Chapter 12: Between Breaths

As soon as the van was out of sight the smile left my face. I started walking down the street without a backwards glance. I was so angry I couldn't think straight. This time Lestat had crossed the line. Annoying me was one thing, but threatening my work (not to mention other perfectly innocent people) was quite another.

I wasn't surprised when a cold hand grabbed mine and spun me around. He just stood there staring me down, as though it was me who had affronted him, who had embarrassed him and put his job in danger. I stared straight back, took repossession of my hand and turned around, walking faster than before.

This time he grabbed me by the wrist and spun me around a little more roughly. His face was a cold mask; his eyes burned with whatever it was that had made him so angry. I had an idea, but I no longer cared; I stared straight back again without flinching. I felt the anger inside of me welling up. I was going to burst soon and it wasn't going to be pretty. Never in my life had someone infuriated me in this way. I tried to shake his grip, but this time he wasn't letting go. With my lips pursed to whiteness I warned him with a thought. I received no answer; he simply continued to stare me down as though I had suffered him the greatest possible offense. I couldn't believe this, what was he playing at?

I had promised myself I wouldn't be the first to break, but finally I could contain myself no longer.

"What in the bloody fucking hell was that?" I half-shrieked, jerking at my still imprisoned hand, "Who do you think you are?"

He still stood there with that impassive look on his face.

"I can't believe you…you pompous ass, that's my bloody job! Do you have any idea what you did in there?"

No change.

I was struggling harder now, my wrist would have finger shaped bruises tomorrow.

"What is wrong with you?" I gasped between labored breaths.

The bastard started to laugh. Not a malicious sort of laughter, not the maniacal laughter of the evil demon he was; straight from the gut, head thrown back – the laughter of a man who found the situation genuinely comical.

He was mocking me.

This time the attempt to free my wrist worked; he was so taken up in laughing at my outburst. I started walking again, but he caught up with me in microseconds. I had my arms wrapped around my chest again in an attempt to prevent any future imprisonment.

"Oh, come on, " he chuckled, "you have to admit, that was absolutely hilarious."

My face turned bright red and I was seriously fighting the urge to just pounce on him and start bashing his head against the pavement. "Hilarious?" I asked, my voice trembling with rage.

"Ugh, you humans take everything so seriously, " he offered flippantly.

"Lestat you just put my fucking job on the line. If my editor ever hears about what happened there she will fire me without a second thought. You threatened the fucking band – they were scared shitless. I don't care if you found it fucking hilarious. If you're looking for fun, go find it somewhere else, because I'm done."

He was still smothering chuckles, but his face quickly changed to match what I hoped he had realized was the seriousness of the situation.

Nope.

"Now that was a gross over-exaggeration if ever I heard one," he said, "I merely behaved as they expected me to. I gave them a show they'll never forget!"

"Right," I muttered.

"Ok," he said, blocking my path – and I was so close to home, god dammit. "There's more to this than what you're telling me. Are you angry with me for not letting you go to the bar?"

My eyes widened to their painful limits at the word "letting".

"Letting?" I shouted at him. "Who are you, my father? My refusal had absolutely, and I cannot stress enough the word 'absolutely' enough, nothing to do with you other than the fact that I was afraid you might drag a couple of those guys behind a dumpster and kill them once you got bored."

He didn't even flinch, though I could see the corners of his mouth edge slightly downwards.

"This is about that boy isn't it?"

"What do you care?"

"Going with them was a bad idea – he had bad intentions." Lestat waved his hand with a dismissive gesture.

"Oh," I shot back, "and your intentions are pure as fucking snow I'm sure."

"Of course!" He smiled. I just shoved him out of the way, trying to make the last block to my door go by as quickly as possible.

Then it hit me. This was the perfect time to bring up my story. I certainly had the anger going. I prayed to whatever muse might be listening that I would be able to think on my feet…

I turned around again and almost ran straight into his chest, the idiot was still following directly behind me.

I gathered all the remaining anger that still boiled in my stomach (and believe me, I still had quite the fountain) and put my hands on my hips, staring him down in what I hoped was a threatening stance.

"That reminds me…" I started slyly, I knew exactly what I was going to say now, I just had to hold my composure.

"I received a call from an editor's assistant at Dawkins' Literary Magazine; apparently his boss was visited by a certain celebrity touting a story of mine."

Lestat's face visibly froze - keep going Evie, you almost have him.

