The silence wrapped around us, and I let it, because it was her fault shit had gotten weird.

“You’re ashamed.” She cocked her head, a curious expression on her face.

I snorted. Right. She’d be lucky to see a fitter body on a health magazine cover.

“What are you ashamed of, Vaughn?”

I sneered. It didn’t matter.

She stood up and walked toward me, cupped my face with her tiny hands. It almost felt maternal. “You’re beautiful.” She kissed the tip of my nose, closing her eyes. “So beautiful,” she whispered.

A tear rolled down one of her cheeks. I didn’t understand what was happening, and yet somehow, I wasn’t surprised when she cried. I just didn’t want to fucking see it.

I wrapped my arms around her, trying to comfort her because she…what? Pitied me? Em-fucking-barrassing, but apparently I was willing to go this far to be inside her. My knee-jerk reaction was to kick her out. My plan was so close to execution, and this was going nowhere fast.

But I couldn’t.

And not for lack of trying.

We hugged—me naked, her wetting my shoulder with her tears—for what seemed like ten minutes before she pulled back and kissed my lips.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For allowing yourself this one moment of being a boy. And for letting me witness it.”

Down in my cellar, I lit a joint and passed her one of two cans of beer I’d taken from Harry’s fridge. He was still in the hospital, and he’d been transferred to one in central London, so getting drunk around here wasn’t really in his near future.

Len cracked the can open and put it to her lips, not taking a sip. Her eyes roamed the dark, cold place.

“It’s perfect for you,” she said.

“Said the vampire.” I spoke with the joint between my lips, throwing my Zippo against the bench she was sitting on. It was made of cobbled stone. Medieval as fuck. My sculpture, now almost completely done, was clothed in the center of the room by two separate sheets, so she couldn’t see it.

“You invited me in.”

“As per usual,” I said seriously. “You’d be smart to decline next time.”

She smirked, putting her beer down. I sat next to her, feeling on edge. I resisted the urge to rub my thighs, like Mom did when she was nervous. I nailed my palms to the bench on either side of my body.

“Why are you not drinking?” Small talk. I was starting small talk. Willingly.

“Because I almost died on my birthday from alcohol poisoning.”

“I got you.” I gave her beer can a push in her direction.

She studied my face.

“I mean it. Do you want a trust-fall exercise before we do it?”

“No, thanks. I’ll crack my head.” But she downed the beer so fast, I thought it was an optical illusion. Then she sat back, staring at the covered statue.

“I know you’re not going to show it to me, but I’m sort of okay with that. Because I know I’ll see it at Tate Modern. As long as I know something’s not gone forever, I don’t miss it.”

She wasn’t talking about my sculpture anymore, and we both knew that.

“You miss her,” I said. Fucking duh.

She nodded. “Every day. Losing her was worse than losing my limbs. I promised myself to never get attached like that again. It’s dangerous, you know? Better to keep people at arm’s length.”

“You already are.” I sucked my teeth. “Attached, I mean.”

“No, I’m not,” she protested, but her face was bright red.

“So you just happened to suck my blood? Ride someone else’s face with me handcuffed to your bed? To sculpt me?” I grinned. “You’re either attached or a certified psycho. Your pick, Good Girl.”

“Neither. I’m just a normal girl, with normal needs.” She tipped her chin up. “You bullied me in high school, and so yes, in a moment of insanity, I sucked your blood. In another, I let Pope go down on me. That doesn’t mean anything, Vaughn. I’m ordinary.”

I snorted. “The fuck you are. You wouldn’t be here if you were anywhere on the ordinary spectrum.”

“Because I’d be too boring to fit in your man cave?” She cocked her head, grabbing my half-full beer and tipping it into her mouth.

“Because you wouldn’t willingly come to my man cave,” I snapped. Not after everything she knew about me, anyway.

I picked up a chisel from the floor, poking at the strap of her top and pulling it slowly, knowing I could snap and tear it at any moment if I pressed the pointy tip to it.

“I’m normal.” She licked her lips, looking down at her hands. Her nipples puckered through her top, and she twisted her legs together, refusing to look me in the eye.

Nuh-uh. “Sure you are. You don’t like blood,” I goaded her.

She was a beautiful liar. Luckily, I didn’t mind a little deceit. People were obsessed with the truth, like they could fucking take it. Me, I liked messy and manipulative.

She shook her head, still inspecting the blade in my hand.

I slid the chisel from her top, put it to my upper wrist and cut a shallow wound horizontally, not even flinching. She let out a little gasp, her breath hitching. I smirked, standing up so I stood between her legs, bringing my wounded wrist to her face.

“This doesn’t turn you on.”

“No.” But there was no power in that statement. Her voice was throaty and full of need.

“How about when I do this?” I pressed the pointy part of the chisel to one of her puckered nipples through her shirt. It was so sensitive she couldn’t help herself. She closed her eyes and let a moan escape those pretty pink lips. I swirled the blade around her nipple, watching her tremble in her seat.

“No.” She squeezed her eyes shut, panting. “No.”

“You can always leave,” I challenged, knowing she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Every encounter we’d had since we were kids had led to this moment. We were finally showing each other our dark sides—the shadowy, twisted carnival in our souls no one had ever been invited to.

This was a golden ticket, personally handed over by our very own Willy Wonka. Us. Alone. Where no one could find us.

She was seeing this one through.

“Fuck you, Vaughn.” Her voice shook.

The third time she’d told me this.

Each time, I had a different answer.

“Gladly, Good Girl.”

With a well-mannered smirk on my face, I tore her top off in one, swift movement—like a gash. A little inaccuracy could’ve caused her serious injury. She yelped, squeezing her eyes shut and leaning back. She clutched her midriff, her shaky fingers looking for a wound. After a few seconds, she opened her eyes and looked down, examining the damage.

Her skin was milk and honey, smooth as freshly fallen snow. She blinked, looked up at me.

“Still not turned on?” I asked.

“No.” She enunciated the word venomously, waiting to see what I’d do next.

I laughed. She did, too. The crazy, humorless laugh of two people who understand each other perfectly, yet are stuck in a world that makes no sense to them. I never thought I’d have this with a girl. Or a guy. Or any fucking human, for that matter. Not even my parents fully understood me.