(It's getting good!)
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It is truly a day of firsts. Not only is it the first time I've ever made such a loud scene in public, but I've become a truant as well - instead of going to fifth period history, I skip class.
Brenda's taking me to the house even before I've fully registered that I'm driving there. To the one person I need to speak to before I explode.
Anxiety roils in my gut as I have flashbacks to screaming at Santana. I know she won't have taken kindly to being spoken to like that, and at some point, she'll get me back.
What have I done?
My subconscious is dancing around and ripping pages out from her history textbook. Screw school!
Seriously, what's gotten into me? Did I really just call Santana Quebec a bitch in front of the whole school?
Icon status! My subconscious cackles. Who even cares? Santana is a bitch.
I get to Emma's house much quicker than I expected to. Her faded-yellow buick's still parked in the driveway, so I know she's home. Today is the first day in a long while we haven't been in class together; I miss her terribly, not used to being away from my best friend for so long.
I walk to the door and knock. A few moments pass with no answer, and I knock again - still no one.
I know she has to be home; Emma rarely leaves to go anywhere without her car. Why isn't she answering?
I try a different tactic; I walk around the back of the house, towards her window. With relief I notice it's open.
"Hello!" I call out, cupping either side of my mouth like a megaphone. "Earth to Emma!"
A head pops out; dishevelled hair and too-big glasses. As quick as it appears it's gone.
I walk back towards the front door and Emma's stood there. She's wearing her oversized khaki jumper with the holes in it, the one reserved exclusively for heartbreak and illness.
She looks like a banshee, my subconscious remarks.
Ignoring it, I walk towards her and squeeze her arms.
"Em," I say, the concern making my voice sound heavier. "Are you ok?"
Suddenly her expression breaks - Emma's face crumples and she bursts into tears.
"Santana's going to kill me," she sobs, leaning into my neck.
Panic flares in my bloodstream at the mention of her demon sister's name. What has Emma done to warrant this type of reaction?
I let her cry on me for a few moments before I gently push her back and guide her inside towards her bedroom. It's an absolute pigsty; dirty clothing piled on the unswept floor, unwashed cutlery crowding her desk, the air stale with neglect. I guide her to the bed and go to open the window further.
"Em," I try again. She's looking down at her fingers, still sniffling. "What's going on?"
She only shakes her head. "Santana's going to kill me."
I make to repeat my question but then she starts shaking silently with repressed emotion, and I know I have to change the topic. Instead, I do what we always do when the other's sad (like when I first found out my mother was marrying Richard, or when I was sick with the flu, or, worst of all, when Emma found out One Direction were breaking up.)
I grab her laptop from her desk and go to lay down on the bed, and she lays down too; we burrow under her blanket and I type in Emma's password and fire-up our favourite show: 90210.
I shift my position to get more comfortable and there's a crinkle underneath me like I'm laying on several wrappers. I decide to ignore it.
By the time three episodes are over, our ritual has done the trick too well - instead of calming her down long enough so that she can speak coherently, she's fast asleep, her face peaceful with the absence of sobbing.
I lean on my elbow to look at her. What on earth is going on? Why is she so sad? Why will Santana kill her?
It's late when I leave Emma's and get back home. I'm already dreaming about going to bed, deciding I'm too sleepy to bother washing my face - the fear of pimples is outweighed by the stress of such a long day.
When I get up the stairs, Alec is waiting in my bedroom. He's sat in my desk chair, toying with something I can't make out in the dim lighting - it's long, shaped vaguely like a -
"Is that my bra?" I yelp, making a beeline for him.
He looks up as if surprised to see me in my own room, and as I snatch my bra away from him and put it back in a drawer, he gets to his feet and goes to recline on my bed. My heart races at the sight of him lounging like a Greek god.
"I had to sneak in so your mom wouldn't see me," he says, crossing his ankles. "They think I'm still out. I told them I was at AP chess."
I snort. "And they believed you?"
He shrugs. "They wanted to. I don't think your mother wants me around you very much."
