Sam and I spent the afternoon playing catch. Seriously. We found a wiffle ball dating from when Sam and Craig were kids and batted it around his Mom's backyard. I had a great time, especially after Sam told me he played first-string varsity in high school.

"So that's why you coach Little League?"

"Sure." Sam tossed the ball to me underhand. I hit a homer, meaning I knocked it the ten or so feet to his mom's back porch. "And I like kids."

"Who doesn't?" Soon as I said it, I thought of exceptions: Victor, Pam, Eric.

Actually, I didn't know how Eric felt about kids. He raised a few of his own when he had been human, but these days, he probably didn't think about them. Children would be afraid of Eric, once they stopped oohing over the flying and saw his fangs.

I didn't want to go down that road. I distracted myself with a ceremonial "home run" lap around the backyard. The sun was bright and the breeze was light and perfect, like a cool kiss. Sam and I weren't keeping score, so my run was more of a feel-good exercise than anything else. "If you like kids, maybe you should coach," Sam said as I touched the tree we'd designated home plate.

"Never thought about it." I did like kids. I loved softball and little league was close enough. I started getting excited about the idea then realized I was fooling myself. This trip proved I couldn't even vacation without an attempt on my life. Endangering children was out of the question. "I can't." Even if I wanted to.

"Why? You'd be great." Sam studied me. Uh oh. "It might be good for you to branch out." He was thinking about Eric.

"Meaning what?"

"Maybe time off from vampires wouldn't be bad."

"Yeah?" I'd expect a little vampire bashing from Jason—two years ago—but I thought Sam and I understood each other better. "How?" Call me vindictive, but I wanted to watch Sam dig his own grave. Maybe I wanted an excuse to yell at him, too.

"If you're unhappy—" he glared. "Don't look at me like that, you told me you were frightened."

"I didn't ask for your diagnosis."

Now Sam looked pissed. "Friends give advice."

"Advice? Every time something goes wrong, people are on my back about vampires."

"You told me he scared you."

I threw up my hands. "Fine. Blame Eric for my problems, because I can't make my own mess." I dropped the bat and bee-lined for the house.

Sam yelled "Sookie, wait," like he wanted to apologize, but I let the door slam anyway.

It wasn't that Sam didn't have a point. I loved Eric, but I at best felt ambivalent about his influence on my life and safety. Even so, I wouldn't tolerate other people, and especially people who didn't know what they were talking about, blaming Eric as the root of my problems. I was in deep enough with supes, shitstorms would rage whether I was with Eric or not. If we broke up, my situation would probably get worse. Lack of control scared me more than Eric: not knowing where we were headed or where my limits were. Eric liked to make rules, so if I didn't beat him to it, I'd be trapped in a situation I wouldn't like.

I went straight to the basement—it was the one place I was sure Sam wouldn't follow—and crawled in next to Eric, who was still naked, and unfortunately, still dead.

"You're too cold." I griped as I peeled off my top and clung to him monkey-style. He couldn't help it and I didn't blame him. I needed to complain, blow off steam. "You would be perfect if you had a pulse." As soon as it was out of my mouth, I realized how stupid it sounded. "Okay, you would be your weird controlling self and probably wouldn't be half as good at sex, but no one would try to kill us." Which was a big plus in my book. "You wouldn't kill people. And I wouldn't have to." It had been just a little over 24 hours since I'd shot the biker. I wanted to forget about it and hated myself for it.

Eric didn't say anything—which was good because if he were actually awake he'd say something I wouldn't like. I was too smart to talk to him like this when he could answer.

"You are so hard to love," I said, since I was putting it all out there, "And I do, even though you make me want to tear my hair out. Your secrets, high-handedness. Then, there are the things you can't even help—like Victor trying to kill you and not really knowing right from wrong."

I wasn't being fair. "Okay, you do know right from wrong. Sort of." Eric wasn't a sadist or evil or anything. But he didn't care when Alexi murdered innocent bystanders. "It's just not the right-and-wrong scale I'm used to. Or comfortable with." Yet.

The 'yet' scared me more than anything.

"I don't want to be you, baby," I whispered. I feared, against logic, that if I said it louder he might wake up.

I put my head on his chest. I wasn't expecting a heartbeat, but couldn't help feeling disappointed when I didn't hear anything. His skin was clammy. He didn't feel that different than the biker.

That made me wonder: how dead was Eric? Rhodes proved he could wake up during the day. But his daytime rest wasn't sleep. It looked wrong, too still, even to an untrained eye. I decided to experiment and peeled back Eric's eyelid.

Normal peoples' eyes twitch when they sleep. Eric's was still, rotated to show more white than iris. I waited a few seconds. His pupil didn't dilate. I dropped his lid. I knew I shouldn't be poking him like this, but he'd never know and now I was interested.

"How do your fangs work?" I said, getting into the spirit of my game. I lifted his lip. His jaw was slack, just a little space between his upper and lower teeth. Eric's fangs came from the second set of teeth over from the center. Now they looked blunt, normal.

"Sorry," I said as I touched his gum. Nothing. It felt normal. Maybe the fangs were in his palate or something. I pried his teeth apart with a finger and ventured further back into his mouth—

He swatted me on the side of my head. His hand dropped back to the mattress immediately, dead weight. "Sookie, stop," he muttered, voice muddled both by whatever weird sleep gripped him and my fingers in his mouth.

I pulled out my fingers. "I thought you were dead."

