Page 35 of Blood Lovers

Gross. Just that word and him in the same sentence repulses me. And I’m not even awake. I’m in the dreamwalk. There’s purple haze everywhere.

I’m on a beach. A nice, warm beach, which makes sense, because that’s where I left my physical body. But this isn’t the same beach. It’s much nicer. Like private island nicer.

I push my current surrounding aside and drift back to waking in San Francisco with Paul. It’s the only beginning I know. The rest of it is just a flicker of things that no longer matter.

I was starving when I woke up. But not for room service. Just the scent of him was driving me crazy. I wanted to devour him. I wanted to be inside him, actually.

Not sexually, but… just… like… become him.

Merge with him.

Be part of him.

I couldn’t get close enough. I couldn’t stop smelling him. I can’t even explain that scent. It’s so overpowering and seductive. And original. You can’t say, Oh, he smells like the woods, or the beach, or the lake. He just smells like Paul. It’s like a roast beef dinner, and a very well-groomed horse, and a… a… pit in the depths of Hell.

Savory, and sweet, and smoky.

I wake up in a hotel room that is definitely not the one in Miami where I fell asleep. It is old, and dingy, and smells like piss.

I sit up in bed, realize I’m naked, and then exhale a long breath as the memory of the blood lust comes back to me.

Then I look around for Paul, but I already know he’s not here.

Paul? In this place? Please.

But he was here. Because I can smell him.

Plus, there’s a folded piece of paper on the bedside table that says ‘Ryet’ in his stupid, lavish longhand. He loves to leave letters. That deed he left me in San Francisco on my first day was in one of those big yellow envelopes and came with a letter. It was like a welcome-to-my-cult kind of letter. Here is your ID, here is where you will find your money, here is where you can get clothes, here is a number where you can reach me, here is a deed for land with your name on it to prove who you are.

Since then, they’ve gotten more… personal. I’m not in the mood for that, so I sigh, ignore the letter, walk over to the bathroom, peek inside, and weigh my options.

Nnn-no. I’m not showering in this place. It’s the most disgusting room I’ve ever been in and that shower looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in decades.

I find my clothes scattered across the room and briefly pause to wonder what the fuck we were doing here. That’s when I realize the bed has one of those Magic Fingers things attached to it, the kind you put a quarter in and it will jiggle the bed for you.

For a moment I wonder if I’m still dreaming because I feel like I fell back in time forty years. But when I go over to the window and use a pen from the little table to push the disgusting curtain to the side, everything appears to be on the up and up. The trucks passing by on the snowy mountain road are modern, at least.

I glance down at the pen and read the logo stamped on it. White River Cottages. White River, Idaho.

Cottages? That’s a stretch.

I chuckle a little—because this is just how shit goes after the blood lust—and pick up the note.

My dearest Ryet,

I left you a duffle and a truck. If you require anything else, call me.

Talk soon,

Paul

Well, at least it wasn’t personal. I crumple up the note, toss it in the trash, and find the duffel on the other side of the bed. He left me two sets of clothes—jeans, flannel, thermal shirt, socks and those black boxer briefs that he knows I hate.

They really highlight your assets. I can hear his voice saying that in my head.

Like I really need an image of him staring at my dick in this moment.

I put one set of clothes on, then find the truck keys on the windowsill, plus another note, this one more casual than the first. FYI, it says, you work here now. You’re the new caretaker. The woman at the front desk is expecting you at nine AM. She’s kind of a bitch, so don’t be late.