CHAPTER 7
Let’s repeat that, because it’s really important: when his lips touched mine, he captured me forever.
I know now that I should have said no. I should have gone home, called Jenny, rewatched the first season of Buffy on DVD. Something. Anything.
But Stephen Wills . . .
The Stephen Wills . . .
And he wanted to go out with me. Me! That perfect specimen of a guy, and he wanted to spend a few hours on a blanket drinking beer with me. (Yeah, I know. Pathetic, huh? But what can I say? I was awed. I was amazed. I was drop-dead, desperately in lust.)
And have I mentioned that his eyes are to die for?
No, really. They’re to die for. And I mean that literally.
At the time, though, I wasn’t thinking literally. Instead, I was all about metaphors. The coo of doves. The crash of waves. And awesome, blow-you-away, awe-inspiring fireworks.
Not that we started with fireworks. We started with beer. Which I pretended to drink. It’s not that I never drink; it’s just that I don’t like beer. And I don’t like being drunk. I tend to puke my guts up when I drink, and barf face is so not a good look for me.
As the others started passing around slices of pizza, Stephen led me by the hand back behind the bleachers to a little area with a blanket and an ice chest. Before we disappeared from view, I saw Tamara shoot me a look that could freeze hell, but I just smiled sweetly and tried to keep my knees from shaking.
Oh. My. God. Seduction city.
“Um, aren’t we going to have some pizza?” How was that for smooth? I mean, is it any wonder that guys aren’t throwing themselves at my feet? I’m such a clueless dork.
“We could have pizza,” Stephen said. “But I’m wondering why you haven’t touched your beer.”
“Oh. Um.” Well, heck. I was hoping he wouldn’t notice that.
“Maybe you’d like this better,” he said, then opened the ice chest and pulled out a bottle of tomato juice along with another, smaller bottle. Those, he followed up with a frosty bottle of vodka. “A little birdie told me you like Bloody Marys.”
Okay, now that was really weird. Because I do like Bloody Marys. (Well, mostly I like the spiced tomato juice. The less vodka the better.)
“Oh. Well. Um. I don’t know.” After all, vodka is vodka. And I had a feeling I should be keeping my head on straight around Stephen Wills.
“Come on, Elizabeth,” he teased, shaking the smaller bottle. “It’s my secret recipe.”
“Um. I . . . okay.” And before you shout that I’m a total pushover, my plan was to just, you know, sip it. I definitely wasn’t going to drink it. And I very most definitely wasn’t getting drunk. Because that would be stupid. And I’m not stupid.
Right? Right.
Or, as it turned out, wrong. But I didn’t know that then. And the best-laid plans and all that . . .
Anyway, he mixed me the drink, then handed it to me. The tomato juice was a dark red, all the more in the dim light. I could smell the acidic tomatoeyness along with the vodka and spices. Something else, too, that I couldn’t quite place, even though the scent seemed very familiar somehow.
Stephen made one for himself, too, and then he held out his glass. “To you,” he said. “You’re going to save our butts, you know.”
“Our butts? What does the football team care if the cheerleaders win some competition?”
He just grinned. “Team spirit, Elizabeth. Now drink.” I tasted mine tentatively, planning to only drink a little. I took one swallow, then another. Then another.
That’s it, I told myself. Stop now.
My mouth, however, wasn’t listening. Because the drink tasted fabulous. And it was making me feel . . . good? Not so much good as comfortable. Like maybe it wasn’t so weird that Stephen wanted me under the bleachers. Like maybe I did have stuff to say and maybe I was pretty and maybe there wasn’t any reason except for pure oversight that I’d gone three years being Miss Not At All Popular.
I don’t know how, but when I looked down, Stephen was taking the empty glass from me, and I noticed that his glass was still full. “Slow down there, cowboy,” he said. “That’s powerful stuff.”
I giggled. Honestly. I mean, if that’s not a clue I wasn’t entirely myself, I don’t know what is. But I actually giggled. Worse, I didn’t even mind.
“So, um, have you got anything to munch on?” Because I had the tiniest bit of presence of mind to know that I needed food. “Maybe some of that pizza?” I turned and looked toward the field. I couldn’t see Tamara and crew anymore, but I could still remember the pizza. It sounded really good right then . . .
