The Fangover (The Fangover 1)

And now she was cursing with a creativity that astounded him, her eyes blazing with fury, her finger bleeding from the lamp she’d shattered.

Finally, she seemed spent, her face crumpling. She gave one final kick, right through Johnny’s ashes. She seemed to instantly regret it, her heavy breathing the only sound in the room as she bent to try to cup his ashes back into a pile, then thought better of it.

She burst into tears as she stood back up, fingers flexing.

Wyatt moved toward her. “Oh, Stella, sweetie, I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his chest. She let him, which showed him she was really a hot mess. Stella didn’t like to be touched—not by him, anyway. She thought of him as the goofy guitar player. Fine for friendship, but nothing else. And she’d never let him get particularly close to her.

For years—okay, decades—he’d had a crush on her. But she was out of his league and he knew it. He was just a dusty old cowboy-turned-vampire guitar player, and she was all that was class and intelligence.

If he could be there for her in any way, hell, he was grateful. He held her and murmured words of comfort in her ear, his hand rubbing up and down her back. It was so damn hard to process the fact that Johnny was gone. It was surreal, mind-boggling. So he focused on the feel of Stella in his arms, the soft floral scent of her hair, and the sound of her sobbing as it slowed into snuffled crying. He was glad she hadn’t found Johnny alone.

“I’m really sorry,” he told her again. “But eternity is a long time. Maybe Johnny was just tired of the ride.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, her words muffled against his chest. “I need a glass of wine. My stomach is upset.”

Wyatt wasn’t sure that alcohol was the best thing for her, but he kissed the top of her head and moved to Johnny’s sparse kitchen. He found vodka and rum, but no wine. He poured some vodka into a glass and brought it to Stella. She tossed it back in one quick motion.

Holy shit. Wyatt wiped the tears off her cheeks, debating whether he should suggest they clean up Johnny or if he should wait and let her take the lead. She was a control freak, so chances were she’d want to handle it, but he was a little concerned he might wind up with Johnny on his boot if they left him there too long. There was something seriously unpleasant about the thought of walking around with his best friend stuck to him like old gum.

“Can I have another drink?”

Wyatt hesitated, but she looked up at him, so vulnerable, eyes glazed with shock and pain, that he couldn’t say no. “Sure.”

He went back to the kitchen, feeling the need for a drink himself, Stella on his tail. She kept glancing back to the pile of ash, almost as morbid as an actual body lying there would have been. “I just don’t understand,” she repeated.

“That’s the rub, honey. Some things we’re just not going to be able to understand.” Like how he could be looking at Stella and thinking how beautiful she was when they were in the midst of tragedy. Or that her body looked particularly enticing in her jeans and V-neck T-shirt. But he was. Which made him a sick, sick man, and eternally grateful that she couldn’t read his mind.

Of course, he always had those thoughts around Stella. Maybe he was just conditioned to be aware of what she was wearing and how much he wanted to play hide the salami with her that even death couldn’t distract him.

Now he definitely needed a drink.

Wyatt poured her another finger of vodka, and one for himself. She downed it then just took the whole bottle out of his hand, clearly going for efficiency. He felt his eyes widen as she chugged half of it. Who chugged vodka? His throat burned just watching her. “Stella. Babe. I think that’s enough.” He reached for the bottle.

She evaded his hand. “He left me. He just left me here. All alone. By myself.”

The pit in his gut had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the fact that for a very long time he’d been crushing on Stella, and it broke his goddamn heart to hear her so torn up, so quiet, so sad.

“You’re not alone. I’m here.” He brushed her auburn hair back off her cheek. Stella’s Irish heritage was evident in her hair coloring, and the dusting of freckles that popped even louder against her pale, smooth vampire skin.

“I’ve never been alone, Wyatt. I’m scared.”

“You’re not alone.” He cupped her cheeks, moving so that his body blocked hers up against the counter. He wanted her to feel that he was physically there, not going anywhere. He wanted to reassure her.

“You won’t leave me?” she asked softly, her green eyes glassy with grief and alcohol.

“No, I won’t leave you.” He wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but he was willing to offer her anything that she would take. It was no secret to him that he’d been finding excuses to spend time with Stella for years. Hell, that was half the reason he stayed in the band, because Stella was the sound tech and he got to see her five days a week. It was very possible he was actually in love with her, if he wanted to get technical about it.

But Stella had never given him the time of day. Or night, more accurately.

Until now.

Now she was gripping the front of his shirt and staring up at him with such woeful eyes he would have done anything she asked.

“Kiss me,” she said.

“Uh . . .” For a second Wyatt wondered if he’d slipped at work and hit his head on an amp and he was unconscious. This had to be a dream. Well, a nightmare and a dream. Johnny was gone. Dead. Stella wanted to kiss him. The whole world had tilted on its side.

None of this could be real.

Only he hadn’t gone to work since it was Monday and their night off from playing on Bourbon Street.

He didn’t think he was dreaming.

And if he thought about it too much, his head might actually explode, so he decided not to think at all. He was just going to obey.

Kiss her. He could do that.

He leaned down, eyeing her small lips with a predatory satisfaction. He’d been waiting forty years for a crack at her mouth.

Stella wasn’t really sure why she had asked Wyatt to kiss her. It was just that she felt so lonely, so shocked, so horrified. So drunk.

Her brother was dead. After eighty-five years of hanging out undead together, her taking care of him, suddenly he was gone. Just gone. He was never supposed to be gone. They were going to live forever. But he hadn’t. She couldn’t comprehend it. She couldn’t think about it. At all.