I DISCONNECTED THE CALL WITH my dad and resumed typing, pushing my parents’ dysfunctional relationship and my mom’s crazy K fears far from my mind as I quoted research from the Weston A. Price Foundation extolling the merits of lard, full-fat butter, and cod liver oil consumption.
The Krinar were a highly intelligent, ancient species that clearly held a genetic advantage over humans, given what we had witnessed as far as their physical capabilities, not to mention what we had been told of their extended life spans. They’d taken over Earth in a matter of weeks, wielding technology more impressive than anything our science fiction novels had ever contemplated. And although we were similar in appearance to the Krinar—albeit far less beautiful and perfect-looking—by the Krinar’s own admission, our human DNA was actually more similar to that of a gorilla than that of a Krinar.
Therefore, who the hell were they to decide what we should eat?
I chose to ignore the fact that gorillas were herbivores—because it was irrelevant to my point. (Sort of.)
And besides, if a vegan diet was so fulfilling to them as a species, why did they crave our blood so much? Maybe it was they who were missing something from this perfect vegan diet of theirs that they’d now subjected the entire planet to. And what if the same missing link in their diet led to humans eventually craving blood as well?
Fuck. I removed my glasses and rubbed my eyes. I was going off the rails and reasoning like my mother now.
My mind drifted to thoughts of Vair—specifically, the way he had bitten me that night at the club—and I wondered what my blood had tasted like to him. Just thinking about the way his bite had felt always got me uncomfortably aroused. It was a memory I’d pleasured myself to on more than one occasion—more often than I cared to contemplate.
What if I was becoming a xeno?
The notion terrified me.
And aroused me.
Because I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Too often I’d lie awake in bed at night wondering what he was doing at that very moment. I’d even go so far as to run through alternate scenarios in my head about how things might play out if I ever got the courage to get out of bed, get dressed, and go back to his club.
Proof-positive I was going insane.
In some scenarios I imagined him being terribly angry with me for the article I’d written about his club—possibly reacting with violence. This potential alone was enough to keep me from ever venturing back. Other times I envisioned him mocking me for coming back, laughing in my face and tossing me out of his club.
Yet somehow I felt it was more likely he’d forgotten about me altogether by now—too busy sucking and fucking New York City’s finest supermodels, no doubt.
Ironically, rather than ruin business for Vair, the article I’d written had made his x-club the most sought-after secret sex club in Manhattan. Instead of being warned away, humans were more curious than ever to explore the sexual proclivities of the Ks, resulting in more eager xenos than before.
I shook my head. I’d inadvertently done Vair a favor with my article. He had no reason to be mad.
But beyond that, I doubted he’d be too terribly concerned with me one way or another, based on the fact that I had heard from Vair—just once—right after my story was printed.
An enormous exotic fruit basket had been delivered to me at the Herald. And by exotic, I mean the basket was filled with fruits that couldn’t have been grown anywhere on Earth. I’d been terrified to even touch it, but Jay had dug right in, rummaging through and examining each unusual, delicious-looking piece of edible perfection.
There’d been a note with the basket. And the few words written in bold, black scrawl on the rectangular-shaped, cream-colored cardstock had nearly sent me into cardiac arrest the first time I’d held the sturdy little paper between my trembling fingertips.
I’d reread those words only a few thousand times, making myself as well as Jay a nervous wreck by analyzing every possible overt and hidden message contained therein, only to resign myself to the fact that Vair was once again messing with me—the same way he had the night we’d met at his club—teasing me and fucking with my head like the inferior human specimen that he clearly took me for.
No wonder he had seemed so amused that night at the club as I’d lied to him about being a grad student earning my Master’s.
I decided his note was Vair-speak equivalent for: “Congratulations. I was on to you all along from the moment you entered my club, and I played you right back.”
Because he had. Played me.
I’d succumbed all too easily to his undeniable sexual thrall.
And he was letting me know that he didn’t give a fuck about my little article. While making it painfully clear that he still held all the power—and that he could use it to crush me if he chose to.
He knew where I lived. Where I worked. He knew the truth of what had happened between us. He was above the law—as were all Ks—and far higher up on the food chain than I was.
But he let the article run and my white lie stand because he simply didn’t care one way or another.
That conclusion alone should’ve been a relief to me.
But it wasn’t. For some reason it infuriated me to my very core.
Against Jay’s protests, I’d pitched that giant, fancy exotic fruit basket straight down the incinerator shoot along with Vair’s mocking card that same evening.
And I’d committed myself to writing any and every anti-K story that the Herald would print ever since.
My fingers were flying over the keyboard when both of the computer screens in front of me flickered, then went dark.
My palm connected with the wood laminate desktop as I silently cursed the Herald’s ever-cheapening technology systems in their quest to cut costs.
I glanced at my watch. It was after 7 p.m. Great. No one in IT would be around. Leaning forward, I reached behind the monitors to fiddle with the connection, hoping it was just a loose cable, when my screens abruptly came back on, along with my speakers—at max volume.
I froze, my heart seizing in my chest at the sights and sounds that assaulted me.
The right monitor displayed footage of me from my night at the x-club—my writhing body held high in Vair’s arms, dress hiked up to my waist, back pressed against the wall. My lust-dazed face was plainly visible, my plaintive cry of “Please, Vair” distinctly audible over the pulsing background beat of club music as the gorgeous alien ground himself rhythmically between my spread thighs.
The incriminating scenes playing out on the left monitor were far worse, the sounds more embarrassing still. I stopped breathing as a high-def montage of our tangled, glistening naked bodies copulating in every manner and position I’d ever contemplated streamed across my screen.