Big Vamp on Campus - Molly Harper Page 0,19

it came from Kenton, the bespectacled vampire from my lit class.

O—Not sure if you’re going to see this because you haven’t accepted my friend request. But I was hoping we could talk about the poetry seminar. I have a couple of thoughts about Middle Eastern literature in general and I thought maybe you’d like to get together for a bloodychino to talk. I tried talking about it with one of our classmates—that guy who sits in front of me—but he put his earbud back in and started playing one of those jewel matching games. So anyway, get back to me about coffee. Unless you’re ignoring me, in which case, I’ll just slink back to my corner of the Internet.

I was tempted to respond, so tempted. And yes, I recognized that a good portion of my emotional response was based on the ego stroke of having someone pursue me, instead of competing with an Xbox and dude bros. Plus, Kenton wasn’t exactly unfortunate-looking. And there was no harm in a little harmless flirtation.

Yes, that was a rationalization. I was a rational vampire. I wasn’t perfect. I clicked on Kenton’s profile.

His profile photo was a selfie of him standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, in 1963. He was taking selfies before it was cool. According to his About tab, Kenton was born in 1890 in New York. He’d been turned in 1913, and he listed “not dying of influenza” as one of his human interests, which made me snicker.

I swiped back to the Messenger app and let my finger hover over his message. This seemed like a slippery slope, ethics-wise. I wasn’t known for my strong stands, in terms of morality, but . . .

No.

I pushed my fingertip against the message, planning to reject it and block Kenton from being able to see me. I didn’t cheat. I was a one-man vampire. I loved Jamie. Xbox and all. I would figure out how to bring our relationship back into balance. And I would do it without bringing in another person.

And then a message from Jamie popped up.

Hey, babe! What are you doing on Messenger? You’re never on Messenger.

I nearly dropped my damn iPad.

Me: I was just checking my messages. What are you up to?

Jamie: Watching a game with the guys. Want me to stop by later? What are you doing tonight?

The elevator car stopped, and a pair of lithe brunettes stepped into the tiny space with me. I intentionally held my breath, cutting my senses off from the delicious scent of the sweet, eighty-percent-innocent blood running under their soft, peach-smooth skin. I liked to think it was a sign of emotional growth that I was more focused on the potential impact of double elevator murder on my ability to make the dean’s list than I was on the promise of a nummy nubile feeding.

I remembered the girls as Keagan and Morgan, Meagan’s two little friends from the fourth floor. We obeyed the social contract of elevator etiquette, each of us facing the door and not making eye contact. The girls leaned their heads together and whispered, as if I couldn’t hear them clearly in twenty square feet of enclosed space. I was about to type a response to Jamie, telling him to come on over when the game was finished, when I heard Morgan whisper, “You ask her.”

“No, you ask her,” Keagan shot back.

“No, you!”

“You!”

I bit my lip and reminded myself yet again of how difficult it would be to conceal a double murder committed in a public elevator. I smiled, in the most nonthreatening manner I could muster, then turned, making them both jump back against the wall of the car.

“Why don’t you both ask me so I can get out of this elevator with this pleasant smile intact on my face?”

All of the color drained out of Keagan’s cheeks, but she cleared her throat and asked, “Is that the floor plan for the party?”

“Can we see it?” Morgan added quickly, her own cheeks flushed with excitement.

I lifted a brow. Small talk. Small talk that I might be interested in pursuing. This was a first.

“Oh, um, yes.” I actually bobbled my tablet a little bit before showing them the image.

Both girls made a pleased “Ohhh” sound before nodding enthusiastically.

“Nice,” Morgan said.

“Do you really think you’re going to be able to make the lounge look like that?” Keagan asked. “That looks like a swanky club scene in a movie.”

“A classy movie,” Morgan added.

I wasn’t sure whether my smile should be smug