Need Page 4

  What have I done?

  I couldn’t remember my own conversion and had never witnessed another one. I had no idea what to expect, or if something was required of me.

  Calm down.

  Needing some fresh air, I walked through the big double parlor and kitchen to the French doors leading to the back gallery. I stepped out into the cool air of early evening, drinking in the smell of the night jasmine and bougainvillea, which covered the fence separating the property next door from the back courtyard. I took some deep breaths and sat down at the small wrought-iron table on the mossy paving stones, then looked up at the sky. It was covered with fast-moving clouds, stained pink as they reflected the garish neon lights of the French Quarter back down at me.

  Again, I heard Jean-Paul’s voice in my head: You’re such a foolish boy, aren’t you? You think you know everything there is to know, don’t you? Then go, and go with my blessing. I’m tired of arguing with you! You make me feel every day of my years, so go, leave us—but when you get yourself into trouble, don’t come crying for my help. Do you understand me? Because you won’t get it—I am through with you. Through.

  Jean-Paul simply hadn’t understood me, wasn’t even interested in trying to, for that matter, and that was the bottom line, why I had to leave him and the others.

  He’d been either unwilling or unable to recognize the truth that was staring him in the face, for reasons of his own.

  I’d loved him, but he hadn’t loved me back.

  He cared for me, yes, but he didn’t love me.

  Once I finally recognized that, I couldn’t stay with him any longer.

  After that Mardi Gras when he’d converted me, we’d left for Miami—all of us. Cord Logan died in that fire, and it was in Miami I got my new identity—driver’s license, birth certificate, passport, Social Security number, credit cards, and a bank account.

  Cord Logan was dead and buried.

  And it was Cord Forrest’s time to live.

  I didn’t miss the old me in the least—the fraternity boy from Alabama who was afraid of who he was, who he was meant to be. The boy expected to go back to Fayette County with a teaching degree, get married, and live in the rural area, go to services at White’s Chapel and raise his children to be devout members of the Church of Christ. My parents had already picked out the place where my house would be built, just down the blacktop county road from theirs, in the midst of what had been a cow pasture when my father was a child and now was simply an empty field going back to nature.

  I’d escaped the shackles of my old life by accepting Jean-Paul’s offer to become a vampire and was now free to live the life I’d always wanted, the one I had dreamed of while lying awake in my bed at the fraternity house in Oxford while Jared snored in the other bed.

  Jean-Paul’s vampire blood had kicked open my closet door and brought me out into a world I’d never dreamed existed.

  Not having to hide my sexuality any longer was a gift I’d forever be grateful to Jean-Paul for giving me, no matter what happened between the two of us. And there were so many willing men out there—beautiful men with thick muscles and firm asses who were willing to expose their throat to me, just as they worshipped my body and told me I was beautiful.

  Jean-Paul and the rest of our vampire fraternity showed me a life that exceeded my wildest dreams. Finally freed from the confining chains of the closet, my eyes wide open with awe and wonder, I shed my old skin and basked in the sun for the first time in my life. I was surrounded by beautiful men, who wanted nothing more than to give me pleasure, to worship my body and be worshiped in return. I was introduced to expensive clothing and designer drugs that intensified pleasure to a point I could have never imagined. I danced every night to thumping music as my mind swirled in clouds of ecstasy and heretofore unimagined joys. There were no limits on the credit cards, and I came out of the expensive stores of South Beach with bags and bags filled with more clothing than I could ever possibly wear, clothes that fit and flattered my body. I discovered a fondness for Dolce & Gabbana underwear, for shirts of silk and satin, for tight-fitting pants that hung low on my hips. I strolled along the beach in the bright sunshine, in swimsuits that were little more than strings and pouches, laughing with delight when the eyes of some intensely beautiful stranger met mine with lust and desire reflected in them. The warm green water of the Gulf Stream washed over me when I danced into the gentle waves kissing the white sand of the shore.

  And when I needed rest, I simply cuddled into Jean-Paul’s strong, muscular arms and woke up with him pressing his lips to my neck, his hand on my cock, and we made love gently and passionately.

