The Vampire's Release, A Paranormal Romance (Undead in Brown County #4) by S.J. Wright
Authors: S.J. Wright
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the romantic scene in front of me.
For years I had shoved people away from me who might bring me some happiness. Sure, there were one or two who offered nothing but pain. Trevor, for instance. But what about Kara? My best friend. And whether I wanted to really admit it or not, I had let distance grow between me and Katie. When I had asked about how things were going with her, it was always about her classes or whether she’d gotten all the textbooks she needed. How often had I asked about her personal life?
He was right.
With some hesitation, I placed the dust pan near the biggest pile of glass and began using the broom to push the shiny fragments up into the pan. They made musical little sounds when they touched the metal bottom of the pan.
I saw something of myself in the broken glass and the spilled wine. It was true. There were parts of me that felt shattered and unusable. There were memories and words that had escaped and left stains in the hearts of people I never wanted to hurt.
The broom began to move a little faster. Getting rid of this , I thought. A good idea. Take that shit to the trash, Sarah. There’s more to you than what’s broken. It didn’t sound like something I would say. But it really was me. None of the initial stuff was my fault. My Mom left. I didn’t leave her. She left me. Not my fault. My Dad was dead. He had cancer. I didn’t create his cancer. Not my fault.
But those jaded, stinging words used on the people around me? Yeah, that was all me. That was the broken glass. But you can’t just pick it up. You have to make sure it doesn’t happen again. So it really was my mess to clean up. The big chunks of glass, the tiny little fragments, the wine that was making the floor sticky.
I didn’t just pick it all up and throw it in the trash. I gathered up every piece of glass I could find by the sofa and near the door. There were a few scattered pieces in the kitchen and one o n the rug in front of the hearth. I went outside into the frigid cold of a February evening in Indiana and buried the broken pieces of myself in the dirt in the woods.
After mopping up the spilled wine, I went into the little half-bathroom next to the kitchen and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were a little bloodshot. My nose was still red from crying and some of the mascara I’d applied earlier was smudged. I wasn’t perfect. I would never be.
I wet down a corner of the fancy guest towel hanging near the sink and wiped away the makeup. This was just me. This was imperfect Sarah, who couldn’t ride a horse, couldn’t make her mother love her, and couldn’t make her father stay alive. But I couldn’t stop the thought that maybe it wasn’t my job to do those things.
Maybe I was supposed to be an innkeeper in Indiana who was in love with a vampire. And he had said that he loved me. Michael. Mysterious, glorious Michael. An immortal being that felt things deeply and contained his thirst in an effort to maintain some simple hold on his humanity.
And this wonderful creature was waiting for me.
S omething familiar move d through me. Desire. Need. Longing. I pulled my sweater over my head. My hair crackled with static. I moved my fingers through it restlessly and unbuttoned my jeans. One leg was sticky with wine that had seeped through the denim. When I examined the stains under the light, it no longer looked like blood. It was no longer a threat.
In the mirror, my mouth and chin looked like that of a little girl. But there was a woman fully grown beaming out from my blue eyes. Someone who had moved through great trials and come out of that yawning cave called loss with her heart intact but buried under a sea of bitterness. It would be a hell of a struggle to turn it all over like dirt in the garden, to bring what was under the dying leaves back to the top. Like plowing a
For years I had shoved people away from me who might bring me some happiness. Sure, there were one or two who offered nothing but pain. Trevor, for instance. But what about Kara? My best friend. And whether I wanted to really admit it or not, I had let distance grow between me and Katie. When I had asked about how things were going with her, it was always about her classes or whether she’d gotten all the textbooks she needed. How often had I asked about her personal life?
He was right.
With some hesitation, I placed the dust pan near the biggest pile of glass and began using the broom to push the shiny fragments up into the pan. They made musical little sounds when they touched the metal bottom of the pan.
I saw something of myself in the broken glass and the spilled wine. It was true. There were parts of me that felt shattered and unusable. There were memories and words that had escaped and left stains in the hearts of people I never wanted to hurt.
The broom began to move a little faster. Getting rid of this , I thought. A good idea. Take that shit to the trash, Sarah. There’s more to you than what’s broken. It didn’t sound like something I would say. But it really was me. None of the initial stuff was my fault. My Mom left. I didn’t leave her. She left me. Not my fault. My Dad was dead. He had cancer. I didn’t create his cancer. Not my fault.
But those jaded, stinging words used on the people around me? Yeah, that was all me. That was the broken glass. But you can’t just pick it up. You have to make sure it doesn’t happen again. So it really was my mess to clean up. The big chunks of glass, the tiny little fragments, the wine that was making the floor sticky.
I didn’t just pick it all up and throw it in the trash. I gathered up every piece of glass I could find by the sofa and near the door. There were a few scattered pieces in the kitchen and one o n the rug in front of the hearth. I went outside into the frigid cold of a February evening in Indiana and buried the broken pieces of myself in the dirt in the woods.
After mopping up the spilled wine, I went into the little half-bathroom next to the kitchen and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were a little bloodshot. My nose was still red from crying and some of the mascara I’d applied earlier was smudged. I wasn’t perfect. I would never be.
I wet down a corner of the fancy guest towel hanging near the sink and wiped away the makeup. This was just me. This was imperfect Sarah, who couldn’t ride a horse, couldn’t make her mother love her, and couldn’t make her father stay alive. But I couldn’t stop the thought that maybe it wasn’t my job to do those things.
Maybe I was supposed to be an innkeeper in Indiana who was in love with a vampire. And he had said that he loved me. Michael. Mysterious, glorious Michael. An immortal being that felt things deeply and contained his thirst in an effort to maintain some simple hold on his humanity.
And this wonderful creature was waiting for me.
S omething familiar move d through me. Desire. Need. Longing. I pulled my sweater over my head. My hair crackled with static. I moved my fingers through it restlessly and unbuttoned my jeans. One leg was sticky with wine that had seeped through the denim. When I examined the stains under the light, it no longer looked like blood. It was no longer a threat.
In the mirror, my mouth and chin looked like that of a little girl. But there was a woman fully grown beaming out from my blue eyes. Someone who had moved through great trials and come out of that yawning cave called loss with her heart intact but buried under a sea of bitterness. It would be a hell of a struggle to turn it all over like dirt in the garden, to bring what was under the dying leaves back to the top. Like plowing a
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