Vampires Love Roses

Vampires Love Roses

She opened her door to a hundred roses covering nearly every available inch of her living room. He found her again. Trish heaved a sigh and moved a vase of roses to set her keys in the little ceramic bowl by the door and dropped her purse on the floor beside the entry table. Maybe she could use the vase as a weapon, she thought sinisterly as she wove her way across the room. Her foot collided with one of the vases and it tipped over into the vase beside it until, like dominoes, most of the vases on the floor were knocked over, water and petals splayed across the wood floor.

"At least I don't have carpet," Trish muttered. "Or I'd be way more pissed right now." Finally reaching the kitchen, Trish set the vase she held on the counter and grabbed the nearly-clean towel from the oven handle and a trash bag from under the sink. A mess of roses wasn't exactly her idea of a great welcome home. Especially when they were from him.

She was halfway through her dab-and-dump cleaning routine when she heard the mattress coils cringe under someone's weight. She froze for half a second from instinctual fear. She didn't even realize he was still in the house. She cursed at herself for her own rookie mistake; the roses, of course, masked his smell. It was lying there under the floral onslaught—the deep musk of Jackson Elliot.

Trish should have high-tailed it the moment she saw the flowers. Screw the house, screw all her possessions. The minutes she knew he'd been there, she should have left. It wouldn't be the first time she left everything behind to start a brand new life. It would be Jackson-free and that's what counted. But even with a five-second warning between the groaning mattress and his appearance in the doorway, Trish didn't move from the floor. She didn't try to run for the door or for a weapon. She just kept stuffing roses into the trash bag and sopping up the spilled water with the soaked towel.

"Geez, Trish!" Jackson whistled at her. He leaned casually against the doorframe in a pair of boxer shorts and a gray t-shirt like he belonged there. He certainly believed he did, anyway. "You've gotten clumsy over the years."

He smirked at her in amusement at his own stupid joke and Trish felt the urge to throw a thorny rose at his face. Instead she thrust it into the bag with extra effort, her fist clenched a little too tightly around the stem and one of the thorns pricked her palm instead of Jackson's smug face.

"Damn it, Trish," Jackson muttered. He crossed the space between them in two swift steps and cradled her wounded hand in his two large ones. His skin was rough and tanned from long hours in the sun but were more gentle than their appearance gave them credit.

Jackson caressed the silky skin of her palm with his thumbs a little then lifted her hand to his mouth, sucking the prick of blood for two breathless moments before pressing a light kiss to the spot. Trish immediately pulled back her hand and stood up, leaving the trash bag and the rest of the mess on the floor behind her.

She braced herself against the countertop with her head between her elbows and her eyes fixed on the black and white tiles beneath her feet. They were blurry at first, but as she counted her breaths her heart rate lowered again and her vision cleared. Once it did, she straightened and spun around to glare at Jackson.

"How dare you!" she shouted at him. He was still kneeling on the living room floor, carefully picking up each spilled vase and replacing the roses inside them.

"What?" he shrugged. "They were expensive. It'd be a shame to waste them just because—"

"No," she shrieked. She flung open the utensil drawer beside her and started pulling out the cutlery, one by one throwing them at Jackson's head. "How dare you waltz in here—" She threw a butter knife, which he dodged and slipped another rose in the vase in his hand. "Litter my house—" She threw a fork and hit him on the shoulder with the blunt end. He peered down at it curiously like he'd never seen such an object before, then slipped another rose into the vase and set it aside and started a new one. "And bleed me like I'm some—" she threw another fork but her aim was so far off he didn't even have to dodge it. "some—" She faltered for words in her anger and fished in the utensil drawer for another projectile, pulling out a steak knife. Trish clutched the handle fiercely then chucked it at him, aiming for the heart. Again, he dodged it."Like some whore you can call on whenever you--" Trish grabbed for another knife. "damn well please!"

She threw the steak knife at him and he caught it by the blade before it hit his chest. Jackson glowered at her. The dangerous look in his eyes made her tremble in familiar fear and she cursed herself for not leaving before when there was a chance.

"First of all," he growled. He stood to his feet, smashing a rose beneath his bare foot, the petals reduced to a red pulp. "You were already bleeding."

He took a step closer and Trish automatically retreated. Her hip smacked against the corner of the open drawer and it slammed close, its contents jostling violently. Her fingers gripped the counter and its edge pressed into her backside.

