Текст книги "Cry wolf"

Автор книги: Jay Ellison

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

sexually ravenous billionaire? I mean, could I really go wrong?

I said all that to Izzy—more or less—and finally she seemed to calm down.

She took a deep breath and her posture relaxed. “You know this could all go terribly wrong, right?”

“How could it go wrong? It’s a temporary arrangement. According to Devon, I only have to serve as a

courtier for a month. Piece of cake.”

“That’s just it, Stef,” she said somewhat sadly. “You’ll have to be with the same guy for one whole

month.”

I threw my hands up. “Come on. You make me sound like some slut.”

“Stef, you know I love you,” she said as she reached for the door, “which is why I’m saying this. You’re a

great guy, and my best friend in the whole world, but you wouldn’t know monogamy if it fell out of the

sky, landed on that beautiful face of yours, and started to wiggle.”

***

Read an excerpt from The Dollhouse Society: Felix by Eden Myles:

I stood on the fringes of the crowd and watched the gentleman secure his courtesan to the post of the bed.

She was naked excerpt for a feathered owl mask and he was securing her wrists to the bedpost with a

number of long, colorful silk scarves, stopping periodically to run the pads of his fingers up and down her

thighs and whisper intimately in her ear. She moaned and rolled her head back, and he nested one hand

into her long, bright red hair and yanked her head back until the pain made her gasp and her eyes fluttered

with pure, unadulterated lust.

He kissed the back of her neck, moved to the chair where a long, rattan cane waited. He snatched it up and

returned to her side, rubbing the hard wood against her back and ass until she moaned again. She closed

her eyes and hugged the bedpost. She knew what was coming.

The first crack of the cane against her bare ass made me jump almost out of my skin, it was so loud and

unexpected. Jesus, Joseph and Mary…

I was surrounded by more than a hundred well-dressed strangers, all of them focused on the gentleman

and his courtesan’s play, and almost everyone in the room wore masks, myself included. Even so, I was

finding it very difficult to “hide in plain sight,” as it were. I knew the other gentlemen and courtesans and

courtiers gathered around me thought I was with someone—I kept shuffling up beside various men in a

kind of incognito dance of invisibility, and I was sure no one had caught on—but I kept thinking someone

was looking at me, maybe noting that my “gentleman” seemed to keep changing over the course of the

evening. Maybe they noticed, or maybe I was just feeling paranoid.

I had never been undercover before.

Normally, I was good at disappearing in a crowded room—mask or no mask. The baby fat stubbornly

clinging to my curves made me look younger than twenty-two, and with my plain brown bob of hair, grey

eyes, and freckled, girl-next-door looks, I could usually pull off looking like everyone and no one. It was

inevitable I should go into journalism and do this undercover gig. It was either that or the FBI, I figured.

Thwack!

I jumped again and watched the beautiful, elegant courtesan writhe and gasp against the bedpost. She was

gorgeous, glamorous in a way I could never pull off, and she seemed to be enjoying herself. But I had no

idea why men and women would want to subject themselves to this type of public humiliation.

I felt someone large moved up behind me and I grounded myself and fiddled with my black feathered

ostrich mask as the gentleman performing for the crowd landed yet another expertly-delivered blow

against his courtesan’s pert ass, a little bit below the first blow. I swore I could feel the vibration of the

caning in my own flesh, and there was a slickness of the folds between my legs that made me

uncomfortable. The whole great room at the center of the Dollhouse smelled like sex and roses. The

hundreds of portraits and erotic photographs covering the walls seem to look down upon the play with

enormous approval.

The man standing behind me made a sound halfway between a snort and a harrumph. I suddenly thought of

that old Sesame Street song: One of these things is not like the others. Could he sense I was one of those

things? That I didn’t belong here?

It’s just your imagination, Felix, I told myself. Relax. The more relaxed, worldly and faintly bored you

act, the better you’ll fit into this group!

But it was hard to relax in this atmosphere. You would have thought I was behind enemy lines, like

Walter Cronkite covering the Vietnam War. As a journalist—well, okay, a journalist-in-training—I

wasn’t anyone’s courtesan and I sure as hell didn’t belong here tonight, watching this gentleman and his

courtesan play.

The assignment in my journalist class said we were to write an impartial article on a controversial

subject we had no previous knowledge about. We were to research it extensively from the ground up and

that it would decide our grade. The other students had chosen subjects like cloning animals, abortion,

stem cell research, and gay marriage. I, being the overachiever I was, wanted something more esoteric.