  I was in love, floating on a cloud of joy, warm and secure in myself for the first time in my life.

  I’m not exactly sure when I began to suspect the truth about Jean-Paul.

  There were five others in our little group, living in the beautiful house on Ocean Drive on South Beach in Miami. The house itself was not the place one would think a group of vampires would inhabit; it was white and full of windows to let in the sun. There was a gorgeous pool within the tall stone fence, and a hot tub. I sometimes wondered where the money came from to pay for everything—the house, the parties Jean-Paul threw on a fairly regular basis—but whenever I questioned anyone, I was simply dismissed or the subject was changed. “Don’t worry your pretty little head,” was all Jean-Paul would say, kissing the tip of my nose. “That isn’t for you to concern yourself with.”

  The other vampires in our little group were all sexy creatures, with gorgeous bodies and handsome faces. There was Clint, who looked like he was in his early forties, with a head shaved down to the gleaming scalp and the most amazing blue eyes. Clint was the first one of the group I’d met during that fateful Mardi Gras—I’d run into him on Bourbon Street at the corner of St. Ann, where I’d been standing in the middle of the street trying to decide whether to go into Oz or the Pub. He’d been wearing no shirt or underwear beneath his faded low-rise jeans, and I’d been attracted to his hairy, thickly muscled torso. It was Clint who’d taken me by the hand and led me into Oz and onto the dance floor, where I’d first laid eyes on Jean-Paul.

  And I’d pretty much been a part of the little group ever since.

  But I’d felt closer to Clint than to any of the others outside of Jean-Paul—that night when I’d gone back to the house on Orleans Street with them, it was Clint and Jean-Paul I’d had sex with in a mind-blowing three-way, one that made me know there was no question about my sexual preference, no way I could even pretend to be sexually attracted to women ever again. Clint sometimes joined Jean-Paul and I in the massive bed in the master bedroom of the sun-drenched manse, and sometimes I caught him looking at me in a pensive way I couldn’t quite comprehend. But I knew I could always count on Clint for anything.

  Perhaps three months had passed since my conversion and we’d arrived in South Beach. There was yet another party going on in the house, and I was bored, sipping a glass of red wine and walking around the pool in my red bikini. It was early evening, and the sun was beginning to set. Tiki torches around the pool had been lit, and a thin sheen of sweat covered my skin as I smiled and muttered inanities at beautiful young men with exceptional bodies, ignoring the obvious invitations in their eyes as they looked over my body. The music was blaring, and a sweating group of men in thongs and bikinis were dancing on the other side of the pool, their slick skin glowing in the torchlight. I hadn’t seen Jean-Paul in what seemed like hours, and I was wishing I were anywhere but there when Clint came up behind me and cupped my ass in his big hands. I spun around and smiled at him. “Having fun?” I asked, gesturing with the wineglass at the dancers.

  Clint shrugged. He was wearing a metallic-blue bikini barely containing the bulge in the front. “Every once in a while I get bored with all of this,” he said, taking my hand and leading me back into a dark secluded corner. He pulled me to him, rubbing his bulge against mine and pulling me into a deep kiss. His hands drifted down to my ass, an
d he pulled me even tighter against him, and his tongue went into my mouth as my back arched a little bit.

  He was a great kisser.

  I could taste blood in his mouth, a hot metallic taste.

  “You’ve fed,” I whispered in his ear.

  “And now I want to fuck you,” he whispered. He slid a finger into my ass, and I moaned. The taste of blood, the feel of his damp skin, and the pressure of his finger as it toyed with my asshole were driving me mad with desire.

  But before I could lose myself in pleasure, out of the corner of my eye I noticed another couple.

  The boy getting fucked was about my age, maybe a little younger. He was Latino—dark cinnamon skin, black hair, and lean and muscular. His bright yellow bikini was down around his knees, and he was getting ridden very hard from behind. His eyes were closed, and he was moaning, pulling on his own nipples with his hands. He was up on his toes, two big strong hands grasping his waist to keep him from pitching forward from the power of the thrusts. He was so beautiful that I couldn’t help but smile.

