Richelle Mead: Storm Born

When it finally came, he started it.

“You’re edible.”

Not the opening I’d been expecting.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your perfume. It’s like…like violets and sugar. And vanilla. I suppose it’s weird to think violets are edible, huh?”

“Not so weird as a guy actually knowing what violets smell like.” It was also weird that he could even smell it. I’d put it on about twelve hours ago. With all the smoke and sweat around here, it was a surprise anyone’s olfactory senses could function.

He shot me a crooked grin, favoring me with a look that could only be described as smoky. I felt my pulse quicken a little. “It’s good to know what flowers are what. Makes it easier to send them. And impress women.”

I eyed him and then swirled the beer in my bottle. “Are you trying to impress me?”

He shrugged. “Mostly I’m just trying to make conversation.”

I pondered that, deciding if I wanted to play this game or not. Wondering if I could. I smiled a little.

“What?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Just thinking about flowers. And impressing people. I mean, how strange is that we bring plant sex organs to people we’re attracted to? What’s up with that? It’s a weird sign of affection.”

His dark eyes lit up, like he’d just discovered something surprising and delightful. “Is it any weirder than giving chocolate, which is supposed to be an aphrodisiac? Or what about wine? A ‘romantic’ drink that really just succeeds in lowering the other person’s inhibitions.”

“Hmm. It’s like people are trying to be both subtle and blatant at the same time. Like, they won’t actually go up and say, ‘Hey, I like you, let’s get together.’ Instead, they’re like, ‘Here, have some plant genitalia and aphrodisiacs.’” I took a drink of the beer and propped my chin in my hand, surprised to hear myself going on. “I mean, I don’t have a problem with men or relationships or sex, but sometimes I just get so frustrated with games of human attraction.”

“How so?”

“It’s all masked in posturing and ploys. There’s no honesty. People can’t just come up and express their attraction. It’s got to be cleverly obscured with some stupid pick-up line or not-so-subtle gift, and I don’t really know how to play those games so well. We’re taught that it’s wrong to be honest, like there’s some kind of social stigma with it.”

“Well,” he considered, “it can come out pretty crass sometimes. And let’s not forget about rejection too. I think that adds to it. There’s a fear there.”

“Yeah, I guess. But being turned down isn’t the worst thing in the world. And wouldn’t that be easier than wasting an evening or-God forbid-months of dating? We should state our feelings and intentions openly. If the other person says ‘fuck off,’ well, then, deal. Move on.”

I suddenly eyed my beer bottle suspiciously.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just wondering if I’m drunk. This is my first beer, but I think I’m sounding a little unhinged. I don’t usually talk this much.”

He laughed. “I don’t think you’re unhinged. I actually agree with you.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded and looked remarkably wise as he contemplated his answer. It made him even sexier. “I agree, but I don’t think most people take honesty well. They prefer the games. They want to believe the pretty lies.”

I finished off the last of the Corona. “Not me. Give me honesty anytime.”

“You mean that?”

“Yes.” I set the bottle down and looked at him. He was watching me intently now, and his look was smoky again, all darkness and sex and heat. I fell into that gaze, feeling the response of nerves in my lower body that I’d thought were dormant.

He leaned slightly forward. “Well, then, here’s honesty. I was really happy when I saw the empty seat by you. I think you’re beautiful. I think seeing the bra underneath your shirt is dead sexy. I like the shape of your neck and the way those strands of hair lay against it. I think you’re funny, and I think you’re smart too. After just five minutes, I already know you don’t let people screw around with you-which I also like. You’re pretty fun to talk to, and I think you’d be just as much fun to have sex with.” He sat back in his chair again.

“Wow,” I said, now noticing I’d put on a white shirt over a black bra in my haste. Oops. “That’s a lot of honesty.”

“Should I fuck off now?”

I played with the rim of the bottle. I took a deep breath. “No. Not yet.”

He smiled and ordered us another round.

Introductions seemed like the next logical step, and when his turn came, he told me his name was Kiyo.

“Kiyo,” I repeated. “Neat.”

He watched me, and after a moment, a smile danced over his mouth. A really nice mouth too. “You’re trying to figure me out.”

“Figure you out how?”

“What I am. Race. Ethnic group. Whatever.”

“Of course not,” I protested, even though I’d been trying to do exactly that.

“My mother is Japanese, and my father is Latino. Kiyo is short for Kiyotaka.”

I scrutinized him, now understanding the large dark eyes and the tanned skin. Human genes were exquisite. I loved the way they blended.

How cool, I thought, to have such a solid grip on your ancestry. I knew my mother had a lot of Greek and Welsh, but there was a mix of all sorts of other things there too. And as for my deadbeat father…well, I knew no more about his heritage than I knew anything else about him. For all intents and purposes, I was very much the mongrel the keres had called me earlier.

I realized then I’d been staring at Kiyo too long. “I like the results,” I finally said, which made him laugh again.

He asked about my job, and I told him I worked in Web design. It wasn’t entirely a lie. I’d majored in it and in French. Both areas had turned out to be completely irrelevant to my job, though Lara swore having a Web site would drive up our business. We mostly relied on word of mouth now.

When he told me he was a veterinarian, I said, “No, you aren’t.”

Those smoldering eyes widened in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

“Because…because you can’t be. I just can’t see it.” Nor could I imagine telling Lara tomorrow: So I was in a bar last night and met this sexy veterinarian… No, those concepts somehow didn’t go together. Veterinarians looked like Wil Delaney.

“It’s God’s truth,” Kiyo swore, stirring his margarita. “I even take my work home with me. I have five cats and two dogs.”

“Oh, dear Lord.”

“Hey, I like animals. It goes back to the honesty thing. Animals don’t lie about how they feel. They want to eat, fight, and reproduce. If they like you, they show it. If they don’t, they don’t. They don’t play games. Well, except maybe the cats. They’re tricky sometimes.”

“Yeah? What’d you name all those cats?”

“Death, Famine, Pestilence, War, and Mr. Whiskers.”

“You named your cats after the riders of the apocal-wait. Mr. Whiskers?”

“Well, there are only four horsemen.”

We talked for a while after that about whatever else came to mind. Some was serious, some humorous. He told me he was in town from Phoenix, which kind of disappointed me. Not local. We also talked about the people around us, our jobs, life, the universe, etc., etc. All the while I kept wondering how this had happened. Hadn’t I just been noting how I lived outside of society? Yet, here I was, talking to a guy I’d just met like I’d known him for years. I barely recognized the words coming out of my own mouth. I didn’t even recognize my body language: leaning into him as we talked, legs touching. He wore no cologne but smelled like he looked: darkness and sex and heat. And promises. Promises that said, Oh, baby, I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted if you’ll just give me the chance…