I’d heard rumors about the Society all over the college where I was studying journalism. At first, I’d

thought it was one of those urban legends, like losing a kidney after getting a roofie, but since I was

studying to be the type of crack reporter who eventually won the Pulitzer, I knew I had to learn more. I

started digging.

At first, everything I found came up dry bones. Rumors, vague whispers, some ancient documents in the

school vaults written during the Colonial Period. None of it concrete. But eventually it led me to some

journals kept by the city elders around the early part of the Seventeenth Century, when New York City

was little more than a collection of ambitious Dutch, Irish and English immigrants. Eventually I found a

solid lead in the form of a man named Tiberius Sloan, a British importer and ex-soldier who’d taken to

writing extensively about his and his wife’s travels around the world. He had included very detailed

information on “the Society,” as he called it, an exclusive collection of powerful New York businessmen

who kept “courtesans,” or paid companions.

Naturally, I was intrigued. An ancient sex trade taking place in Colonial New York, right under the noses

of its citizens? You bet I would be.

A few more trips to various libraries and some visits to underground clubs proved useful. The Society

was still around, I discovered, nearly four hundred years after it had been established, and there were still

regular monthly meetings at this old, secluded colonial on Long Island. The hard part would be getting

inside, getting the exclusive. But if journalism teaches you anything, it’s how to work the angles.

Tonight I’d gotten in dressed as a server before quickly ditching my costume for the borrowed evening

gown I’d brought along. Everyone was wearing masks—even the courtesan presently bound to the

bedpost—so that made things even easier. I could be anyone’s courtesan. I just needed to act the part and

stop fidgeting and being so nervous.

Yeah, right.

“Are you enjoying the show?” A soft, course male voice said low in my ear. The way he said it made it

clear the words for my ears alone, and the sound sent a flush of gooseflesh crawling down my back.

I stood stock still and said, “It’s very…interesting.”

“What do you find interesting about it?”

The man was standing very close, almost on my heels. His was big, and his presence made my nerves

jangle. His voice had a strange, alternating inflection, the clipped briskness of an English accent with

something else underneath, something foreign and exotic. I thought about moving away, but I was already

on the group’s fringe. If I moved forward, I would be deeper in the crowd. If I moved back, I would

literally be stepping into his arms. I took a deep breath to calm my flitting heart and half-panicked

thoughts and stayed where I was. “They’re very pretty together,” I said lamely.

The man behind me put his big hands on my shoulders. The scent of his cologne—light, breezy, foreign,

incredibly masculine—enveloped me. I could literally feel the adrenals picking up in my blood. He put

his mouth very close to my ear, so close I could almost sense the roughness of his chin, and said, “I should

put you over my knee and spank you for what you’ve done, my dear. You don’t belong here.”

My heart seemed to stick in my chest. Speaking was impossible. Moving was a fantasy. I shivered

instead, and he responded to that and tightened his grip on my shoulders as if afraid I might bound away

like a frightened rabbit.

“Give me one good reason why I should not alert everyone here as to who you are?”

I realized I had one of two choices—I could scream bloody murder and alert everyone that I was an

unwanted guest, or I could try and negotiate with the brute standing behind me, ready to unmask me,

figuratively speaking, for the pleasure of the Society. After I got my panic swallowed down to a

manageable level, I whispered in a shaky voice, “What…what do you want with me?”

“Come with me,” he said. His big hand enveloped my elbow, his grip powerful enough to make me wince

and prove he meant business as he turned me around. A part of me wanted to resist, to fight him, but I had

this fantasy of being dragged, kicking and screaming, away. I wasn’t sure I could deal with the humiliation

of that anymore than I could deal with the idea of being tied up and caned in public for the delight of some

of the most powerful men in New York.

The gentleman dragged me toward one of the playrooms. As I looked up to see what breed of man had

captured me, I wondered if screaming wouldn’t have perhaps been the smarter thing to do.

***

Read an excerpt from Blood & Lace (Blackstone Hall #1) by Eden Myles:

Chapter I

As we passed a dense forest of fine, old oaks on our way to Blackstone Hall, I leaned out the window of

our coach and noticed that many of the trees were tall and proud, with strong limbs, good for climbing.

My father, seated on the cushioned bench beside me, said, “Marie. You mustn’t.”

“Mustn’t what, Father?” I asked innocently, biting back a grin. I didn’t turn to look at him, lest he see my

secret smile.

