Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 23

Santos is gone, but Dana is waiting, watching me in the truck's side mirror as I leave the ER. When I climb into the truck, she asks, "What did Webb want? I saw him talking to you."

"To chew me out about the hunter."

"Is that all?" she asks.

"What else would it be? You know I don't like to hang out and talk to doctors."

"Well, apparently they like to talk to you."

"Let's get something clear, Dana. You do the patient transfer."

"That's not the way it's done, Anne. The medic in the back with the patient gives the report and makes the transfer. You know way more about the patients than I do."

"I'm your supervisor. It's done the way I say it's done. I don't like hospitals and I'm not going inside unless I have to."

She looks at me as if I've lost my mind. "Strange choice of professions, don't you think? I can't believe Jimmy puts up with your, your . . . eccentricities. Sometimes I honestly wonder if you're blowing him."

My mouth falls open in shock. "I don't blow my supervisors."

"I know. I doubt you've given a blow job in your life." She slings this at me as if it's a crime.

What would she say if she knew I was a virgin? I rub my hands over my face. I've got to eat. Tonight. For real.

"It's just that every time I'm interested in a man, all they ask about is you."

"What?"

"It was the same with Santos. I swear he was more into you than me. What does she eat? Does she nap on shift? Does she drink? Is there a man in her life? A woman?"

"A woman?" My face grows hot.

"Yeah, the rumor is you're a closet lesbian."

Again, I'm speechless. After all I've experienced tonight you'd think I'd be impervious to surprise, but Dana never fails.

"Believe me, Anne, you could never handle him. Sex with him is like a battlefield."

"Handle who?"

"Santos. I'm all for rough sex. I love it, but I prefer to wield the whip, not take it on my hands and knees."

"He whipped you?!"

"No." She laughs the thought away. "I'm kidding. He's actually quite conservative. No porn, no toys, nothing. An Army Ranger who doesn't watch porn? That" —she jabs at the steering wheel for emphasis— "Is. Not. Normal. I think he has a Madonna/whore complex. Typical Latin, which explains why he talks to his mother every day. What kind of man does that?" she asks, perplexed.

"A man who loves his mother?"

What a dream it would be to talk to Mama every day.

"Cut the cord, for fuck's sake. There was something cold about sex with him. Detached. He's like a machine in bed. God, the stamina! And you should see his cock—"

"Alright!" I put a hand up to stop her. "Enough."

"I'm all for friends with benefits, but he was scaring everyone else away. I want to be worshipped. Obsessed over. Not casually fucked."

"Battlefield sex does not sound casual," I say, confused. "Maybe he wants more."

"I'm telling you, he's schizo. Guns all over the house, a life-sized Virgin Mary beside his bed. How can you fuck with the Virgin staring down at you? Ten-inch serrated knives lying on top of his bible." She giggles. "He reads the bible. Can you believe that?"

I can't help wondering what William is like in bed. He's so thoughtful and considerate, but strong too. He seems attuned to my every vibration. The thought sends nerves shooting through my skin. Casual sex. How can giving yourself to another person ever be casual? Opening, letting them in? I've walked this earth for almost two centuries and I still don't understand the ease with which women offer themselves up to men who are utterly unworthy.

Of course, Professor Hardcastle is worthy.

Perhaps I don't know what I'm missing. Clearly, I don't know what I'm missing. After all the killing and maiming I've seen, sex seems like a rather innocent pastime. Except when unwanted babies are born, or when it injects you with disease, or breaks your heart, or degrades your self-respect, or rips families apart. I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to shut down my archaic righteousness. As a Night Walker, sex with William is free from all those possibilities save one—a broken heart.

And that is more frightening than anything.

"I need more coffee," Dana says, already looking wired.

What I need is nourishment, and as if my blessed angel has heard me a call comes out over the radio.

"Rescue 1," dispatch says, drawing out every syllable.

"Amen," I whisper.

"Respond to person down."

This is it! No excuses. No fear. No mercy.

"Officer on scene."

Dana waits for the address, thrumming her fingers against the steering wheel. "Christ, when is this dispatcher going to retire? Out with it, lady!"

But it doesn't matter to me where we're going or who will be there. I will feed. Some way, somehow, I will make it happen. Even if I have to take a 300-pound man down by the throat.