Crimson Death (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter #25)(42)

“It’s so clean,” I said in wonder once I was inside.

Will hovered by the door. “Is that surprising?”

“Honestly, yeah,” I said, crossing to the far wall to examine his shelving.

“Why? Do I seem like a pig?”

“Not necessarily. But I saw your room at the lake. For a basketballer, your laundry basket aim wasn’t so great.”

There was a gentle click as he closed the door behind us. My whole body tightened, and I kept my body angled toward the wall so he wouldn’t catch my expression.

“Wait, so you were judging me the whole summer?” he asked.

“Yeah, unfortunately. I didn’t wanna say anything ’cause I was totally into you.”

“‘Was’?” Will said. I couldn’t tell if it was a joke or a genuine question. Maybe he didn’t want me to be able to tell.

“Hey, count yourself lucky. Earlier today you thought I might hate you, remember?”

He didn’t reply, so I glanced behind me to check on him. He was staring into space, but put on a forced-looking smile as soon as he noticed me.

“Mom made me practically scrub it down with disinfectant this morning,” he said, and it took me a moment to realize he was talking about his room. “You know. Just in case all the visitors wanted to gather in my room to inspect it.”

“And aren’t you glad she made you now?” I asked, running a finger along one shelf. Spotless as Juliette’s complexion.

“So glad. Not that I expected you to end up in it, of all people.”

“Yeah. Thank you so much for inviting us. It made a shit day … less shit. Especially for the kids.”

“Of course. I’m really glad you came. So, how’s your aunt, anyway?”

“She’s okay. She was awake, and talking, and stuff. But she’s pretty sick right now. It’s hard, you know?”

“I know. I can imagine.”

We fell into an awkward silence. I felt like I was supposed to be doing or saying something, but I had no idea what that might be. Why had he closed the door? Did he want to talk about us? Or was I imagining things?

I cleared my throat and walked along the length of the wall, where about fifty-billion trophies and medals lined the shelves. “So you’ve had a good game or two in your time,” I said.

“I guess.”

“I feel inferior right now.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. You have your band.”

“Like, yeah? I don’t get trophies for playing, though, I just get, you know, tolerated. But this … you must be good, huh?”

Will’s voice was tight. “Not good enough for a scholarship.”

I picked up one of the taller awards, a towering gold figurine of Michael Jordan landing a slam dunk. Well, at least, it might have been Michael Jordan. It was hard to tell because it was faceless and a little misshapen. “So, do you want to try to go pro?”

The creaking of bedsprings told me Will had sat down. “That’s what everyone wants me to do.”

“Okay. But is that what you want to do?”

I turned around to find Will shrugging at the ground. “Basketball is fun, but I can’t help feeling like I should be more passionate about it if I were gonna try to go pro. Can’t something you do as a hobby just be that? A hobby? Does it have to be your entire life?”

Why did I get the feeling he wasn’t aiming that last part at me?

“It can,” I said. “What do you want?”

When he finally replied, his voice was small. “Honestly? I’ve always really wanted to be a nurse.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I thought about being a doctor, but the grades to get in are ridiculous, and what I really like is the hands-on stuff. Like, being able to comfort people, and to be the first person there when they’re in pain or if they need something. I wanna be that person.”

I sat down next to him, the mattress sinking. Our shoulders bumped. “You’d be so great at that.”

He looked surprised. “Really?”

“Of course. You’re always there when people are upset or hurt, and you’re the one trying to make it better. Every time. It’s basically that, but in job form.”

Suddenly, Will was staring at me, and my stomach lurched. “You’re the first person to say that,” he said, taking the trophy from me.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Everyone else just says basketball, basketball, basketball.” Curling his lip, he put the trophy down on the bed behind us like he didn’t want to look at it anymore.

“No,” I said. My chest was tight, and my fingertips were buzzing with something. “Not if you don’t want to.”

He didn’t speak. He just kept watching me. His breathing had gotten louder. Or maybe I’d just tuned in to him. If I wanted to stop this I had to break eye contact now. Now.

But I didn’t want to stop this.

He leaned closer, and closer, and then he kissed me. The second our lips touched his hands flew up and around me, pulling me in as tight as he could. His fingers ran through the hair on the nape of my neck, sending me damn near into a frenzy, and I gripped his waist under his sweater in response. It’d been so long since I’d touched him, I’d forgotten how unreasonably warm and soft the skin there was. No one in history had ever had a softer waist than Will Tavares.