“Climb trees or do anything which might be construed as unladylike.” He took my hand and squeezed.

“You’re almost twenty years old, girl. I’m counting on you to be on your best court behavior.”

“Yes, Father.”

The coach jostled along the uneven road, throwing us back against the braces, but my father’s coach was

so luxurious that the padded velvet seats made the ride—almost seven hours thus far—more than

bearable.

“We shall be there shortly, my dear,” Father said as if concerned I might be losing patience.

I wasn’t. I more than enjoyed watching the landscape drifting by, the deep, old forests—it was so

different than the colder, craggier Northlands where our estate resided. There the trees grew short and

farther apart, the people were brutish and covered year-round in animal furs, and the horses shaggy. There

were mountain orcs that were a constant threat to my father’s people, but I hadn’t seen such creatures

here. I wondered if there were Fae in these forests. “No more than an hour yet,” he added.

“Yes, Father.” Once more, I leaned out the window of the coach, seeking out both the familiar and

unfamiliar in this strange land.

Where we lived, in the lands several hundred ticks to the north, the squatty pines shivered in the heavy

snows. The people were fair-haired and blue-eyed like my father (except for the gypsies who regularly

passed through) and there were still a few remaining ice dragons slumbering deep within cairns in the

earth. On a cold morning one could stand on a balcony and spot their breath pluming up through small

cracks in the earth.

But I’d heard that Lord Elric Rothschild’s lands were warmer, the oaks and elms soaring and rotund,

spreading their lush green boughs to the heavens like supplicating hands. I’d heard there were dwarves

and tall, slender people of a swarthier complexion here. Food was bountiful, war scarce, and the people

more congenial and trustworthy. Stone dragons still occasionally circled the skies. It was a pretty land,

green and fecund, with autumn bleeding through the trees in vibrant shades of yellow and fiery orange,

though we had not encountered many villagers along the way so I could not yet ascertain the friendliness

of the local inhabitants.

I did not blame the villagers for hiding. Though beautiful, it was said these were perilous lands,

dangerous for those on foot, particularly now, with the evil of a corrupt Vargr on the loose—a werewolf

who kills for its own pleasure.

I had never seen a Vargr, either dead or alive, but stories abounded in our own realm of such things. Men

who became wolves to placate their own nefarious hungers. It gave me something of a delicious shiver to

think of it, for in our lands, there were no more werewolves, evil or otherwise. They had all been hunted

to extinction decades before I had ever been born. I wondered if I would see one during our stay at

Blackstone Hall.

I admit I sighed to think of it. Adventure. The only adventure I had ever really known past childhood

games was in my father’s libraries. A wealthy man who had made his fortune in shipping, he had a

thousand books spanning every possible subject: science, alchemy, romance, chivalrous adventures with

knights and pirates. I swore I had read them all at least twice. Growing up, reading about fierce warriors,

and pretending I was one among their number, had been my two great passions in life.

Less than hour later, I saw “the Hall,” (as the locals called it), standing mistily upon its distant rock for

the first time, its highest spires and flapping banners rising far above the summit of the land. Even from

this great distance, Blackstone Hall sprawled large enough, and certainly grand enough, to house a king or

emperor.

It had been built in a time that no one remembered by the hands of the Fae Folk, according to folklore. It

was said the King of the Fae built the great keep for his Queen and court, and he had done so out of pure,

shining white stone carved from his mother the moon. But some great tragedy had occurred there, and the

Queen of the Fae fell dead, a dagger in her heart, and as her sacred blood spilled upon the floor of the

Hall, it turned all the stones in the structure black. Or that was the story, anyway.

No one knew who had really built it, or why. According to Father, only the Rothschilds had occupied it in

the last few hundred years after their ancestor, the fierce and bloodthirsty warlord Alaric Rothschild, had

conquered the land and set his flag upon the highest turret.

As we rumbled nearer, I could just make out the black banner sinister with the white dragon upon it, the

sign of Rothschild house. Father had stayed here at Lord Rothschild’s court as a child when Elric’s own

father had invited him here visiting, and he had many tales to tell of it.

As we crossed the spindly bridge that spanned a yawning and seemingly bottomless chasm on our last leg

of the journey to our destination, I marveled at the vast, rambling darkness of it—the chipped, battleweary

ramparts and battlements, the craggy side chapels and gatehouse. The outer walls of the Hall stood

five hundred feet high, with a tall, pinnacle tower twice that size rising from the center of the courtyard,

enshrouded by a yellowish, poisonous-looking mist.

