The Single Undead Moms(28)

“No, n— What? That’s just freaking rude. I’m not going to take that from someone who has the name of his favorite motorcycle on his arm,” I shot back.

He frowned in confusion and glanced down at his forearm, where he had “Harley” tattooed in flowing, elaborately shaded script. His arms were a mishmash of styles. Golden Japanese koi swam in and out of the crease near his elbow. A bit of cursive peeked out from under his sleeve, but I couldn’t make out what it said. A vintage pinup mermaid curled up on his other forearm. I couldn’t help but wonder where else he had ink and felt sort of sad that I would never find out.

“That’s not my— That’s my son’s name!” he exclaimed.

“You named your son Harley? Please, please tell me his middle name isn’t Davidson.”

“It’s Wade,” he deadpanned. And suddenly, I remembered seeing the name “Wade” stitched on the front of his shirt at school.

“After you, of course. And do you also have a daughter named Chlamydia because it sounded pretty?”

Anger flashed across Wade’s handsome features, but instead of lashing out, he just shook his head. “Were you always this bitter? Or did ya get that installed with your new plastic-surgery fangs?”

“Look, jackass, you don’t even know me. And every time you talk to me, you just spout more hostile bullshit. Why don’t you just stay on this side of the school-supplies aisle, and I’ll stay over there, and we can avoid each other. I don’t know how much more of your charm I can take.”

He grinned, showing surprisingly bright and even teeth. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to smack that beautiful smile off his face or yank him close so I could kiss it away. These were not normal thoughts. He was not my type. And I was already conflicted enough with all the naked sire dreams. I did not need this.

“Oh, it’s not charm. I just don’t like ya much,” he drawled.

“Trust me, I’ve deciphered your subtle social cues,” I shot back, pushing my cart toward the notebooks and folders. I turned on the heel of my sensible Keds and called, “By the way, you do realize that I could literally reach down your throat and hand you your own spleen, right?”

A horrified expression dawned on his face, as if he had not, in fact, considered that.

“Just making sure,” I said, smiling just enough to let my dropped fangs show. “You know, so your mouth doesn’t write a check your ass can’t cash.”

“Lunatic,” he muttered under his breath.

“I heard that!” I called as he stalked off.


I managed to recover most of my dignity as I checked off the rest of Danny’s lengthy school-supplies list. I was still trying to figure out what it was about Wade the Angry Janitorial Engineer that set my fangs on edge so easily. Was it because he reminded me so much of my childhood? Because he was the first person to express real and honest reactions to me in years? Or because he was the first person who seemed to be able to take it when I snapped at him?

I didn’t think any of those reasons painted me in a particularly positive light.

I checked out and walked out of the store a ridiculous amount poorer. But the good news was that I was no longer afraid to walk across a dark parking lot by myself. There was an extraordinary amount of freedom in that. I was practically skipping to my van, even with the enormous number of shopping bags I was carrying. Despite its being a relatively nondescript gray, I was able to find the van easily, thanks to the decal on the back that read “I like big books and I cannot lie.” It helped separate my car from all of the other mom-vans with stick-figure families on the back. I had briefly thought about getting a zombie stick family, but considering the whole dead-husband-slash-vampire-mom thing, that was probably unseemly.

And while I found the van easily enough, I also found that there was a motorcycle parked incredibly close to my driver’s-side door. As in, I couldn’t open the damn door. It was a beautiful bike, a sleek black classic Harley-Davidson with a swirling silver pinstripe along the gas tank. But while I could appreciate the aesthetics, I also wanted to drive my car home as opposed to jogging. I loaded the grocery bags into the back hatch and considered using my vampire strength to pick up the Harley and move it. But I’d read somewhere that touching a man’s bike was a big no-no in the motorcycle world, and the last thing I needed to do was piss off a random Hells Angel in a Walmart parking lot.

I would not crawl to the driver’s seat from the back gate of my van. I wasn’t sure my skinny jeans would hold up to the strain. I could crawl in from the passenger’s seat, but I wasn’t actually sure that I could back out of the space without hitting the bike. And while I wasn’t so worried about being beaten up by a biker, I probably couldn’t afford to replace a vintage Harley.