“Oh my God!” she cries, looking down at her arm, then up at her idol. “I’ll never wash this arm again.”
As if she would have anyway…
Race gives her another charming, devil-may-care grin then drops her hand. “I hope not,” he replies, his hot purple eyes burning into her. “Now why don’t you run along, luv, and let me have a little chat with Rayne here?”
The girl nods, bowing before him before scrambling to her feet and running down the alleyway, fast as her skinny legs can carry her. Race shakes his head, watching her go. Then he turns to me.
“Lunching on my fans,” he says, giving me a scolding tsk, tsk. “For shame. After all, you know as well as I do, most people don’t tend to buy records—or download iTunes for that matter—once they’re dead. And I really need Blood on the Wind to go platinum so I can beat out that Justin Bieber bastard. That freaking mortal thinks he’s God’s gift to music. And everyone who’s anyone knows that title should always belong to me.”
I try to pull myself to my feet but my legs refuse to work properly. Race catches me as I start to tumble back to the ground, holding me with strong, steady hands.
“You okay?” he asks, dropping his teasing tone.
“I didn’t bite her,” I manage to spit out.
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter if you did—I was only joking. Hell, if I had a dime for every Race Jameson fan I drained dry, I wouldn’t need platinum records to become a billionaire.” He chuckles. “Of course, that was in the good old days. Now I’m painfully reformed, like you, taking it one day at a time.”
I attempt to nod, but it takes a lot of effort. I still feel like I’m this close to passing out. Race gives me a critical once-over.
“So, I don’t want to be rude or anything,” he starts, “but, darling, your perfume is saying eau de raw sewage right about now. So how about you come back with me to the tour bus and we’ll get you all cleaned up? I’ve got a nice, pleasantly plump groupie who’s signed all the blood donor consent forms and I’d be happy to share her if you’re so inclined.”
My mouth waters involuntarily at the suggestion and I find myself following him out of the alleyway and into the limo. Ten minutes later we’re boarding the tour bus, and I’m standing in the shower, letting the hot water stream over me, ridding me of blood and filth.
“There she is!” Race cries as I emerge about twenty minutes later. He’s sitting on a plush purple velvet couch and has changed into an orange silk bathrobe. He hands me a large wine goblet, filled to the brim with red liquid. “O-positive,” he pronounces. “From what I remember in rehab, that’s your favorite.”
I take the glass from him with shaky hands, trying not to spill any as I bring it to my lips. I start to gulp it down, but Race holds up a hand to stop me.
“From the looks of you, you haven’t drunk in days,” he says. “Take it slowly, so you won’t throw it up.”
I do as he says, though it’s painful. Eventually I manage to drain the glass dry. Setting it down on the table in front of me, I suck in a long, deep breath, trying to regain my senses. Already the blood is doing its magic—warming my insides and soothing my mind.
“Thank you,” I murmur, then cringe as more details of the night start flooding back to me. I can’t believe I let Race see me like that—at my ultimate worst. But then, I remember, he’s been there. He, of all people, should understand.
He waves me off. “Don’t fret about it for a moment,” he says. “You should have seen the scrapes I got myself into before that third trip to rehab. Hell, VH1’s Behind the Music stopped filming me at some point because the producer couldn’t stop throwing up when viewing the daily footage.”
I give him a wan smile, not knowing whether to be relieved or horrified.
“But enough about boring, little old me,” Race says, reaching over to pour another glass of blood. He fills my goblet after his own. “What about you? You always struck me as much more sophisticated than that. What made you go down that long, dark alleyway road? I mean, sure, I know you’re supposed to be the bad twin and all, but still! Doesn’t seem like your style.” He pauses, then adds, “And speaking of your better half, where is she? Where is that delectable fairy tale morsel—that Sunshine of my life?”
At Sunny’s name, I burst into tears.
“What? What did I say?” Race asks, his mocking tone gone and his face full of confusion. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make any insinuations about your dear, sweet sister. You know I’d never touch a single blond hair on her pretty little head. Well, not unless she gave me permission, of course.” He grins wickedly. “Then I’d make a vow to touch nothing else, as long as we both shall live.”
I don’t want to tell him. But at the same time I don’t want to keep it inside anymore. I’ve been wandering around for God knows how long, trying to keep from exploding with guilt and grief. Maybe talking about it will help somehow.
And so I tell him the whole story, ending with Jareth pushing me away. “Why is it that every time I try to do something right, it ends up so horribly wrong?” I ask as I finish my sordid tale. “I am such an idiot.”
“No you’re not,” Race scolds, swapping couches to come sit next to me, putting an arm around my shoulder and hugging me close. I know I should pull away—I’ve heard too much about his past with women, after all—but, I find, today his embrace feels nothing more than brotherly. And so I allow myself to collapse a little, leaning in and soaking up the strength he offers me, since I have none left of my own.