The black-as-soot flagstone of which the Hall was constructed made me think of some burned leviathan of

a dragon, the spines of its carcass shimmering high in the heavens. The few windows on display were of

colored glass, giving the place the brooding look of an abandoned monastery. The land surrounding the

hall was different than the countryside—jagged and strangely lifeless, with virtually no trees and only

patches of melting snow and cold, churned mud, which made crossing the vast, arched bridge treacherous

and slow-going.

The sun was beginning to set by the time we approached the portcullis, and as we rode under the

gatehouse, I marveled at the enormous, black stone dragons and gargoyles crouching overhead, seeming to

watch us with their cruel, idiot stone eyes.

Then we were past the stone sentinels, the gatehouse and attached livery, and coming out in the courtyard

where that mysterious tower stood in the most awkward of places, taking up at least half the space. It rose

up like a black finger toward heaven, making my neck crick in my attempt to find the top.

My father saw me looking and said, “A wizard’s tower, my dear. Or, at least, that’s what they used to call

them.”

“Is it really?”

“The Rothschilds have long been dabblers in the Craft.” He inclined his head. “Not unlike yourself. In

fact, I hear that Elric Rothschild is quite the magical adept, as well as being young and comely of face…”

“Come now, Father,” I laughed a little nervously to cut him off. “Your attempts at matchmaking are sorry

at best, and desperate at worst.”

He took my hand. “Would it be so very despicable to find yourself in a state of marriage, Marie? I shan’t

live forever, and you will need the protection after me.”

“I hardly despise marriage, you know that. But you also know about my standards. He must be strong and

sure of himself, a warrior and a protector.” I smiled at my father. “Fear not. I shall meet him one day.”

“Marie,” he chided gently. “The man you seek exists only in books of romance.”

I laughed even thought I truly did believe he existed! Once, long ago, I cast a spell upon a pond of water

near our estate. A water nymph had answered my summons and had told me my one true mate was out

there in the world, waiting as I was, and that I would meet him one day. He would be a powerful warrior,

and a protector to me. I hadn’t stopped looking since!

As we crossed the courtyard I spotted several house servants waiting for us, lanterns held aloft to ward

off the quickly descending dark. They swept forward to greet us, enshrouded in their long, fur-lined

cloaks. Quickly they pulled open the coach, footed us down, efficiently and with little ceremony.

“We should hurry, Lord Belmont,” one of the servants told my father as they rushed us toward a pair of

huge, iron-banded doors. “Night has already fallen and these are not lands to be about in.”

“Yes, of course,” my father answered.

I had only time to gather my gown and cloak before a particularly stout man shoved me along. His strength

and determination surprised me. I was a tall, hardy woman like my gypsy mother. There was meat on my

bones and I was not so easily moved. My legs had gone all pins and needles during the long ride, and my

knees all but buckled as we dashed into the hall as thought the hounds of hell were nipping at our heels.

Only when we were safely inside the cold, torch-lit corridor, the iron-banded oaken door securely locked

behind us, did the men finally relax and offer up the proper bows and courtesies that our respective ranks

demanded. Then we were ushered down the cold, swarthy corridor to the end, where a rough-hewn, stone

staircase spiraled upward into darkness.

We’d be staying in one of several guest towers, and the idea excited me. I wondered how much of the

Low Country we could see from our tower windows.

The light of the men’s lanterns had pushed back the darkness only feebly, but I immediately recognized a

broad, looming shadow standing at the end of the corridor, near the stairwell. It took me a few moments to

recognized it as Lord Simon Devereux, and only because my father had given me sufficient warning in

advance to beware the lord and his questionable past and pedigree.

Lord Devereux was an ally of Lord Rothschild’s, a sort of wandering mercenary soldier who fought, it

was said, for money rather than honor. He did not come from these lands, but he had fought beside his

friend Rothschild in many campaigns in the Darklands to the far west. Rothschild now employed him as

Captain of the Guard in the Hall. He carried no lantern, but then, he seemed quite at home in the dark and

probably knew his way around the Hall rather well by now.

He was a large, lean, powerfully-built man at the height of his youth and strength, his jet black hair cut just

a hair too long at his collar to be fashionable and swept somewhat haphazardly away from his face, which

was as sharp as a blade. He looked like a formidable warrior, and his face bore the old, pale scars of his

many campaigns. He had strong cheekbones, winter-pale eyes, and a slight underbite that made me think

of stubborn and ruthless men.

