Dead as a doornail - By Charlaine Harris Page 0,74
her. Everything I’d heard from other vamps had confirmed what he’d told me about that relationship. I thought of his near-rape of me in the trunk of a car; but he’d been starved and tortured, and hadn’t known what he was doing. The minute he’d come to his senses, he’d stopped.
I remembered how happy I’d been when I’d had what I thought was his love. I’d never felt more secure in my life. How false a feeling that had been: He’d become so absorbed in his work for the Queen of Louisiana that I’d begun to come in a distant second. Out of all the vampires who could have walked into Merlotte’s Bar, I’d gotten the workaholic.
“I don’t know if we can ever have the same relationship again,” I said. “It might be possible, when I’m a little less raw from the pain of it. But I’m glad you’re here tonight, and I wish you would lie down with me for a little while . . . if you want to.” I moved over on the narrow bed and turned on my right side, so the wounded shoulder was up. Bill lay down behind me and put his arm over me. No one could approach me without him knowing. I felt perfectly secure, absolutely safe, and cherished. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I mumbled as the medicine kicked in. As I was drifting off to sleep again, I remembered my New Year’s Eve resolution: I wanted not to get beaten up. Note to self: I should have included “shot.”
I was released the next morning. When I went to the business office, the clerk, whose name tag read MS. BEESON, said, “It’s already been taken care of.”
“By who?” I asked.
“The person wishes to remain anonymous,” the clerk said, her round brown face set in a way that implied I shouldn’t look gift horses in the mouth.
This made me uneasy, very uneasy. I actually had the money in the bank to pay the whole bill, instead of sending a check each month. And nothing comes without a price. There were some people to whom I just didn’t want to be beholden. When I absorbed the total at the bottom of the bill, I was shocked to find how very beholden I’d be.
Maybe I should have stayed in the office longer and argued with Ms. Beeson more forcefully, but I just didn’t feel up to it. I wanted to shower, or at least bathe—something more thorough than the high-spots scrub I’d given myself (very slowly and carefully) that morning. I wanted to eat my own food. I wanted some solitude and peace. So I got back in the wheelchair and let the aide wheel me out of the main entrance. I felt like the biggest idiot when it occurred to me that I didn’t have a way home. My car was still in the library parking lot in Bon Temps—not that I was supposed to drive it for a couple of days.
Just as I was about to ask the aide to wheel me back inside so I could ride up to Calvin’s room (maybe Dawson could give me a lift), a sleek red Impala came to a halt in front of me. Claudine’s brother, Claude, leaned over to push open the passenger door. I sat gaping at him. He said irritably, “Well, are you going to get in?”
“Wow,” muttered the aide. “Wow.” I thought her blouse buttons were going to pop open, she was breathing so hard.
I’d met Claudine’s brother Claude only once before. I’d forgotten what an impact he made. Claude was absolutely breathtaking, so lovely that his proximity made me tense as a high wire. Relaxing around Claude was like trying to be nonchalant with Brad Pitt.
Claude had been a stripper on ladies’ night at Hooligans, a club in Monroe, but lately he’d not only moved into managing the club, he’d also branched into print and runway modeling. The opportunities for such work were few and far between in northern Louisiana, so Claude (according to Claudine) had decided to compete for Mr. Romance at a romance readers’ convention. He’d even had his ears surgically altered so they weren’t pointed anymore. The big payoff was the chance to appear on a romance cover. I didn’t know too much about the contest, but I knew what I saw when I looked at Claude. I felt pretty confident Claude would win by acclamation.
Claudine had mentioned that Claude had just broken up with his boyfriend,