The Fangover (The Fangover 1)

His erection throbbed again. He needed a drink himself.

What he wasn’t going to offer Stella was a look at the second note he’d found from Johnny in the cookie jar shaped like a bust of Elvis. Going off his suicide note, Wyatt had checked for the fifty bucks referenced after he had cleaned up Johnny’s ashes. But there weren’t cookies or cash in the jar. Just another note from Johnny that read, “Stella, you’re a sucka. You know I’m broke as a joke. Love, your brother.”

So Wyatt had put Johnny in the cookie jar. He figured that was fitting.

“Yo, dude, I need a break,” Saxon said over his shoulder. “I lost my ChapStick. And this is harshin’ my mellow.”

Wyatt didn’t even bother to ask what exactly was bothering Saxon. He just nodded and turned to Cort. “Five?” he asked.

Cort nodded and at the end of the song, they put down their instruments and picked up their drinks. It was a nightly ritual they were all familiar with. They had been playing together for years and while Wyatt could do without yet another set crammed with Journey, Bon Jovi, and Lynyrd Skynyrd, he enjoyed watching the crowds. It beat the hell out of playing some glittery game of baseball.

Setting down his five-string Spector bass, he went in search of Stella and another beer. He wanted to make sure she was okay. The beer he just needed in order to survive another hour of this weird night.

He didn’t have to look far. With a wave at Raven, a pretentious vampire who played in a rival band on Bourbon, Stella barreled across the room toward him, a little unsteady, clutching her purse strap. For years, she’d been wearing a uniform of tight jeans, combat boots, a variety of rock T-shirts, and a banged-up cross-body bag in worn brown leather. You’d think it was her baby the way she always cuddled it to her br**sts. He had to admit he was just a little bit jealous of that leather bag.

“How are you doing?” he asked her, reaching for her hand, wanting to touch her.

She ignored the question and his reach, leaving his hand floating in midair. “Do you have Johnny’s blood vial?”

“Um . . . no.” Caught off guard he let his hand drop. “I left it on the breakfast bar.”

Frowning, she said, “I was just at Johnny’s apartment. It wasn’t there.”

“You probably just missed it.” It was a small necklace, a tiny skull filled with a drop of Johnny’s blood. He could see why Stella would want to keep it, but it would be easy to have looked around the room and not have seen it. “So how are you holding up?”

* * *

STELLA FELT INCREDIBLY impatient with the way Wyatt was talking to her and looking at her. Like he thought she was going to collapse in a screaming, kicking heap on the floor of the Natchez. Which, granted, he might have reason to believe given her behavior the night before, but she was fine. Damn it. So she’d had a meltdown, what of it? It wasn’t every day you found your brother lying there like last night’s campfire. What was she supposed to do, toast a f**king marshmallow? She had cried a little. Screamed. Thrown a lamp or two. Had sex with Wyatt. What woman wouldn’t?

Her cheeks burned a little. Okay, probably most women wouldn’t have done that, but she hadn’t been thinking straight.

She regretted it. For the most part. Ignoring the fact that her ni**les were suddenly pert, Stella shook her head. “I looked on the counter. It wasn’t there.”

“We can go there later and look for it. It couldn’t have walked away.”

There was nothing she’d rather do less than go back to Johnny’s empty apartment, but she wanted that necklace. It had meant everything to Johnny and if it were lost she would freak out. How it could just disappear was a mystery to her, unless someone else had been in the apartment at some point, which of course made no sense. She was the only one with a key. “What did you do with his . . . you know. Ashes.”

Wyatt hesitated. Then he gave her a sheepish look. “I put them in the Elvis cookie jar.”

“Seriously? That’s just weird.”

“Well, it was a good, solid container. With a lid. The head really locks into that jumpsuit collar.”

Oh, my God, was she really having this conversation? “I’m going outside.” She wanted out on the deck, in the fresh air. The March air was still crisp at midnight, not wet and oppressively hot the way it would be in another six weeks. The riverboat they had rented for the wake had a wraparound deck, and as she pushed open the door and stepped out, cool air greeted her. That was better.

Leaning over the railing, she took a deep breath, waiting for the tears to come. They kept showing up at random intervals when she was least expecting them. But there were tears now.

“It’s hard to believe he’s gone.”

Shit. Wyatt had followed her. Where had he gotten the impression that she wanted his company? She was embarrassed to be around him. She had yanked down his zipper in what was arguably the strangest move she’d made in her whole life. For no apparent reason, at the absolute worst time. It was mortifying.

Not wanting to look at him because she felt so pathetic and just not herself, Stella just said, “Yeah.” She wasn’t sure what else to say. She’d ranted and raved the night before and now she was just tired and numb and she wanted Johnny’s necklace and her bed. She wanted to wake up and have everything be normal again, her brother spending money he didn’t have and toying with the affections of mortal women, while she went about her business never knowing how large Wyatt’s penis was.

Was that too much to ask for?

“So, about last night.”

Oh, no. He was going to bring up the unbring-upable. She refused to comment, gripping the railing as tightly as possible without breaking her fingers.

“I know that what we, uh, did, was sort of unexpected, but the thing is, it’s something I’ve actually thought about a lot. It’s something I would like to, you know, repeat.”

Could someone please arrive and jam ice picks in her ears? Stella couldn’t deal with this. Like she really, really couldn’t cope. Part of her was, of course, flattered that he was admitting he’d been attracted to her. Part of her was intrigued by the idea of going another round with Wyatt.

But mostly, she was just horrified and mortified and petrified.

This so wasn’t the time or place to talk about their inappropriate dick-stick session.

“I really can’t talk about this right now.” Stella finally forced herself to look at him, lifting her purse off of her shoulder. It was irritating her skin for some reason. Wyatt looked . . . soulful. It was unnerving.