He kind of grunted and tucked his hand under my bra strap, like he was going to take it off, but had forgotten halfway. Then he was still.

I fell asleep after that. When I woke up, Eric had removed my bra and was busy kissing his way down my stomach. "Stop." I grabbed his hair. "Do you remember this afternoon?"

"No. Why?" He shook free of my hand and continued to kiss his way south.

"I woke you up," I said. "You don't remember?"

"While I appreciate you not being able to spend twelve hours without me—" I smacked his head for that. "Why did you wake me? Was it important?"

"No."

He stopped kissing and stared at me. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." I shrugged. I didn't know how to articulate my worries to myself, let alone him. I wished he had remembered. The daytime was one more thing between us. Although on the other hand, I liked my space, so maybe Eric's daytime rest was a blessing. If I had 24 hours of him, I'm pretty sure I'd drop dead of exhaustion. "I'm in house funk. Had a fight with Sam so I've spent most of the afternoon with you."

"And that upsets you?"

"Not at all," I kissed him. "But I'm not used to being underground this long."

He knew I was making excuses. I knew he knew. But, for once, he was a gentleman and changed the subject. "What did the shifter do?"

"Nothing you'd be interested in," I said, which was true. "We fought about Little League."

Eric looked bored just hearing it. "This is the children's game you dragged me to?"

Talk about selective memory. "You mean the game you stalked me to?"

Eric shrugged. "I wouldn't have gone if you hadn't been there."

"That's called stalking."

"Then I stalked you." He buried his face in my hair. "I liked it."

I'd liked it too. "Creep."

"Enough," he said. "In twenty minutes, we're on the road to Vegas."

"Twenty minutes?" I found his butt and squeezed. "Stingy."

"Quiet, woman," he said. Then he flipped me onto the bed and sank his fangs into my neck.

I yelped. It stung more than hurt, even though I hadn't been expecting it. He sucked and I felt some trickle down my neck. The more he drank the more the bite throbbed and the more I felt loose-limbed and dizzy, like I'd had one too many gin and tonics. He was getting hard.

His fangs clicked out of my throat. It stung until he licked the wound. "You're so good," he murmured. "You taste sweet."

Then he part-kissed, more attacked me, lips still bloody. I got a big old metallic mouthful of myself. He could wax poetic all he wanted, but the taste made my skin crawl. "Eric—" I tried to come up for air.

"Bite me," he murmured against my mouth. He didn't mean it figuratively.

By his rules, we only had twenty minutes. "Vegas—"

"Bite me," he repeated, pinning me to the bed beneath him. "I want to feel close to you." He was hard and rubbing against me and the more he did it, the more I got into it, so I let the ticking clock go and bit his throat.

My teeth weren't sharp like his, so it was more of a rip than a prick. He gave a good long groan and I kissed the wound I'd made. His blood was thick and sweet. As I sucked, I felt my heart rate pick up and my hair stand on end. I goosepimpled. Every pore on my body opened, waking up from a nap I hadn't known they'd took. His hands felt scalding hot. His touch, electric. I was ready for him, more than ready, as he spread my legs and pushed inside me.

Somewhere along the line I'd lost his wound. Maybe it healed. I put my hands on his chest. No heartbeat, but I could feel my blood pumping inside him. My pulse echoed in my ears, louder than usual.

"Listen," I whispered and put his hand on my throat at the pulse point. My blood leapt out of my veins to be near him. I could feel it push against the thin layer of skin and sinew.

"I hear you always," he said, increasing his thrusts. I cried out. He put his fingers in my mouth. It was sloppy and I felt drunk. My pulse drummed loud like it was knocking on a door that, suddenly, swung open. I gasped. I felt every one of my arteries—at once, I knew where they all were—a map, just learned. When I felt blood fire through them, hot and fast, it was a level of clarity beyond my senses. I'd never been so in touch with my own body. I realized he was opening the bond. This is how he felt all the time. This is what it was to be a vampire.

It felt really good.

I probably yelled his name. I don't even know. The next thing, we were lying in a tangle of sweat—all mine—sheets kicked on the floor. He had his head on my chest. I opened my mouth to thank him, but he put his hand over it.

His head was on my chest. He opened the bond again and I heard my heart pounding. Each thump tugged: I felt longing. I felt empty. I wanted- something, more desperately than I'd wanted anything before. The desire was so powerful; I felt high. Giddy. My throat was dry. I salivated. And it was that, the kind of gross human reflex that made me realize he was sharing his hunger. Fear shot through me. He was trying to make me like him.

"Eric, stop." He didn't. He was too turned on. He was hard again.

So I put my hand on his face and tried to shoot my panic at him.

He sat up like I'd slapped him. "What was that?"

He liked this stupid bond so much, he could get it. I grabbed his face and sent all my frustration, the lack of control—being forced to run from one life threatening situation to the next—the desperation, my fears that he wasn't as good as he seemed, that I hoped he was. That was all far too specific for what really felt like exhaustion and panic.

I dropped my hand. He stared at me, then said, "Apologize."

"Why?" I hadn't done anything.

"I give you good feelings, you—" he wasn't able to finish the sentence. His accent came out strongly. He was upset. He got out of bed and pulled on pants.

"You mind-controlled me."

"I share what I feel," he said. "Don't distrust me."

I was spitting mad. "Then don't give me the reason."

"I don't." He picked my top off the floor and threw it at me. I caught it before it hit me in the face. Vampire reflexes. I'd had too much blood. "I'll be in the car."

He was up the stairs and gone before I blinked.