"Second of all," Jackson continued, slowly inching closer. "Never once have I called you a whore," he said. "'whore' implies sex," he sneered. He was standing right in front of her, his toes brushing the tips of her own. "And while I've never been opposed..." He leaned into her as she leaned further back across the counter, her heels lifting in her effort to stretch away from him. His lips hovered over mouth, his breath hot on her skin and smelling noticeably metallic. It was the smell of blood.

Bile rose in Trish's throat. He ate before she came home. The scent was far too strong for the few drops he took from her. Her mind feverishly ran down the list of all everyone she knew in town, wondering which soul had been Jackson's last victim.

"Who was it?" she whispered.

Jackson's gaze flitted from her mouth to her pleading eyes. She needed to know the answer. She needed to know which of her acquaintances was dead or dying because of her. Which name did she have to add to her penance?

"Your neighbor is awfully nice," he drawled. He bent his head to one side and flicked his tongue across the skin on her neck, tracing the two identical scars with its tip. "She didn't even put up a fight."

"Bastard!" Trish smacked Jackson across the face, surprising him. He leaned one hip against the counter beside her, rubbing at his reddened cheek. Trish took the opportunity and bolted to the other side of the house where there was a door at her back instead of a countertop. It was always best to have an escape route. "You bled Mrs. Wittacker?" she cried. "She's like eighty! And senile!"

"And she tasted like cats and prescription meds," Jackson groaned. "It was putrid, really. Don't get your panties in a bunch," he said, rolling his eyes at her. He wandered to the living room, but stopped in the wide doorway and leaned casually against it, his arms folded across his chest. "I didn't kill her. Just enough to satiate me."

"Jackson!" Trish shouted. "The blood loss could kill her!"

"She's fine," he scoffed. "I checked. Vitals are normal. Doesn't remember a thing." Trish narrowed her eyes at him doubtfully. "I promise," he assured her. "Cross my cold, black heart."

"If she dies—"

"Then you can hate me for all eternity," he moaned, rolling his eyes again. "And then some."

"I already hate you," she spat.

"No you don't," he denied. "You hate what I am and what I did—do," he corrected with a shrug. "But you don't hate me."

"And why, pray tell, do you say that?" she challenged. She reached behind her and tightened her hand around the doorknob.

"Because if you did," he reasoned. "Hate me, that is," he clarified with a cocky grin, "You'd be gone by now. You'd have fled at the first sign of me. But you didn't."

"That just means I'm stupid," she retorted. "It doesn't mean I don't hate you."

"You have never been stupid, Trish," he sighed. He straightened and took several steps into the room. Trish twisted the knob behind her, reaching for her keys with her other hand.

"I was stupid the day I met you," she told him. "I should've ran when I had the chance."

"You wouldn't have gotten far," he said. "You never get far. I always find you, sweetheart, and I always will. Aren't you tired of running?"

Trish spun and yanked open the door, ready to sprint down the sidewalk to her car. It would only take a few seconds to get inside and lock the doors on him, another few seconds to put it in gear and run him over.

Jackson slammed his hand against the front door forcing it shut again. His other hand was on her waist, his fingers digging into her firmly.

"I said," he growled through gritted teeth. "Aren't you tired of running?"

Trish winced at the pain he was causing in her side but didn't struggle. She knew it would only make it worse, like a mouse struggling in the coils of a snake. His grip would only get tighter.

"Please," she squeaked. "Let me go."

"Why should I?" he hissed into her ear. "Why should I release what is rightfully mine?"

"I don't belong to you or anyone else," Trish replied. She tried to sound confident, but his grip on her waist made sound more like a whimper. "Please—" she begged. Her appeal was cut short by a loud, wailing siren, howling up the street and stopping next door. "I thought you said you didn't kill her!" Trish cried.

"I didn't!" Jackson insisted. "She was fine an hour ago!" He loosened his grip but didn't release her, tugging her aside and pulling open the door. Both of them stumbled out and watched a team of paramedics rush to the house with a gurney and through an opened door.

Mrs. Wittacker lived alone in the little house next door, unless one counted her two very fat cats Rose and Leonardo. Trish pet-sat for her one time when Mrs. Wittacker went to visit her daughter in Colorado. Her orders were to feed them twice a day, a can of tuna a piece each time. The beasts gobbled it up every time like they'd been starved.