The moment he looked upon me, I felt my heart quicken in my chest. He bore a hunter’s look about him,

wary and always watching, and unlike the evening finery of the servants and footmen who had seen us in,

he wore an oiled oxhide jerkin over a doublet, knee-high equestrian boots with big buckles, and a heavy

cloak, like a man who had only just recently returned from the battlefield. A thick belt crossed his chest

from shoulder to hip, and slotted into the belt were a number of finely forged knives. His cloak, when we

drew close enough for our lantern light to fall upon it, revealed itself to be as dark and sleek as his hair. I

thought it might be forged of wolf fur.

He watched us with those pale, silvery eyes as we approached. He did not move at first, but I sensed a

quivering readiness about him, and his thickly muscled limbs looked poised in a way that made him seem

to want to spring, or perhaps to reach for the dirk at his hip. I imagined he’d made quite a magnificent

warrior in his day.

“Lord Devereux,” my father said congenially as we came upon him. “It’s good to see you again.”

Lord Devereux’s nostrils flared briefly, like an animal sensing a dangerous lie, but then he smirked in

return. Perhaps he knew my father had little use for mercenaries. “Lord Belmont. It’s been too long,” he

said in a low, whispery voice that seemed to rumble from deep within his broad chest.

He and my father exchanged brief, stilted bows before Father put his hands protectively upon my

shoulders and said, “My daughter, Lady Marie.” The tone of his voice indicated that this was a formality

not to his liking and that Devereux was to look but not touch.

Devereux fixed those icy grey eyes on me in challenge and I swallowed against the lurching heart in my

chest that was trying desperately to crawl up into my throat. I wasn’t short by anyone’s standards, but the

man still managed to loom over me in a way that could be construed as either threatening or comforting,

depending on his intentions.

I was certain many men feared Devereux. Still, I had never been the type of girl to be cowed by the boys

of my village and so stood up straighter in the presence of this human wall of a man, throwing my

shoulders back proudly and eyeing him with as much cool indifference as I could muster. Let him see I

had no fear of him, or anyone.

A corner of Devereux’s mouth quirked up as if he were impressed by my gumption. The musky smell of

his black wolf fur cloak made my head swim as he drew close enough to take my hand and brush his

surprisingly warm lips just below my knuckles.

“Lady Marie,” he said, and I noticed for a man who had supposedly lived a mercenary lifestyle (at least

according to my Father) he had beautifully white and powerful-looking teeth. Too often, the men in our

own lands came back from Darkland battles dissipated and ill, with rot upon their skin and teeth and the

horrors of war firmly lodged in their frightened eyes, but Lord Devereux looked positively untouched by

his campaigns.

I was about to ask him about his battles when my Father interrupted. “Marie, would you be good enough

to go up to your quarters now and prepare for dinner?”

I hated the way my father tried to instruct me as if I were a little girl! Was I not the reason we were here

in the first place? It was for my aid that Lord Rothschild had personally requested our presence, not my

father. I stubbornly raised my chin to him. “Actually, I was hoping to meet our host, Lord Rothschild…?”

“I’m afraid Elric is indisposed until nightfall and cannot greet you personally at the moment,” Devereux

interrupted, “which is why he sent me to make certain you are well taken care of.”

I immediately turned to look at him and recognized some form of duplicity in his expression. Not an

outright lie, perhaps, but there was something left unspoken. Call it a gift from my gypsy mother. I could

feel when someone was lying to me in some way. Devereux was lying now.

“I hope his health is well,” my father said, thankfully forgetting my insolence for the moment.

Again that insouciant smirk. It made Devereux looked positively predatory. “He’s quite well, I assure

you. Some business of his he could not delay. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it at supper.” He indicated

the stairwell with a flourish of one long, thin, sinewy hand. “Now, I’m sure you and your daughter would

like to rest after your long journey. If you will, my lord. My lady.” He bowed graciously.

I gathered my skirts and started up the long spiral stairwell, trying not to shiver or cast a look over one

shoulder. I could feel Devereux’s eyes on my back the whole way!

***

Read an excerpt from Devices & Desires (Blackstone Hall #2) by Madeline Apple:

Chapter I

The first thing I saw was light.

