I waved good-bye to my seven-year-old son on my mother’s porch, with the rather trepidatious sense that I was headed off to war. Pulse racing. Mind scattered. My hunt sweater already appreciably damp at the pits.
Zac turned away from me, hiding his face against my mother’s leg. He wasn’t speaking to me. Weeks ago, I’d apprised him of my intention to play paintball with some of my friends. He’d wanted to join. I’d been forced to explain that this was grown-up paintball, and he had, for all appearances, accepted this.
This morning, however, he was being what my partner, Drix, referred to as “a Gloomy Gus.” Over breakfast, he had expressed a deep displeasure at my temerity in going to play paintball without him.
“Zac?”
He turned, not quite looking at me.
“I’ll see you later, okay?”
He didn’t answer.
I might have lingered a bit longer, gazing at my son’s perfect face: smooth, dark skin and eyes like blown glass—the richest, glossiest brown, with so much life in them that a single look could stun me. But my mother nodded at me to go on.
“Good-bye, Zac,” I tried once more.
He slipped past Mom and into her house without a word. I met Mom’s gaze, embarrassed. “He’s in a bit of a mood this morning. I apologize.”
My mother—imperious, regal, intimidating—stared back at me. “You don’t have to apologize for your kid being a kid.”
I nodded tersely. “Yes, well.”
“Go. He’ll be fine.”
I nodded again. I knew I had a tendency to be a bit collet monté. I was working on it. “I’m wondering . . . in light of the fact that he’s angry with me, perhaps it would be prudent of me to pick him up after the event, rather than leaving him here for the night.”
Her mouth set in a wide, flat line. “Baby. I’m about to tell you where to stick your prudence in a minute. Go have fun.”
I swallowed, unsure how to adequately express my gratitude to her. While she didn’t know the specifics of “the event,” I had a feeling she understood what sort of event it was. My coming out kinky to her over a year ago had not gone particularly well, but since then she had made a genuine effort to be kinder about it.
“Thank you.” I stuck my hands in my pockets and turned to go to the car, where Drix was waiting.
“Miles?” my mother asked.
I faced her again.
She held out her arms.
I hesitated, then stepped forward. She hugged me with such firmness that I had no choice but to take my hands from my pockets and hug her back.
“Have fun,” she repeated, with a hint of a warning.
Fun. Yes. I could do that. It wasn’t exactly my forte, but I would manage.
I went to the car and climbed into the driver’s seat.
My normally affable partner was not faring much better than my son. Drix had been in an unpleasant mood since I’d picked him up this morning. And moving through this world with a dour, six-foot-seven vampyre by your side was not my idea of a good time.
As we drove toward the hunt site, I attempted to make small talk. “The vaccination form has to be sent to Zac’s school. I paid the student fees, but we need to purchase supplies for the school. They’re in desperate need of paper towels, which the teachers will have to pay for out of pocket if the school doesn’t receive enough donations. I’m thinking on the first day, we’ll need to swap cars, since you’ll likely have a class that morning.” Drix taught body-awareness courses to members of his vampyre coven. “So I’ll take the donations to school in the SUV at six fifteen.”
He sighed. It was unnerving when somebody who was perpetually good-natured and laid-back sighed with such displeasure.
“What?” I glanced at him. “I’m just reminding you.”
“Miles. Can we please try to have a fun day and forget about school and what car we’ll take where at what precise second?”
I focused on the road, flexing my fingers on the wheel. “I’m not sure why you’re angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You’re not happy.”
“I didn’t sleep great. Do you remember what I was telling you last night?”
“You told me you’re being deposed in that assault case.” I wasn’t sure what he was getting at.
He shrugged, his hands pressed together between his knees.
“What?” I wasn’t in the mood for guessing games.
“I’m just stressed is all,” he said with exaggerated patience. “You know that investigation was tough for me.” He paused. “I still don’t know if I was right to take the job. But she was so smart and funny, and I just . . .”
“I know.”
“I knew the guy was an abusive asshole. But she was so worried about him. I don’t want to think about that case, or remember it, let alone tell the court she ended up in a hospital for weeks because I helped her find him.”
Drix hadn’t cared much for his previous job as a private investigator—mostly because it was dull—but I remembered him citing this particular case as an example of the wrong sort of exciting. The client’s abusive boyfriend had gone AWOL; she suspected he’d gone on an extended bender, and hired Drix to help her locate the guy. He’d done it despite the red flags. Two weeks after he found the asshole, the client was in the hospital with a fractured arm and a luxated eye that had to be replaced in its socket.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I assured him.
