Two
Phoenix
A girl. The random number game this shithole likes to play threw us in with a fucking girl.
Great.
As if the hipster wasn’t bad enough. He fucking unloaded more herbs than an Olive Garden out of his duffle bag, decorating our room like a fucking greenhouse. And now, to top it off, the two of them are speaking quietly together in Spanish. As if by whispering, Saint and I won’t know what the fuck they’re saying.
News flash, I already don’t know what the fuck you’re saying and the conspiratorial tone it’s said in just pisses me off even more.
My attention drifts to Saint and it’s like the vampire knows exactly what I’m thinking just by looking at me. I hated that he could do that when we were younger and I hate it now. He reads people too easily.
It’s fucking creepy.
And hot.
I shift my attention and pin my glare to the back of her inky hair. It curls down at the ends, wafting across the narrow span of her back, nearly touching the perfect curve of her ass.
She’s wearing a leather jacket like she might catch a cold in this fresh hell they’ve tossed us all into.
The longer I stare at her though, the more I really notice her curves. The sliver of skin peeking out beneath her t-shirt and the way her torn jeans hug her body like a second skin.
The quietness of my chest gives an aching spasm, disrupting the emptiness just slightly. It’s the smallest hint of emotion, a tease of feelings.
Then it’s gone.
“Malek,” Hipster says, his big hand sliding into hers with so slowly it’s like he’s fucking her palm with each roll of his wrist. Jesus just get out already. Go fuck in the hall like the rest of these people.
Maybe I’m bitter. I am. I know I am because Saint says I am. He’s so good at reading people I don’t even question it when he says something like that. I’d trust his word over a trained psychiatrist any day.
I’m tired of searching for real feelings though. It’s an endless game that I always lose. I’m tired of being a fucking soulless incubus who can’t feel sex. Sex, excitement, lust, any basic human emotions in general.
It’s all bullshit.
I’ve tried. I’ve fucked my way through plenty of women and men, done the deed but never... felt it.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t define me.
That’s what Saint says, so it must be true.
The humming sound of Malek’s voice is this non-stop growl of flicking words and seductive tones.
If sex had a sound, it’d be that hipster asshole’s theme song.
And I can’t stand to listen to its tune any more.
I push off from the old mattress, ripping open the closet door and finding hanger after little wire hanger of khaki pants.
Fuck my life.
You know who wears khakis? People who can step foot in a fucking religious establishment without being burnt alive by holy water.
Not me.
I shake my head and tear the offensive clothing off its hanger. I pull on my assigned khaki pants like a good little academic student. I button the top button in silence. It’s so quiet I can hear the zzzppp of the fly as I pull it up.
Why the hell is it so quiet in here? I can hear the silence of my fucking soul in this place.
When I turn, all three of them are staring at me.
“What?” My jaw clenches and I look back at the closet to find crisp white button downs mocking me.
Nope. Not doing it. I shouldn’t have to wear a fucking tie.
“What?” I ask again, agitation clawing at my chest with each mute minute that slips by.
“Chick across the hall said you guys fucked,” Saint says, amusement tinging his tone.
I search my mind, but I have no idea who ‘chick across the hall’ is. My shoulders lift. “So?”
Saint’s lips do that slow slicing smile he gets when something really intrigues him.
“She said the soulless incubus had a tail. You know, little devil like tail? Spear shaped. Maybe red and swaying.” He pauses, his blue eyes lighting up like fucking christmas morning over a goddamn tail. “Care to expand on that? I’d love to get the details.”
A tail? What the fuck is wrong with people?
Somedays Saint is my best friend. But most days, he’s a demented asshole.
“I don’t have a tail. Sorry to ruin your fantasies, Saint.”
“Really? Nothing? Not even a little nub?” His long tattooed fingers gesture, putting a small amount of space between his index finger and his thumb, gesturing sizes like the fictional nub might be growing with each passing second that I let his little mind run wild with disturbing—probably naked—images of my non-existent tail.
“Fuck, shut up. There’s no tail. No...nub.” My lip curls as I say that fucking word. The bastard just wanted me to say it, I think.
New girl keeps flitting her attention over every move I make. Her watchful quietness sets me on edge. Like I’m being judged even if I’m not.
It’s not her fault. It’s my Prod’s. It draws people to it. They crave the incubus’s affection without even realizing it.
It gets me so much attention that I feel like I’m being crushed under it.
“What’s your name?” The girl tilts her head at me, her body lingering close to Malek’s like they’re already an item.
An item I’ll have to tolerate, watch, and listen to for the next four semesters.
I shake my head at both of them and, with too much strength rippling through my body, I pull the door open, letting it jar harshly against the frame before striding through it and slamming the heavy door shut behind me.
“Nice meeting you too, Nubbie,” she calls after me, her smooth voice muffled but still ringing out with clarity.
My back stiffens and I realize I should have just fucking told her my name.
It’s day one here and now my name is Nubbie now.
Fuck.
Three
Izara
“He seems friendly.” Not. And I’m going to have to put up with that asshole’s attitude for the whole school year? Just kill me now, I silently beg the nameless, faceless Prod that lays dormant inside of me.
I search inside myself, mentally pulling and tugging, looking for any sign that the thing that murdered my ex is there.
I feel nothing.
I tear my gaze away from the door long enough to look back into the eyes of Malek to find his dark gaze already regarding me through the thick-framed glasses perched on his nose. The glasses look a bit out of place on such a beautiful face, but somehow add to the allure of dark skin and prominent features. His nose is relatively straight, his cheekbones high and flushed. The shadow of a beard peppers along his jaw, and when he smiles the gesture seems… wolfish.
“So what are you?” I ask, trying to appear casual as I make my way over to the bunk bed on the right side of the room. The bottom one is bare of covers, sheets, or pillows. Nothing but a thin, lumpy looking mattress with holes sheared through it to reveal uncomfortable metal springs beneath. I poke it with my finger and immediately feel like I need to shower.
Instantly, I take a step back and fold my arms over my chest, standing awkwardly but ensuring I won’t have the urge to touch anything else for a while.