“Actually,” Stephen said. “I’ve got something else to nibble on.” He dropped his backpack to the ground, then pulled out a blanket.
“Oh.” I waited for him to pull out sandwiches or something. Nothing. “Um, what?”
He sat, and then gestured for me to join him. “You.”
Oh. My. God.
Let me repeat: Oh. My. God.
“I—” His laugh stopped me. “What?”
He took my hand and tugged me down beside him. “Don’t tell me that innocent act you’ve got going is real.”
I blinked at him, confused. Honestly, if I reacted this way every time some guy showed an interest in me, I’d be dateless and virginal until I was twenty-seven! And since that sounded like way too long to wait, I took a deep breath and tried to act like, well, like a cheerleader. I mean, if Tamara could suck his neck, the least I could do was not act like a scared little seventh-grader. Right? Right.
“Elizabeth?” he prodded, and I realized that in psyching myself up, I’d also completely shut myself down.
“Right. Sorry. I think the drink went to my head.”
“Like I said,” he said. “Innocent.”
I bristled. “No. Well, okay, yes. But only from a practical standpoint. Philosophically, I’m not innocent at all.” I have no idea what I meant by that, but it must have sounded good, because suddenly Stephen was laughing. And then he was moving. And then his leg brushed mine.
And then I started thinking that practical experience sounded a whole heck of a lot better than philosophical experience. Especially when the brush of his leg was burning a hole through my jeans and all I wanted to do was stop thinking and lose myself in this moment.
Because—just in case you forgot—this moment was a moment with Stephen Wills. Stephen. Wills. Under the bleachers. At night. With alcohol.
You do the math. I sure couldn’t, since my ability to do math entirely evaporated when I felt his lips on my ear. “You taste good, Elizabeth,” he said.
I made a small noise. Then I tried again. “Most people call me Beth.”
“I’m not most people, now am I?”
No, he most definitely wasn’t.
Warning bells clattered in my head. What was I thinking? I felt drunk, but I’d only had one Bloody Mary. Honestly, I hadn’t realized I was such a lightweight.
“I don’t feel so good,” I said. And even as I spoke, I started feeling worse and worse.
“You’re just light-headed,” he said.
That was the truth.
“I’ll make you feel better,” he added. And then, before I could protest, I found myself curled up against him, and his palm was cupped over my breast, and I swear the only thought that went through my mind was that he was going to be sorely disappointed. Because I’m barely an A cup on the best of days. But when my boobs are all squished down in the sports bra I was wearing, there’s really nothing up there at all. At least nothing any guy could get a grip on. Except . . .
Except now my head started swimming in a totally different way. Because Stephen had his hand on my chest and it felt really . . . nice. And even though I knew I should push him away—tell him to slow down and let me catch my breath—my mouth wasn’t cooperating and the only sound that came from my lips was a little sigh.
What can I say? It felt really good. And that’s only first base, right? Or maybe second. I’m not sure. But it wasn’t like he was hitting a home run. I could get control of myself before he tried anything like that. Couldn’t I?
A few seconds later, I wasn’t so sure. Because his mouth was on mine, and it felt so soft and warm and nice. And I felt soft and warm and nice. All gooey and hot, like I could just melt right there.
I felt lost, hypnotized. Heck, I felt drunk. Drunk on lust and on Stephen’s kisses. And then—oh my gosh!—he moved from my lips to my neck.
And when he started to nibble on my neck, this wave of warm gooeyness crashed over me. A wet warmth drenched my neck, and Stephen’s little moans and slurping noises rang in my ears. The scent of copper filled my nose and my head started spinning even more. Wow. I’d never thought anything like this could happen to me. Me. Beth Frasier, Waterloo’s resident smart girl.
And as I thought about that—how odd it was, I mean—it struck me that it really was weird. Why would Stephen want me? Why would any of them? Why was I so light-headed? And why couldn’t I move my arms?
And why was my heart—which had been thumping so hard and fast under Stephen’s sweet ministrations—suddenly pounding in my ears at a decidedly slower tempo?
I didn’t know, but all of a sudden I knew something was wrong. I tried to scream, really I did. But it was too late. Honestly, it was too late for anything at all.
You see, Stephen Wills killed me that night. The vampire’s kiss, they call it. He sucked my soul in with those eyes, and then his teeth caught my neck and sucked me dry.