The poor human has his mouth propped open, eyes glazed. I pat his hand softly.
“Keep up, pretty boy. It ain’t rocket science.”
“So are you dating any of these guys?” Morgan asks, lifting a brow.
I release another heavy sigh. “Not technically.”
Though Frankie did admit to me that he was my mate.
Some monsters have mates—the person you’re meant to spend the rest of your life with. I haven’t heard any cases of vampires receiving a soulmate, but that could be because vampires are technically dead and don’t have souls. Or maybe that’s gingers. I can’t really remember.
I can’t deny that there’s a spark between us, an undeniable pull. From the first moment I saw him, I was attracted to his stoic front and analytical mind. He isn’t as bulky or muscular as the other guys, but there’s no denying he’s handsome. Beautiful. He makes my heart pitter-patter like a thousand butterflies have been released. The chemistry between us is nearly explosive—ironic, considering he’s the epitome of “mad scientist.” As the son of Frankenstein—the experiment of Frankenstein—he sort of has to be.
There’s still so much I don’t know about him, but my feelings are too raw for me to ask. I don’t trust myself when I’m around him.
“Okay, look, I’m not going to pretend I understood all of that,” Morgan begins slowly, placatingly. “I probably didn’t catch ninety-nine percent of it. However, my only advice would be to communicate. Talk to them. Be vulnerable.” He flashes me a sheepish smile. “They’re probably thanking their lucky stars that they have a woman as funny and beautiful as you.”
Awww. That’s sweet…and kind of creepy. I’m a psychopathic murderer.
Nobody should be happy to have me in their life.
“Now, what did you say about your dad?” Morgan picks up a piece of bread and shoves it in his mouth, his expression thoughtful as he chews.
“My dad…” I trail off as I check my phone for the millionth time. A new text message from Papa himself flashes on the screen, sent five minutes ago.
Dad (Dracula) (Papa Bear) (Psychotic Murderer): somethin cane up. Cant make it.
Hasn’t that man ever heard of grammar? Or apostrophes? Or basic spelling?
Honestly, people who don’t take the time to text correctly are dead to me. Dead. I will just not respond.
With a huff, I shove my phone back down on the table and scowl.
“My dad is an asshole who constantly cancels on me,” I snarl.
He winces. “Yeah, I feel that. I don’t get along with my parents either. My mom, actually.”
That makes me perk up like the twisted bitch I know myself to be. “Is she an asshole too?”
“She wants me to get into the family business.” He shrugs, muscles flexing.
“And what do you want to do?”
“Obviously, be a waiter for the rest of my life,” he teases. “But in all seriousness, I don’t know what I want to do. At all. Finish college. Maybe develop a skill or trade.”
“Do it. Be your own person. Follow your dreams… I’m pretty sure I read that one on the bottom of a Snapple cap.” With another sigh, I press my palms onto the wooden table and slide out. “I can take the check now. Obviously, my parental figure isn’t showing up.” I feel my lips twist and distort hideously.
“It’s on the house,” Morgan counters immediately.
“On the house?”
“You had a shitty enough day. Seriously. Tab’s on the house.” He offers me a warm smile, two dimples appearing on both cheeks. I feel myself instinctively smile back.
“Well, thank you, Morgan. This was actually a nice conversation. I don’t want to kill you or anything.” I extend my hand for him to shake, and he grabs it with both of his.
“Thank you for trusting me. Will I…” He clears his throat and moves to stand, shuffling uneasily from foot to foot. “Will I see you again?”
I smile slightly. “Goodnight, Morgan.”
Grabbing my purse from the booth, I flick my fingers in a semblance of a wave and hurry outside. It’s dark, nearly ten o’clock, and a chilly wind causes goosebumps to pimple on my skin. Soon, it’ll begin to snow.
I’m halfway to my car when my phone begins ringing. Irritated, I don’t bother checking the number before I answer it.
“What?” I snap, fully expecting it to be my father on the other line apologizing profusely.
“Hello to you too, Pinkie.” Mason chuckles, and my spirits instantly lift. His enthusiasm for life is infectious. Whenever he smiles, I can feel my own traitorous lips curve up as well. Though, I can’t technically see him smile on the phone. For all I know, his face is impassive as he laughs.
“Shit. Sorry. I thought you were my dad.”
“And I take it you’re not pleased with him right now?” Mason guesses. I sigh, picking up my pace as I cross the nearly empty parking lot. Only my car and a rusty pickup truck remain.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I grumble, fumbling for my keys. Well, Jack’s keys. I totally stole his car.
“When are you going to be back?” Mason questions, and I can imagine him lying indolently on the bed, maybe tossing a ball up and down like they do in the movies.
“In fifteen minutes.” I don’t invite him to my room. While I’m not as mad at Mason as I am at the others—he was quite literally hung up when I needed him—I still don’t want him around. He makes me feel too much, too quickly. It’s not healthy. “I’m going to be driving soon, so I’ll call you back, okay?”
He sighs in resignation. “Yeah, okay.