“Regardless. I’m not looking forward to this.” His tone indicated that the significant discrepancy between my academic intelligence and my social intelligence was showing.
“And when is the deposition?” I tried to sound sympathetic. I was sympathetic. I’d just never been skilled at offering people comfort.
“Early May.”
“You told me this already, didn’t you?”
“Last night.”
I took a deep breath. “Hon. Last night was a mess. Zac was throwing a fit about cleaning up the Lego, and then my sister came over, and I just— I was distracted when you called.”
He laughed and rolled his head back. His nose nearly brushed the roof of the car. “I try so hard to get mad at you, and then you go and do something like using ‘Lego’ as a plural.”
“That’s the proper—”
“I know. I just don’t know any American who says it that way in conversation.”
I stole a look at him. His long, dark-blond hair was extra wavy from the humidity, and he had his violet contacts in. His mouth was open slightly, and I could just see the filed points of his canines. I felt such a rush of love for him that my voice stalled for a moment. “You could have come over, you know.”
He tipped his head toward me. Smiled, with fangs. “I wasn’t sure you wanted me.”
“I always want you.”
He didn’t answer.
I had, for some months, been politely and guiltily maneuvering around an elephant in the room: Drix was over at my house at least five nights a week. He was a second father to Zac. I loved him. I wanted him to be a continued presence in Zac’s life—and in mine, of course. And perhaps I felt some pressure to cohabitate, looking around at my friends: Kamen and Ryan had leased a place together after dating only four months. Dave had moved in with D after two years. Gould didn’t officially live with GK and Kel, but it was only a matter of time.
Drix and I had been together just over two years, and I had yet to even bring it up. At first I’d told myself that he probably didn’t want to live with me. He had a perfectly nice house with lovely quartz countertops, and the nonobnoxious sort of contemporary art on the walls. But this past summer, he’d mentioned a willingness to sell his house, which I got the feeling was a not-so-subtle hint that he wanted us to live together in mine.
I put a hand on his knee. Squeezed.
He placed his hand on mine. Ran his thumb along the side of my pinkie, a gesture that, no matter how many times he did it, still made my throat tighten with its simplicity, its gentleness. “I’m sorry. I said we should enjoy our day without talking about stressful things. And then I brought this up.”
For the record, Drix was not the sort of significant other who demanded a great deal of attention or reassurance. He was admirably independent—a refreshing break from my friends—and rarely got angry or fretful. He was a very comforting presence. It was unfortunate that he’d received bad news the night before what was supposed to be our first stress-free, childless day together in weeks. “I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted.”
We shared a glance.
There were moments I swore we could read each other’s mind. Maybe Drix’s vampyric, energy-sharing theories weren’t complete mumbo jumbo. I pulled onto the side of the road, put my hazards on, and leaned across the console to kiss him. I pressed my tongue against the points of his filed canines, feeling his warmth, his sweetness. He was a gentleman when he kissed, except when I demanded that he be a rogue, and right now I tangled my hand in his long hair and forced his mouth hard against mine until he took the hint and started stabbing my tongue with his fangs and bruising my lips with the pressure of each kiss.
We stopped, panting slightly.
“Do we even have to hunt?” he asked. “I just want to stay in this car and fuck you all morning.”
Heat slashed me like a blade. “We need the prizes,” I reminded him. “The vac bed.”
When the idea of the hunt had first been presented to me, I hadn’t so much as considered giving an affirmative. I was not a slave, nor was I particularly submissive, and the notion that I would want to spend two hours in the woods while strangers and acquaintances shot paintballs at me was laughable. Even more laughable was the notion that I would then allow those strangers to amuse themselves with my body on the whipping posts.
But then we’d heard about the prizes.
Despite my general efficiency with funds and formerly significant savings, money was tight. Children were expensive—more so than even I could have anticipated. I’d had to cut back on any luxuries I craved for myself. Including bedroom equipment.
The prize for the hunter who captured the most prey at today’s hunt was a hundred-dollar gift certificate to the Pleasure Center, a queer-friendly adult shop with a massive kink selection. They even carried vac beds, which Drix and I had both wanted to try for months. In my case, years.
The prize for any slave who eluded capture for the full two hours was a fifty-dollar gift certificate. So if Drix caught the most slaves, and I eluded capture, then between the two of us, we’d have about a quarter of the vac bed price covered.
“You’re right,” he said. “But if I didn’t want to encase you in latex so much . . .”
“You’d fuck me right here?”
“Damn straight.”
I drove on, glad that we were back in each other’s good graces. Pleased and slightly guilty at the excuse to put aside my thoughts on moving in together, for the time being.