Vampire in the Trash Bin

Chapter Three

"It's May. A missing quilt won't kill you," Ryan drawled lazily. He used this place for memorizing scripts and solitude, not for sleeping. Even if he napped, his steady body temperature wouldn't drop. Seeing Eva's dissatisfied pout, he tossed her the apartment keys. "Keys are yours. Do what you want with the place. I'm off."

"But..." Eva watched Ryan head for the door, a strange feeling creeping over her. "Aren't you afraid I'll rummage through your stuff?" Impossible. Wasn't Ryan the most privacy-conscious person in the family? He hated people touching his things. Yet he brought her here and was leaving without a warning? Something was fishy.

A sly grin spread across Ryan's face. "Rummage away. Find something incriminating, and I'll be impressed." Joke was on her. Before she arrived, he'd cleared out anything remotely revealing. That's why the place looked so bare.

Eva scanned the empty apartment again. Fine. If he wouldn't tell, she'd find out herself. She launched into a thorough search: every corner, every nook, even the toilet tank. But aside from everyday items and scattered script pages, all she found were a few cockroach eggs, two or three short strands of hair under the bed, and a lot of dust.

She wiped the dust off her face and sniffed her fingertip. It smelled like cigarette ash, but Ryan didn't smoke. The hairs were probably his. After searching thoroughly, she found no trace of a woman. Eva pursed her lips. It seemed she'd hit a dead end.

Sigh... So boring. This place had no life, nothing interesting. Eva found herself staring blankly at the wall, acutely aware of the silence. No sounds of family moving about. She brushed the dust off her hands, wondering if her family had tricked her. Trapped alone in this apartment, even the walls seemed to close in...

Ah, whatever! Eva jumped up. She was out, so she was out. She refused to get homesick on the first day. She wasn't a child! Moving out required backbone. If Ryan's place held no secrets, she could always explore other people's trash. Liam said her neighbor lived exclusively on pig-blood cakes...

*Exclusively* on pig-blood cakes? How did he survive? His nutrition must be terribly unbalanced. Such an oddball living next door – how could she *not* pay a visit? Best to be neighborly, convince him to let her borrow his trash bin for a few minutes. She refused to believe anyone could survive on just pig-blood cakes! He must eat other things, like vitamin pills.

Eva smiled and opened her door, ready for a friendly neighborly visit. She carefully examined the oak doorframe. The wear patterns on the wood suggested the occupant rarely came or went – likely a work-from-home type, someone very busy, or a night owl. But one thing was clear: very few people lived here. Probably a single professional. After all, how could a whole household never use the door?

She looked at the doorknob. Clearly, he was left-handed. The worn shine was on the opposite side from a right-handed person's grip. And he must open the door forcefully – the lock on this infrequently used door was slightly loose, as if he battled the knob itself. A worried frown creased her brow. Oh dear. Her neighbor might be a hot-tempered brute. If she rang the bell now for a "neighborly chat," asking to "borrow" his trash bin for a few minutes, he might chase her with a cleaver until she had no choice but to jump into the Pacific!

At this thought, Eva's hand froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs, sounding a red alert of danger. She forced a dry chuckle. Heh heh. Forget it. No rush. The guy wouldn't vanish. Besides, this was a spur-of-the-moment visit. She only brought "two bunches of bananas" (meaning: empty-handed). He might think her rude. She wasn't stupid. With such ominous signs, better to retreat.

Decision made, Eva turned to leave. But whether from nervousness or clumsiness, she forgot the polished marble floor wasn't the carpet at home. Her foot slipped. Her poor head became the doorbell, connecting solidly with the metal surface with a resounding *BANG* louder than any chime.

Owww... So painful! Eva clutched the back of her throbbing head. Waves of sharp pain accompanied dizziness. Ow, ow, ow! Why was she so unlucky? She hadn't even met the guy, and his door had already delivered a warning shot! She rubbed the rapidly swelling lump, tears welling in her eyes.

Just as she was about to curse the door, it swung open. Eva blinked away tears. The first thing she saw was a pair of legs clad in slightly wrinkled black suit pants... but topped with soft beige indoor slippers. Suit pants and slippers? How ridiculous! Though, who wore dress shoes at home? Wait... Eva jolted. Why was she thinking about shoes? The big bad wolf was here!

Eva curled her feet under her, ready to bolt. But before she could move, the collar of her shirt was seized, and she was hauled upright. She caught a glimpse of the man's face. Her breath hitched, her eyes widening so much they nearly popped out.

*This* was the big bad wolf? He looked like Satan himself reborn! A nose as straight as a Greek statue's, yet not overly prominent. Thin lips pressed tightly together. Bronze skin. Thick, dark, arched brows furrowed. Slightly wavy black hair, darker than a raven's, almost shimmering with a deep blue sheen.

Eva's jaw dropped. Was this the brutish oaf she'd imagined? He was the kind of man women would faint for, dropping dead at his feet! Especially with those deep, drowning silver eyes...

Wait, wait. Silver eyes? *Silver* eyes? Ah, forget that! She wasn't interested in *him*. She wanted his trash bin.

"Are you eighteen?" A deep, magnetic voice commanded, brooking no argument. The man's frown deepened, clearly unimpressed with the door-crashing kitten he'd caught.

"I... I'm twenty-two..." Even his voice was mesmerizing. Refusing to answer seemed impossible.

The man's eyebrow arched. "Liar," he stated flatly, devastatingly dismissive.

"I have ID to prove it!" Eva retorted instantly, her standard reply to this infuriating question. Curse her baby face that hadn't changed since she was sixteen! University juniors constantly patted her head, calling her "cute" and "tiny," infuriating her. She knew she was cute, alright? Was it her fault she looked like a French porcelain doll?

A slight quirk touched the corner of his mouth. He took a step back, clearing a space to enter. "Then come in. I don't have much time."

Wh... what? Eva gaped. Just like that? Invited in? Without even asking why she was here? "You... you're inviting me in?" Fantastic! Maybe he wasn't as difficult as she'd feared. Maybe he wouldn't mind her borrowing his trash bin for a quick rummage.

He tilted his head slightly, exposing his masculine neckline. "Of course. Are you chickening out?" Seeing her stumble at his door, looking ready to flee, he suspected she'd knocked her head trying to escape. But he couldn't let this seemingly underage girl slip away. He had a dangerous meeting with the Elders tonight and needed to be at his best.

Eva scrambled to her feet, utterly bewildered. "Chickening out? Why would I? You invited me, so I'm coming in. Thanks!" She darted through the unfriendly door, immediately scanning the apartment's decor. She nodded approvingly. "Hmm, quite tasteful."

The layout mirrored Ryan's, but the furnishings were far more lived-in. Definitely more personality. She noted the dark green sofa, clearly bearing the weight of a briefcase and a discarded suit jacket. Her initial assessment was wrong. This man wasn't sloppy; his place was spotless for a bachelor, and clearly, he was a working professional with regular hours.

"Thanks," he replied, undoing a few buttons on his shirt, not bothering to tell the snooping woman he was an interior designer. He watched her silently. Beneath her waist-length, naturally wavy hair, her worn T-shirt and jeans screamed teenager. But his centuries of experience told him this petite woman wasn't as childlike as she appeared. The subtle yet firm curve of her breasts beneath the oversized shirt pocket confirmed her maturity.

But why would such an outwardly pure and lovely woman be in *this* line of work? He *had* specifically requested a clean woman over the phone... but he hadn't planned on being her first "client." A flicker of something like pity crossed his features. Why should he care? She was a streetwalker, he was a john. Beyond this transaction, their paths wouldn't cross again.