  And then I saw the man fucking him was Jean-Paul.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  I gasped.

  Clint turned and looked. He gave me a sad look. “You didn’t think Jean-Paul was going to be faithful, did you?” He nuzzled my neck.

  I tried to pull away from him, but Clint was too strong for me. “I thought he loved me,” I said, knowing as I said the words how pathetic they sounded. I didn’t expect Clint to understand. Yes, Jean-Paul and I had sex with the others in our little fraternity—sometimes with more than one at a time—but this Latino boy was a human.

  And watching as Jean-Paul rode this boy, I remembered that night they’d found me at Oz and led me back to the house on Orleans Street—when I had still been a human. I knew then the sad truth—that I wasn’t special, after all.

  What had drawn Jean-Paul to me that night?

  He looked over at me, and our eyes locked. A slight smile played at the corner of his lips.

  And I was inside his mind for just a flash of time.

  And I knew.

  It had been the heartbeat, the pulsing of my fresh human blood through my veins, and my youth.

  I stifled a sob.

  He didn’t love me. He was simply attracted to young humans.

  But he didn’t just drink from me—he allowed me to drink from him that very night. He’d decided then and there that he wanted to convert me, to take me away from New Orleans and the old human life I’d been leading. That had to mean something, didn’t it ?

  I clung to that thought as I watched the man I loved fuck another young human.

  I stopped resisting Clint but didn’t react either as he slid my bikini down my legs and lifted me up, closing his arms around me, and I could feel his thickness probing between my cheeks.

  And as he entered me, I kept watching Jean-Paul and the Latino. I moaned and gave myself to the pleasure but never closed my eyes. Even as Clint pounded away at me, the intensity and violence of his movements growing with each inward stroke, I didn’t—couldn’t—take my eyes off them. Even as Clint toyed with my nipples, kissed my throat, moving faster and more intent on achieving his final pleasure, I kept watching them.

  Jean-Paul reached his climax at the same time as the boy, both of them shuddering and moaning so loudly I was surprised the entire party couldn’t hear them over the music.

  I watched as Jean-Paul spun the boy around and kissed him, the moonlight shining on the boy’s perfectly shaped round ass, the thin triangle of lighter skin at the bottom of his back, just above the curve of his cheeks.

  I couldn’t blame Jean-Paul for wanting him—he was indeed quite beautiful.

  But I could blame him for having him.

  And for the first time since I became a vampire, I felt the dark pull of hatred filling my heart.

  And when Clint was finished, I kissed him on the cheek, pulled up my bikini, and disappeared back into the crowd of dancers. I accepted a hit of Ecstasy from someone and lost myself for the rest of the night in the music.

  I stared up at the pink clouds over New Orleans. That was the night everything changed for me—everything about Jean-Paul, about being a vampire, about my new life and world.

  The others noticed—I’ve never been great at hiding my feelings. I withdrew from all of them, refusing to talk about my sadness. I knew how to block Jean-Paul from reading my thoughts, and every so often, I saw him looking at me with confusion in his eyes. I simply smiled back at him and every morning returned to his bed. I continued as before, occasionally slipping out at night onto the crowded sidewalks of Ocean Boulevard to find someone’s luscious neck to feed from.

  And then one night, maybe three weeks later, I saw the Latino boy again.

  A blinding rage rushed through me when I saw him walk out of the Dolce & Gabbana store with a large bag. He was wearing khaki shorts that reached past his knees and a black tank top that hugged his lean torso. He was yakking away on a cell phone, and in that moment I wanted nothing more than to see him dead and writhing at my feet.

  The feeling was so strong I could see it as clearly as if it had actually happened.

  Make him suffer, a voice whispered inside of my head. Make him pay for daring to love Jean-Paul.

  I tried to resist—it wasn’t a good idea.

