FANGED

Chapter Fourteen

She stays alive? What did he mean by that? As far as I was concerned, that wasn't even debatable. I huffed, frowning at Fang as he studiously ignored me while he gathered placemats, plates and silverware. A little voice in my head lectured me on the consequences of eavesdropping. Something about eavesdropper's seldom hearing good news...or...I don't know. I wasn't listening to my conscious at the moment.

A little ember of rage burned in my belly and it didn't have anything to do with hunger or the sexy vampire who was suddenly intent on becoming the next Betty Crocker. Why does he get the privilege to decide my fate? Who died and made him boss? I thrummed my fingers noisily on the counter in agitation. Shouldn't I at least have a say in my own demise instead of him and some dude I've never met deciding I perished in a freak gas leak accident in Thumbelina's cottage?

Not that I've ever put much thought into how I would die. Let's face it, it's not one of those subjects you spent a great deal of time pondering about. Besides, I had better things to do. But now that it was out there, I think I should at least get a say in the matter. After all, I was becoming quite the expert in death having done it a few times. Okay...maybe not technically in the toe tag laying on a slab in the morgue sense, but more in the round about away.

There was the whole becoming a member of the undead thing. Yeah, yeah...I'm not really dead, but before I crossed paths with tall, dark and snaggletoothed, I was totally convinced I was. Since I think I handled that situation remarkably well, it makes me a seasoned professional on the subject.

I watched as Fang started piling a mountain of food on plates the size of garbage can lid covers. I suppose, if I was going to bite the bullet, going out in a blaze of glory was pretty cool way to go. It irked me though I wasn't part of the discussion and my whole life had been wiped away at the snap of his fingers and his Merry Maids crew.

What about me? Where would I go? What about my job? What was I supposed to do now? I couldn't very well convince Byron the boob to put me on nightshift if I was supposed to be dead. Although, now that I think about it...it might be kind of fun haunting him. I could do the whole Salem's Lot thing and claw at his windows at night. It would serve him right for being such a jerk.

"Eat up, Red." Fang set a manhole cover filled with food, the thing landing with a thud in front of me.

Sitting down next to me, unaware that I was contemplating stabbing him with my fork, he proceeded to sprinkle a blizzard of salt on top of everything on his plate before taking a half a stick of butter and drowning his steaming baked potato. On top of the melting pile of butter that would make Paula Deen proud, he added a shovel full of sour cream, mashing it all together in a sloshy jumble.

Digging in, he went for the steak first. Slicing a chunk off, he brought it to his mouth. I could see his fangs flash as he wrapped his lips around the tines of the fork and pulled the meat off, chewing thoughtfully before sprinkling on a little more salt.

I was about to say something extraordinarily witty about the dangers of cholesterol, but my brain fizzled to a halt. He ate like a total gentleman, with a grace I've never seen a male species possess. Not only did he have superb table manners which made Emily Post look like slob, but...it was stimulating as hell watching him.

His lips, the fangs, his long fingers working the utensils with elegant precision, the muscles of his jaw as he chewed...it was all...just...wow. He must be amazing in bed. The thought popped into my head like a Jack-in-the-box, springing forward and bouncing around in joyous abandon. My throat went utterly dry.

Two gleaming eyes turned to mine. "What's wrong? Don't you like your steak?" he asked.

I swallowed hard and nodded my head. Picking up my fork, I blindly scooped up a bit of potato, which I immediately dropped in my lap.