FANGED

Chapter Forty-Nine

My eyes flew open, and I sat bolt upright. "Patchouli?" I brought my hand to my mouth, and huffed a breath of hot air into it. Sniffing, I check the quality of my breath. Granted, it wasn't exactly minty fresh, but it was far from being as repulsive as he was acting. "You're one to talk!" I scowled at him to cover my hurt feelings. "I seem to recall you laying some lip-locks on me with breath so foul, it smelled like an old lady fart passing through a clove of garlic," I snapped, sniffing indignantly. Okay, so yeah, that was a rather low blow on my side, but come on...I had just woken up. Did he really expect my breath to be all sunshine and daisies?

He made an impatient noise in the back of his throat that sounded like he was gargling marbles. "I'm not talking about your breath, Red." The way he spoke the words expressed all sorts of annoyance, and hinted at a smidgeon of an eye roll. Though, I'll give him credit, his sockets stayed steadily staring into mine. Kind of creepy if you ask me, just saying. "Though, I seem to remember things a little differently. If you would like me to refresh your memory of my kisses, I'll be happy to oblige."

My stomach rolled at the mere mention of his lips coming that close to mine. Shooting him a glare that should have burned off every last silky strand of hair from his obnoxious head, I snorted. "You really think I'm going to let you near me after you just accused me of having patchouli breath? Dream on, bucko," I told him, crossing my arms over my chest.

He chuckled, easing himself gracefully into a beautifully upholstered chair taking up residents next to the bed. He was dressed in his typical skirt lifter leather pants with a half buttoned, crisp white shirt tucked in around his lean waist, but, unlike me, when he sat not a creak of leather could be heard. The big jerk.

"Patchouli is a fragrance, like a perfume. It has a sweet, spicy aroma, with a hint of muskiness. It is an exotic smell which leaves an imprint on one's senses, hindering them." His eyes narrowed suspiciously at me, the smile on his face turning sour and brittle. "Its history dates back thousands of years. King Tut had gallons of the oil entombed with him upon his death, but mostly...it is associated with the marking scent of an incubus."

Though Fang had a beautiful speaking voice, seriously mesmerizing with that sexy hint of an accent, he was none the less...boring me to tears. I felt like I was back in school trying to not slip into a coma during Mr. Larson's history class. Letting out a yawn big enough to almost cause injury to myself, I stretched my hands high above my head, and wiggled my fingers in the air to let my vertebra pop back into place before dropping them listlessly back down by my sides. Weirdly, I felt tired. Not sleepy tired, necessarily, but totally drained kind of tired. The kind where I needed something that's more than coffee, but just a tad less than cocaine to wake up. Another yawn popped my jaw open wide enough to make it crack. Smacking my lips, I tried to guessitmate how long I had actually been sleeping by the size of the puddle of drool. Looking down, I noticed there wasn't a damp spot to be seen on the pillow. Huh...usually when I sleep that soundly, I drooled like a Saint Bernard spotting a steak.

I knew I had to have been really out of it to dream of Bob. But, then again, I did have a tendency to dream some really offbeat shit. One time, I dreamed of George Michael. He was dressed in stonewashed, tight blue jeans, a black leather jacket with his hair all feathered back into perfection, and wearing a pair of brown lensed aviator Ray-Ban sunglasses. In the dream, he was busily shuffling through my sock drawer, taking all my good socks. When I asked him what the hell he was doing, he turned to me and sang, "Cause I gotta have socks. I gotta have socks. Because I gotta have socks, socks. I gotta have socks, socks, socks." It took me weeks to get that dumb song out of my head.

"Red, are you listening to me?"

I lifted my eyes towards him, because, seriously, it was too much effort to physically turn my head. "Yeah, yeah, yeah...history...mummies...whatever," I grumbled, scratching my stomach. "If you expect me to listen to all your blah, blah, blah crapola, then you should have brought coffee."