The Love Abominable: Part 2
TODAY’S BREW: Double chocolate blend. YES.
I talk so much about Trent from The Animal that I hope you haven’t forgotten Chris Lynch from The Love Abominable, a spinoff story from the novel I swear I’m querying, Running Home. Come watch Chris from a safe distance. I hope you enjoy! Check out part one here.
The Love Abominable
It had been twelve days since I had my hands on the throat of a woman. Squeezed into fists, they shook with their emptiness.
Blood. Blue black visions of gurgling death under my fingernails, caked in her sunshine hair, heartbreaker eyes fading into nothing. The reek of salt as it pours from her throat, breasts, broken face, making me tremble until I could no longer sit. I gnashed my teeth, throwing myself out of my chair and pacing the office, the ridiculous calm of the snowy landscape outside my window mocking me, my mind that throbbed with desperation.
Every woman and no woman brought it out in me. They were all waiting and they didn’t know it.
I had no legal cases to throw myself into. New Hampshire had no excitement to warrant such a thing regularly. If I ever had a soul, it would have ached at being forced to concentrate on nothing. Never happy, never in that Zen zone that the other fucking vampires found so easily. The mere thought of them….
A chill came over me as my teeth elongated, the cold running down my legs and into my feet, freezing me for a second to the floor. Only for a second. When goddamn Nicholas’s fangs showed the entire room froze over, beautiful wintry death, evil and yet loved by all who came near to him. I hated him for it. Now he had followed me here, when I thought I could finally kill in peace.
“Fuck!” My lip bled from the fangs. Putting my fingers to my lip, fury filled me that I still did this. I still had as little control as Nicholas and Roman said. I would never be as good as them. My arms and legs went numb with my own cold, another thing that made me weak. I stomped my foot hard on the floor, desperate to act out some way, but stuck, stuck forever, stuck. The floor quaked, a crack opened in the nearby wall. I smiled.
Then there she was, outside the door. I swear I could smell her thoughts. She was raspberry licorice, cinnamon hearts, and whipped cream, a walking valentine. I would clip her Cupid’s wings.
She knocked lightly and entered, her smile too wide, childlike enthusiasm etched with a sugary sensuality. Perfection in her pink dress, strawberry shortcake in stilettos.
“ Hi Chris.” she said in her Tinkerbell voice. Her lips made the most perfect motion when she said my name. I would kiss them gently, lick them wet and bite them until she couldn’t scream.
“Hello, Kat.” She rendered me speechless at times. The human halo that she was, too good for this world. Too good for me. I wanted her, and I wanted to bring her down to demon level, make her see the other side. I felt the cold touch me again, ready to take her to the floor, rip her dress off, defile and love her like only we gods of death could do. She wanted it. Her eyes cried for me to touch her.
Her ruffles shifted around her as she sat in the chair behind my desk, like she had the first day we met, and every day since. Her audacity pleased me. It meant she would have even further to fall.
“You have a meeting with a potential client tomorrow, Mr. Lynch,” she said through her perpetual smile. It made us both smile more when she called me Mr. Lynch. We had been on first name basis since days after I began working at the firm. I operated quickly, and she was no exception.
The deep seeded terror that she might not made me want her more. I would keep her dripping heart in my hand while her pretty eyes closed.
“Finally, something to sink my teeth into,” I said. She calmed me. Warmth seeped back into my limbs, my fangs no longer tingling to appear.
“Nothing exciting, I’m afraid. Just a real estate case. An older couple, Simmons. I think their granddaughter works at the drugstore down the street.”
“Anything is better than nothing.” I had moved closer to her without even intending to. I wanted to be closer to her forever. I would find a way to keep her forever in our own bloodred Heaven.
My proximity made her wiggle in the chair, batting her eyelashes because that was her way, not because she was trying to charm me. I could not be charmed. I was the snake in the desert.
“I would love to show you something better,” she purred, leaning her elbows on my desk, “but this is all I’ve got.” Her smile became more knowing, the minx.
“What you’ve got is intensely desirable. So no apologies needed.” My voice was calm water over sharp river rocks. I lured her in, made her mine with every word. I moved in, so close to her I could smell her breath, but pulled back just as quickly.