It's my turn to shrug. I fold my arms over my chest. "Well, I don't care what she wants."
Alec cocks his head. Then he does something that makes my heart race even faster; he shuffles to the side and pats the empty space beside him. I go and lay down as well, staring up at his side-profile, and suddenly I'm caught off-guard by his beauty again. The marble structuring of his face, the black of his hair. Eyes I never want to stop looking at.
"I heard what you did for me," he says softly. "At school." His eyebrows raise. "Team Alec?"
I laugh sheepishly. "Yeah, very Twilight I know."
He looks at me in confusion.
"You know, the film? Vampires? Sparkle?"
He snorts. "Oh. That."
He moves closer to me, so that the sides of our bodies are pressed together. For a few moments he's just staring into my eyes and all traces of humour are erased from his face. "Just for the record," he murmurs, voice soft and calm as the evening sky. "I'm very touched by it. I'm very touched by you generally. I like you, Kara."
I don't know how it happens but silently, with grace I didn't think I was capable of, I'm sitting up and sliding myself on top of his body, staring down at his face. He looks up at me with a faintly startled expression as I take my top off, sweeping my hair to one side, out of my face. Even my subconscious is staring, mouth agape.
Alec doesn't say anything for a long time, still vaguely startled. I would be worried he doesn't like what he's seeing if it wasn't for the pressing firmness I feel growing underneath me, right at his crotch.
"Wow," he breathes, and then he's rubbing his arms over my skin, his fingers clawing softly over my stomach, my back. When he reaches my bra, he looks up at me as if for approval. Smiling, I nod.
Somehow, even with the bra gone, I don't feel uncomfortable being like this with him. In fact, it feels inexplicably right.
"You are beautiful," he breathes, his hands still raking over me, claiming me.
My smile gets wider. I lean down and take his t-shirt off. Something deep inside of me unfurls at seeing his bare torso, the indentation of muscle, the contours of his chest. He is absolutely gorgeous.
He sits up so he's at an angle where I can easily put my arms around his shoulders, and the firmness beneath me presses upwards in a way that feels amazing. My breath hitches as he juts his hips upwards, pressing against me even closer - he does it again, keeping direct eye contact. The desire in me spirals, becoming hot and tight. He keeps doing it again and again, eyes unblinking as he stares at my reaction - somewhere in the back of my mind, my subconscious has her pink, bejewelled rodeo hat on and is running around with glee.
Giddy Up girl! Ride him like a cowboy!
He presses against me one last time and suddenly I can't stand the layer of material that stands in between us. My hands move down to his trousers but then, surprisingly, I feel his hands move from my waist and clamp around my wrists.
"Kara," he says, and there's a weird note to his voice that doesn't belong. It's wary. "What are we doing?"
"Well, nothing. Yet."
Despite his tone, he smiles. "We're not thinking straight," he continues. His eyes, no longer wide with desire, are boring into my own earnestly. "Besides, this is your first time, right?"
Abruptly I'm defensive. I scooch off his crotch - to my subconcious's chagrin - and frown. "And what if it is?"
"It shouldn't be like this. In secret, in your parents house. With your stepbrother." He smirks a muted version of his cocky Italian playboy smirk. "And sex with a vampire is even more intense. It comes with its drawbacks."
My frown deepens. "Like what?"
"Like if I were to lose control for a second and crush you."
Sign me up! My subconscious yells.
I ignore her.
"Also vampire men can't use protection - our skin breaks the material. Besides," his smirk gets wider, and I know a stupid comment is about to ensue. "You'd be hard-pressed to find a condom big enough."
"You mean you can't use protection because your penis is too strong?"
I can tell he wants to laugh but to his credit he doesn't; instead he nods, slow and serious.
I shrug. "I don't care."
His eyes flash with concern. "You should care, Kara. If you have any concern for your humanity."
I slide back onto his lap and wrap my arms once more around his broad shoulders, smiling. I've already decided I don't care whatever words come out of his mouth. Nothing can stop me from doing this.
But then he says:
"Because when vampire men finish inside mortal women, it turns them into vampires too."