Leonardo, Trish guessed, was at least twenty-pounds, though it was hard to tell beneath his immense orange mane. Trish joked once that Mrs. Wittacker should have named him Mufasa because he looked like a small lion. Mrs. Wittacker didn't laugh. Rose wasn't much better off, though her short tortoiseshell coat was considerably more slimming than her partner's fluff.

"I swear it wasn't me this time," Jackson whispered into her ear. She shot him a doubting glare. Jackson sniffed the air, maintaining his firm hold on her. "I don't smell death," he said reassuringly.

"Maybe she fell and broke a hip or something."

"Or maybe she fainted from blood loss," Trish murmured back.

The paramedics emerged from the house a few minutes later with Mrs Wittacker strapped onto the gurney and they wheeled her into the back of the ambulance. As they did so, a young woman in blue scrubs stepped out of the house, her arms crossed and her brow furrowed.

"Excuse me," Trish called to her. "What's wrong with Mrs. Wittacker?" she asked, not having to fake her show of concern.

The woman looked surprised to find them there but crossed the lawn to speak with them. Trish mentally cursed. That was the last thing she needed—a young, fresh body within biting range.

Jackson gripped her waist with both hands, his fingers digging in fiercely. He was trying to resist, at least. Thank heaven there was no sign of blood on her person or Trish would have a front row seat to her living nightmare. Not to mention the three witnesses inside the ambulance.

"Heart attack I'm pretty sure," the woman answered. "Do you know her well?"

"A little," Trish nodded. "Is she going to be okay?" she asked as the ambulance pulled away, siren wailing again. "I mean...is it bad?"

"I don't know," the woman admitted. "I'm just an assistant at the senior center," she shrugged. "I check up on her a few times a week, bring her meals, that sort of thing. I wasn't even supposed to come by today," she said, sounding stunned by her own story. "But it was roast beef today and I know it's her favorite, so... Wow. A lucky coincidence, huh?"

"Yeah," Trish nodded. "Lucky."

"You can give me your number if you want and I'll let you know when there's more news," she offered. Trish nodded and took her outstretched phone to input her number. "I'm Stacy by the way," she said.

"Trish. And this is Jackson," she introduced with a sharp jerk of her head. Jackson didn't move behind her, barely even breathing. She typed in the digits quickly and handed the phone back to Stacy. "I really appreciate it," Trish said. "She's such a great neighbor; I'd hate for anything to happen to her!" She didn't add that it may be her own fault that the poor old woman was in such a condition.

"She's such a sweet old lady," Stacy smiled sadly. "Well, I better go. I'm going to follow her to the hospital."

"That's good," Trish nodded. "Her closest family is in Colorado. She'll like having someone there when she recovers." Not to mention, Trish mentally added, it will get you off of my lawn and away from the blood-sucker at my back who's about to break my hip bones.

Stacy waved and went to the SUV parked in Mrs. Wittacker's driveway and climbed inside, waving at them one more time as she pulled away.

Jackson didn't waste any time, spinning around and shoving Trish back into the house, slamming the door shut and locking the deadbolt for good measure. He put both hands on the door and leaned his weight against it like he was trying desperately to keep something out. Or, Trish realized, keep himself in. His breathing was heavy and choppy like he just finished running a marathon.

Trish contemplated slipping out the back door while he sorted himself out. It would be easy; he wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to her. She kept her eyes on his heaving back and took a wary step backward, then immediately regretted it.

Her bare foot stepped on one of the spilled roses, the thorns poking her rough soles. It didn't draw blood—the skin was too thick—but it hurt enough to make her whimper, hopping on one foot to seize the other. But Jackson really had filled the room with roses, and her good foot hopped right on top of another pile of prickly stems and she screeched, losing her balance and falling backward onto the sofa. She saw his response before she realized the second step had drawn blood. His head shot up, his dark eyes piercing her. His nostrils flared, inhaling the metallic scent of the trickling blood on her foot. It was incredibly bad timing.

"Damned roses," Trish muttered.

Jackson was leering over her a second later, mouth open, teeth bared. He hovered over her old scars for a few frozen seconds before bridging the gap and reopening old wounds. Trish was glad there was no one home next door to hear her scream.