There was no trusting myself with this one. Not until I believed that I wanted her alive.
Disappointment crushed her face. She bit her lip. My fists clenched again, holding me to the spot I stood, willing me not to take the flight from her wings.
She stood, eyes fluttering, her perfume wafting over me, worse when she breezed by me, her hip brushing my side, her doe eyes teasing me.
“Back to work for me, or I will be here all night.” She dropped a file on the desk, the name “Simmons” in her bubbly handwriting on the tab.
Kat stopped before she left my office, delicate hand on the doorknob. Hesitation did not appeal to me, she was a woman who did what she wanted with innocent confidence, stopping the world with her unintentional ease. That she was afraid to tell me something stabbed me inside with more failure. No woman should make me feel this way, I would make her pay for it. And yet, I crumpled inside to think of her warmth being snuffed out when I ripped the silken hair from her head, bit her cheeks and clawed at her skin.
“Say what you need to, Kat,” I spat through clenched teeth, fangs elongating. She made me feel. I could only hope she didn’t notice my lack of control.
A kitten’s sigh from her. Her hand dropped from the doorknob, and she turned to look at me. That smile was gone, the one she lived in that was always there. I had taken it from her.
“Chris, I am just glad you’re here.” Sweet words, but her eyes were sad. “I hope you’re glad I am here, too.” And she left with a sullen smile that put a craving in me to hold her, tell her I was hers.
I would belong to no one.
She left my office, my dismal thoughts pairing with my lack of real work to do. I wished I never left Boston, where there was no shortage of cases that would plaster my face all over the news, or women that I could drain of their blood and self-important dignity.
Growling and shaking with need, I sat at my desk in what had become her chair, her scent still lingering in its leather, and I picked up the file she left. Simmons. I stared at the name, trying to create a new image in my head that didn’t have any of Kat’s unique beauty.
Kat was why I longed to end a blonde, I realized. Trying to run from her. And maybe my subconscious didn’t want to do those things to anyone resembling the red-haired vixen that was worming her way into my chest. That woman was a plague of emotion that could never be mine and vulnerability I would never allow.
I was losing control. I was sweating. I was afraid. And my anger was unrelenting. The folder I held tore like tender flesh in my hands. Opening it, desperate to focus on something solid, I carefully turned the few pages of notes and documents, trying not to rip anything else.
And then it was there.
A photo of the property in question. A charming Victorian, light blue with gingerbread trim. A manicured lawn surrounded, of course, by the endless fucking trees that New Hampshire was proud of. A family posed on porch steps. An elderly couple, the owners, the husband now dead and giving me a case to handle. Their son, who looked exactly like him but for a tan that matched his wife’s. Obviously they didn’t reside in this abyss of snow and backwoods wonder.
Young curves that would bruise if held just the right way. Breasts that were still becoming a woman’s, though she was in her early twenties. Angelic smile that reminded me of Kat, unassuming, sweet, but not with Kat’s self-assured thoughtfulness. So like Kat, and so unlike. And this girl had blonde curls, cascading over her shoulders, touching her breasts, skimming her eyes.
The color of the sun. The color of spring daylight and daffodils and all the naïve beauty of Goldilocks.
Saliva dripped onto the photo. My fangs had grown past my bottom lip, my fingertips turning blue with the frigidity that the change brought.
“Christine,” I read amongst the names scrawled at the bottom of the photo.
“I think their granddaughter works at the drugstore down the street.” Kat’s voice echoed in my head. Romance and death intermingled in unending dance. The dual urge to create a black and white movie romance to end in entrails, sinister and sweet, ending as tragic as a good romance should flourished inside me. Creating this love that I was growing and finishing it the only way I knew how.
Before I went too fast with Kat, I should practice, shall we say, make this dance perfect.
Wiping the saliva off my lip, I felt repossessed, the debonair attorney that made women wet with his smile and smoldering eyes. I buttoned up my coat, looking every bit as stunning as Carey Grant already, and left my office. I was not afraid to walk past Kat.
“Kat, I’ll see you tomorrow. I need to go to the drugstore.”