"He said that they didn't appreciate the harassment and that if I wanted to be published in their magazine I was going to have to go through the proper channels like everyone else." I fixed my face in my best seriously angry look, which wasn't difficult, and hoped he would take the bait.

Bingo.

He muttered under his breath, "dammit…I told him it was strictly between us…" He had forgotten me; he was lost in his own thoughts.

"I knew it!" I shouted, stamping my foot and pointing my finger at him in the clichéd accusatory manner.

His brows knit together in confusion. All the feelings of humiliation I'd felt earlier, mixed with the plethora of emotions I'd undergone in the last few hours, heaved themselves onto my shoulders and before I could stop them tears sprang to my eyes.

"You're a god damn asshole and I never want to see your face again!" I shouted at him as he still stood there, stunned. Even knowing it was futile, I ran. Straight up the stairs and to my apartment, where, of course, Lestat was waiting…acceptance letter in hand.

I had already wiped the few tears that had managed to escape on my sleeve, so my face was clean, but more were threatening to spill. Why couldn't he just leave me alone? I was so tired of playing his stupid games; I just wanted to collapse into my pillow and let my tears flow freely. But I knew better than that, so I did my best to pull myself together and face him again.

"Angry phone call, huh?" He waved the letter at me with a self-gratified smirk. "I think it's my turn to ask what's wrong with you!"

I couldn't answer immediately. The lump in my throat was beginning to affect my breathing; speech wasn't exactly possible. I just stood there like an idiot though I knew exactly what I wanted to say…

Once I'd gathered my wits my anger came to my aid again. I was ready for another round, or so I thought.

"You just don't get it, Lestat. You don't get it at all." I shouted.

"Get what? Here I did you a favor and rather than thanking me profoundly as you should be you choose instead to point fingers and shout!"

"Thanking you profoundly? Are you kidding? You really don't get it! Your head is shoved so far up your own ass you can't see anyone or anything that isn't you! And as for your 'favor', well you can take it and stick it right up there with your head!" I was starting to get a little hysterical.

"I got you published!" He returned. I could see this was turning into a genuine argument, with both parties angry. "Obviously I wasted my time trying to help you!"

"Help me? Did I ever ask for your help? Do you understand what your so-called 'help' has probably done to my reputation? Who cares if they want to publish me? How do I know whether it's because my writing was up to their standards or because you told them to? You know what, it doesn't even matter because you've already planted the seed. Who's going to respect me as a real writer when they find out that my first story was published because of special treatment? God, do you ever think about anyone but yourself?"

The longer I spoke the more slurred my words became as the tears started running down my face. My control was gone, it was over; I was a blubbering mess. I couldn't stand the shame of crying in front of him so I put my face in my hands and turned away. I don't know exactly why I had lost my composure this way. I was angry about the story, but not this angry. Everything that had happened since that stupid business party was flashing through my mind, it all added up to chaos. I no longer knew what to do. Then I felt cold arms pull me into a tight embrace. My stupid mind finally shut down and I buried my face in the soft shirt covering a hard chest. He just held me there for a few minutes, I found myself not wanting to ever move again.

Finally his hand found my face and pulled it up to his. He kissed me softly, his hand on my cheek didn't feel as cold as before. The kiss deepened, I let him explore my mouth with his tongue; everything in me was melting, my arms were around his neck, my fingers tangled in his hair. His hands reached my hips and pulled me closer to him, one slipped under my shirt and up my back, fingers moving in circles caressing up and down. Before I knew it he was carrying me to my bedroom; clothes were dispatched with, I let myself get lost in him completely. I could feel him absorbing my warmth as our bodies melded. He wasn't rough or gentle, we both moved like people who needed to be touched with a sort of desperation. We wiped both of our sullied minds clean with each kiss, each caress. Every movement had meaning, not a moment was wasted.

Once we were both too exhausted to give or take anymore we lay there on my bed, replete with satiation. Lestat held me protectively, my head on his chest. His lack of heartbeat was strangely calming; with my ear pressed down where his heart was and my hand flat next to my nose I meditated in the deep silence. Lestat rested his chin on my head and toyed with my hair. Neither of us said a word…with this great expulsion of stress and frustration in the quiet of Lestat's arms I fell asleep.

When I woke the next morning I was alone, but the bed wasn't cold. I sat up and rubbed my eyes wondering whether it had all been a dream. My body said it certainly hadn't, but it wasn't the only thing.

There on the pillow next to mine lay a perfect black rose.