turn and bolt. “My mother tells me you’re an auditor.”
“Yes. I have a two-forty fertility rating.”
O-kay. So much for small talk. “That’s, um, impressive, Wil.”
“It’s Wilson. How many times can you orgasm in one encounter?”
This was the “pertinent stuff” my mother had mentioned. Fertility ratings were the cinch factor for male eternity mates, while the OQ told the tale for the females. See, female born vamps couldn’t just fake it. They had to actually orgasm, which released an egg, which gave them a shot at conception. So the more, the better.
“I can hold my own,” I told him.
He gave me a serious look. “I need a number.”
“Maybe two.” He frowned. “Or three, or four.” I wasn’t trying to encourage him. At the same time, I had my pride, and the scream and release capability obviously factored in. “Say, do you play golf? My dad’s got this great new move…” I effectively turned Wilson’s attention and spent another fifteen minutes watching my father and his golf clubs.
But hey, it was better than talking multiple Os with Wil— son.
“I guess we should get started,” my dad finally declared as he shoved his driver into a red leather golf bag.
Agreement echoed around the group, and I chimed in, ready to get the whole evening over with as quickly as possible. I would lay low as I always did during the hunt, and my brothers would pursue it with the same zealousness they always did, and I’d be back on my way to the city in no time.
“I thought we’d mix things up a little tonight,” my dad said as he wheeled his clubs into a nearby corner. “The past few months, Jack’s been it eight times.”
My youngest brother shrugged and turned his head so that Tammy could dab a drop of wine from the corner of his mouth. “That’s right. Why do I always have to be it?”
“Because you can’t draw for shit,” Max told him.
“Drawing straws doesn’t involve skill. It’s all about luck.”
“And you’ve got the worst in the family.”
“Boys.” My father glared at his sons, and they quieted. “I don’t think it’s fair that Jack hasn’t been able to hunt and have any fun, so I thought we would just start rotating. That way everyone will get to hunt on a regular basis.” My stomach bottomed out even before my dad turned his attention to me. “Since it’s been forever since Lil’s had a turn, I thought we would start with her.” My dad smiled as I prayed for lightning, or even a thunderbolt, to strike me smack dab in the middle of my suddenly tight chest. “You’re it, dear.”
I hated being it.
Okay, so hated was a mild word. I hated Fendi knock-offs and guys who catcalled when a woman walked past construction sites, and I really hated Angelina Jolie. Okay, so maybe envy would be a better word when it came to Angie. (Did I mention that I’ve seen Troy eight times and I’m actually a card-carrying member of Brad’s fan club?) Anyhow, the point was, the H word didn’t come close to what I felt. Next to working at Moe’s, being it was my ultimate night mare. The last time I drew short, I ended up with three broken nails, a concussion, and a ruined Christian Dior blouse.
See, the it vamp is the one who gets to wear the whistle around his or her neck. Aka the one who gets hunted. Aka the one who gets tackled at the speed of light by desperate, bloodthirsty brothers greedy for more vacation days from Moe’s House of Boredom.
Granted, the concussion had healed during sleep. But the blouse didn’t fare so well. We’re talking permanent death and destruction and a huge dent in my available credit because, of course, I’d had to replace it.
I picked up my steps and rounded the front of the house, the starting point where everyone was currently killing time to give me a sufficient head start. I eyed the thick trees that stretched behind the house and willed myself forward. I crossed the massive lawn, complete with a few hideous lawn jockeys my
“Yes. I have a two-forty fertility rating.”
O-kay. So much for small talk. “That’s, um, impressive, Wil.”
“It’s Wilson. How many times can you orgasm in one encounter?”
This was the “pertinent stuff” my mother had mentioned. Fertility ratings were the cinch factor for male eternity mates, while the OQ told the tale for the females. See, female born vamps couldn’t just fake it. They had to actually orgasm, which released an egg, which gave them a shot at conception. So the more, the better.
“I can hold my own,” I told him.
He gave me a serious look. “I need a number.”
“Maybe two.” He frowned. “Or three, or four.” I wasn’t trying to encourage him. At the same time, I had my pride, and the scream and release capability obviously factored in. “Say, do you play golf? My dad’s got this great new move…” I effectively turned Wilson’s attention and spent another fifteen minutes watching my father and his golf clubs.
But hey, it was better than talking multiple Os with Wil— son.
“I guess we should get started,” my dad finally declared as he shoved his driver into a red leather golf bag.
Agreement echoed around the group, and I chimed in, ready to get the whole evening over with as quickly as possible. I would lay low as I always did during the hunt, and my brothers would pursue it with the same zealousness they always did, and I’d be back on my way to the city in no time.
“I thought we’d mix things up a little tonight,” my dad said as he wheeled his clubs into a nearby corner. “The past few months, Jack’s been it eight times.”
My youngest brother shrugged and turned his head so that Tammy could dab a drop of wine from the corner of his mouth. “That’s right. Why do I always have to be it?”
“Because you can’t draw for shit,” Max told him.
“Drawing straws doesn’t involve skill. It’s all about luck.”
“And you’ve got the worst in the family.”
“Boys.” My father glared at his sons, and they quieted. “I don’t think it’s fair that Jack hasn’t been able to hunt and have any fun, so I thought we would just start rotating. That way everyone will get to hunt on a regular basis.” My stomach bottomed out even before my dad turned his attention to me. “Since it’s been forever since Lil’s had a turn, I thought we would start with her.” My dad smiled as I prayed for lightning, or even a thunderbolt, to strike me smack dab in the middle of my suddenly tight chest. “You’re it, dear.”
I hated being it.
Okay, so hated was a mild word. I hated Fendi knock-offs and guys who catcalled when a woman walked past construction sites, and I really hated Angelina Jolie. Okay, so maybe envy would be a better word when it came to Angie. (Did I mention that I’ve seen Troy eight times and I’m actually a card-carrying member of Brad’s fan club?) Anyhow, the point was, the H word didn’t come close to what I felt. Next to working at Moe’s, being it was my ultimate night mare. The last time I drew short, I ended up with three broken nails, a concussion, and a ruined Christian Dior blouse.
See, the it vamp is the one who gets to wear the whistle around his or her neck. Aka the one who gets hunted. Aka the one who gets tackled at the speed of light by desperate, bloodthirsty brothers greedy for more vacation days from Moe’s House of Boredom.
Granted, the concussion had healed during sleep. But the blouse didn’t fare so well. We’re talking permanent death and destruction and a huge dent in my available credit because, of course, I’d had to replace it.
I picked up my steps and rounded the front of the house, the starting point where everyone was currently killing time to give me a sufficient head start. I eyed the thick trees that stretched behind the house and willed myself forward. I crossed the massive lawn, complete with a few hideous lawn jockeys my
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