The first thing I heard was a man’s exuberant voice saying, “She’s alive! Franz, come see, she’s alive!”

The light sharpened and took on different forms. I saw darkness and shadow and strange, glistening metal

and glass apparatuses surrounding me where I was lying prone on a gurney.

I was in a laboratory of some sort. I saw test tubes, tesla coils, endless shelves of strange poultices in

dusty bottles on the walls. I heard a dull buzzing noise in my head. Out beyond the walls of the lab, I

heard the dull roar of a storm creeping in.

Soon I recognized two men standing over me. One was tall and broad, middle-aged, with greying hair at

his temples and round glasses. His face was severe but very handsome. The second was short and funnylooking.

I realized the second man must be a dwarf. He smiled at me and I smiled back.

“She can smile, Franz. Look.”

“You did an excellent job, Doctor,” said the dwarf. “She’s perfect.”

“She is, isn’t she?”

My eyes returned to the larger man. Pride had softened his severe face a little and I felt my heart skip a

beat at the sight of his gentle grey eyes, the way they were trained on me. I felt an instant connection with

the man.

I’d never believed in love at first sight until now. But yes, I loved him. He was all to me.

“Dr. Von Holtz, you’ve finally done it,” the little man said with admiration. “You’ve created life!”

I tried to say something, to ask questions, but a wave of fatigue overwhelmed and I slipped back into

absolute darkness.

***

Read an excerpt from The Dollhouse Society: Isabelle by Eden Myles:

“Izzy Pop, you still looking for part time work on the weekend?” my best friend Stefan Janovich asked,

stopping me in the hallway of my dorm by putting his hand on my arm. I looked at it and he quickly yanked

it away.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. He knew how little I liked being touched by anybody, even my gay best guy

friend. He ran his hand nervously through his tousled yet stylishly spiked blond hair and grinned, saying,

“You said something the other day…”

“Yeah,” I interrupted. “I did. And yeah, I’m still interested.” I smiled to try and make up for reacting so

badly, but it felt fakey. I’d never been a very good liar. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Stefan; touching just set

me off, no matter who was doing it. When I went to concerts with my friends, I avoided the mosh pits like

the plague. “What do you have for me?”

He handed me a scrap of paper torn from his notebook. “It’s a housecleaning position. I mean, not

glamorous or anything, but it pays really well, and I know…you know, you can use the cash.”

I gaped as I threaded my way around the students in the corridor, Stefan tagging after. “This is a pretty

exclusive neighborhood, Stef.”

“Yeah, well, the guy’s pretty exclusive.” He gestured up and down his handsome face with a hand as we

walked toward my dorm room. “Dr. Michaels is the surgeon who fixed my face pro bono back when.”

“Oh,” I said, catching on. “Yeah, I think I remember him.”

I had vague memories of a tall, cold-faced doctor swiftly passing me in the halls when I was going to visit

Stefan in the hospital.

Stef and I had grown up together, but when he was thirteen, he and his mom were in a terrible car crash.

They both made it, thankfully, but the windshield shattered and Stefan’s face was cut up pretty badly. It

took seven surgeries by Dr. Dorian Michaels, the top plastic surgeon in the city, to restore his natural

good looks, but despite all the pain and recovery time, Stefan had been a real trooper through it all.

“I remember you said you couldn’t stop fantasying about him.”

He grinned at that. “He’s pretty hot. But I think he’s a little out of my league.”

“Too old. Too rich,” I guessed.

Stefan laughed. We were both so poor!

“He gay?”

“I wouldn’t send you to him if he wasn’t,” he said.

“You just want me to fix you up.”

He laughed again. “Maybe.”

“Aww, poor Stef, always the bridesmaid, never the bride,” I said as I reached my room. Stefan always

had a lot of boyfriends, but his many relationships never seemed to amount to much, mostly because

Stefan was a notorious wanderer. As soon as he had a great guy, he started finding flaws and looking for

greener pastures.

“I’m just picky.”

“Uh-huh.” I keyed open my door and turned. “Wanna hang? I have double fudge ice cream and The

Scarlet Pimpernel from Redbox.” The Scarlet Pimpernel was Stefan’s favorite movie. He had a massive

crush on Leslie Howard.

Stefan sort of hmmed and hawed, and I quickly got the feeling he had something hot and well-muscled

planned for tonight. Still, I knew he didn’t want to leave me alone. I’d been there for him all through his

recovery. He wanted to be here now for mine.

Get it together, Iz!