robert?"
James sighs, pulling me closer. "I got rid of him. Told him you were taken. So
stake me. You should have seen it--about a pound of crack in the backseat, and he
just wanted..." he trails off suddenly, and this is one of the times I can tell he
really does love me and doesn't want to hurt me. It's kinda sweet and really sexy but
I sigh. "I know what he 'just wanted', James. Did you ever think that maybe I
could have 'just wanted' that too?"
James blows through his nose dubiously. "Oh please, Emmie," he says wryly, "I've
only met you in late May and I know that isn't possible. You might do crazy things,
like, for instance, jump off of a real bridge into a real river that
was really moving with no life jacket or bungee cord whatsoever but you
are not the type to jump into bed."
I raise my eyebrows. "Oh? And what was I supposed to jump into? A fake river
that was falsely moving? Where do you find that? And anyway, how would you know about
He levels a glance at me. "Honey, I have been following you for months now. Cut
me some slack, please. I do realize things."
"Well, you don't mess with things."
"No. You don't."
Last edited: 4 January 2010