  I crossed the street and followed a few steps behind him, listening to him talk on his phone, completely oblivious to everyone and everything around him, unaware that death was not even a yard behind him.

  The person on the other end of the phone was obviously a close friend, perhaps a lover—I couldn’t determine which from the way he spoke to him. His voice would lower into a husky, lusty whisper one moment before rising into a joyful shout of laughter.

  Poor, stupid, pretty little Latino muscle boy who had only a few hours left of life to him.

  I followed him all the way to his apartment. It was a white building, without a doorman or any kind of security. He took the elevator up to the fourth floor, and then I took the stairs. I could smell him—he was inside apartment 4-B.

  I didn’t hesitate, even for a second. I knocked.

  “Yes?” He opened the door, his big white teeth showing in a gorgeous smile. Dimples deepened into his tanned cheeks, and he’d removed the shirt. His torso was smooth and hairless, his pectoral muscles perfectly shaped, his nipples large and a dusky shade of purple. Muscles bulged in his stomach, and his navel was tantalizing. I could feel my cock growing hard inside my own shorts, and I knew that I was going to fuck him. I could see in his dark brown eyes his own interest, his desire for me. His shorts hung low off his narrow hips, and I could see stubble from where he’d shaved his pubic hair just above the waist of the shorts. There was a nice bulge in the front of the shorts, and one of his hands absently brushed against it as he stood there smiling back at me.

  “Hi,” I said after a moment, unsure what to do now that he was right there in front of me. I could see the vein in his neck, beckoning to me. It was pulsing with each beat of his heart—which I could almost hear.

  It would have been so easy to just feed from him, push him back into his apartment and sink my teeth into his neck, draining him until his heart ceased to beat and leave him there to be found.

  But as I looked into his soulful brown eyes, I realized killing the boy would solve nothing. It wasn’t his fault Jean-Paul had found him attractive, had seduced him at the party—Jean-Paul probably never bothered to learn his name. Jean-Paul wouldn’t know the boy had died, would never know that I had killed him in a fit of insane jealousy he would consider unseemly for a vampire.

  He stood there looking at me expectantly.

  “We met the other night,” I went on smoothly, “at the party on Ocean Drive. I’m Cord, remember?”

  He looked puzzled. “I don’t remember you, I’m sorry.” The smile flashed again. “I must have been some kind of wasted, huh?” He barked out a laugh. “Where are my manners? Come in.” He shut
the door behind me. “Would you like something to drink?” He held out his hand. “My name is Luis, Cord. I’m sorry.” His voice had a sort of accent, a lilt to it that was rather seductive. “I honestly don’t remember you, but the whole night was kind of a blur for me. But I must have given you my address—and I’m really glad that I did.”

  The apartment was beautifully furnished, as was the community spread out beyond the wall of glass. One wall was covered with framed posters of the young Latino—one was an ad I recognized for Calvin Klein underwear, another for a swimsuit company whose name I couldn’t recall.

  A catalog was sitting on the coffee table with the address label up. LUIS PALENZUELA. “I think we were all pretty wasted, Luis.” I laughed.

  He sat down next to me. I could smell his cologne—ck one. I could hear his heartbeat, smell the slight odor under his arms. He crossed his legs, his left leg brushing against mine softly. He smiled at me. “You’re very handsome, Cord.”

  I returned his smile and traced his cheek with my right hand. He closed his eyes and leaned in for a kiss.

  I left him an hour later, the wounds on his neck already healed into what could pass for small hickeys. I started whistling as I walked back to the house on Ocean.

  A few days later, we left Miami and started going to circuit parties all over the country. Jean-Paul always became restless after a few days in any city, and I lost myself in the haze of parties and drugs and bodies. Montreal, Toronto, Palm Springs, Philadelphia, New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles—the next two years passed in a blur of airports and suitcases, hotels and rental condos.

  But things were never the same again between us after that party, after I saw Jean-Paul with Luis. His interest in me didn’t abate, but his eye wandered. And each time I saw him with another beautiful young human, a knife twisted in my heart.

  And each time, I cared a little less than the time before.