Sanguine Inclinations

Helaine.

I couldn't help feeling nervous as I stood at the top of the steps leading down into his basement apartment.

We had been friends for some time—maybe acquaintances was a better term—but the point is that we'd known each other for a while now, at least through moving in similar circles.

He should have been my type. I had always had a problem with the pretentious wannabe rockstar types, but there was always something about him that put me ill at ease, and if I was honest, neither this street nor the hour was helping.

His apartment sat below the corner of Cardinal and South Main, and the street signs stood ominously above me like a guillotine.

Cardinal was a lovely little street, with its artist alley, street food, and live music . . . if you weren't privy to the area's reputation, and ignored the missing persons posters.

Speaking of music, I could already hear the haunting melody emanating from the bottom of the stairs. If I could say nothing else for him, he was an excellent guitarist, and he knew that I thought that.

I couldn't help wondering if he knew that I was standing up here at the top of his steps, or if he was only warming up because he knew I'd be here sooner rather than later—or at least, this was the time we'd scheduled.

See, the thing about him is that however uncomfortable he had made me, I had the opposite effect on him.

It had been no secret since the day we met that he had his eyes set on me, but I had always had a very convenient reason, or excuse really, to avoid being left alone with him.

It's not that he ever pushed, or that I felt I needed a reason not to hang out with him—I had never in my life been the kind of woman who couldn't look at a man and tell him no, but there was something about him that made me feel like I couldn't trust myself.

I could feel it in my bones that the second he and I were alone together, I would lose all sense of self-control. I couldn't place why, but there was something about him that made the idea all too enticing, which screamed of red flags to me.

Especially given my history.

Even now, my entire body was screaming at me to run, to turn around and go home—or anywhere else, really.

But I didn't really have a better option.

Earlier this week, my landlord had told me that my rent was going up by a whole two hundred dollars—that was an insane amount, especially for an already broke college student. Not only could I not afford that, but I most certainly couldn't afford to look for somewhere else to live while paying nearly every goddamn cent I made to the leech who owned my apartment.

That's where he came in.

He happened to be hanging out with us when I complained about my situation to our mutual friends, and for some unknown reason I had allowed him to hold me back from the others when we all tried to go our separate ways.

As it happened, he was a lot more well off financially than he looked, and he could make my problem disappear . . . for a price.

Quid pro quo, he'd called it.

He'd make sure my rent got paid, so long as I kept him happy one night a month.

I should have slapped him, and I knew it, but something about the sincerity in the mahogany brown of his eyes, and the tension in my chest, compelled me to say yes.

After all, if it wasn't for the bad gut feeling I'd had about him, I would have wound up in his bed years ago . . . and I did need to find some way to pay my rent, fast.

At the very least, I knew that taking him up on his offer would buy me some time to make other living arrangements—it's not like I'd have to whore myself out to him forever.

And it would sate my burning curiosity.

Church bells tolled as I descended the stairs, harmonizing strangely nicely with the guitar music that I was sure came from his apartment—especially when it stopped the second I knocked on the door.

I'd never seen a door that strange—it was heavy concrete, painted with all sorts of gruesome imagery of blood, bones, and gore. Black feathers and bits of what I imagined were chicken bones were matted into the paint—I wondered if he had done the artwork himself, or if the differing art styles pointed to this being a community work. It wouldn't surprise me on Cardinal Street.

I had become so invested in his door that I practically jumped out of my skin when he answered it.

“Hello Helaine.” His smile was calm, but there was a sharpness to his eyes that I couldn't leave unnoticed. “You're a little early.”

“I-I didn't want to walk here in the dark,” I confessed, a bit sheepishly, more embarrassed over having been caught off guard than anything. “I mean, come on Evan, you live here, you ought to know how dangerous this place gets.”

“I do.” His eyes lingered on me a little longer than I thought was necessary, but I supposed that he was paying for that privilege . . . and paying quite a bit at that. “Would you like to come inside?”

No.

“Yeah, that'd be great.” Suddenly, I was very aware of the chill in the air that always came with nightfall around here.

It would be winter soon, and I wasn't looking forward to the walk, but at least winter was a little safer since fewer people wanted to be out at all.

At least, with this arrangement, I'd have a roof over my head this winter.

Evan's apartment was . . . interesting.

It looked like the gutted remains of an old tattoo parlor, and knowing the area, it probably was. I hated to admit that that was pretty cool.

I didn't know why I was trying to find some reason to pick apart his place—other than the lack of natural light, I really loved the layout, and the art he kept on display, but I supposed I was looking for something shitty to justify the weird vibe I got from him.

I didn't want to be one of those girls who was just rude to a guy for no reason based on vibes . . . but I had to admit, it was starting to look that way.

Though, he was about to pay me for sex, so that might speak to his character a little.

Not that I was in any position to judge.

A particular piece grabbed my attention. On one of the walls was a stylistic floor-to-ceiling mural of a man painted in crimson, his hands shackled to the ceiling, and the striking white silhouette of a woman's hands snaking around his torso.

“Would you like to sit?” He asked, gesturing to a plush red couch that looked about fifty years out of date.

“Thank you.” At least I remembered my manners as I ripped my eyes away from the painting.

He followed my gaze and smiled, that same strange predatory glint in his eyes. “Oh, you haven't seen any of my art, have you?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I figured you were an artist since we move in similar circles, but I didn't know what kind.”

I felt awkward, sinking into the overstuffed couch all by myself while he stood there looking at me like I was fresh meat.

Actually, thinking about it, I wasn't entirely convinced that he wasn't a serial killer as I looked around at his paintings and murals, both finished and not.

It made me very glad that we had a whole lot of mutual friends who would make a fuss if I went missing. I hoped that was enough to keep him from trying to kill me.

“I actually work in . . . a variety of mediums.” He grinned, and I knew I was going to die there—kidding, I hoped. “Painting is just one of the many ways an artist can express himself.”

“Did you do the uh . . . paintings on the door?” I asked, thinking of the black feathers and bits of bone matted against the concrete.

He laughed a little too long, and pushed his soft ash brown hair out of his face, smiling a little too wide at me. “Oh, no, no. That's the work of several neighborhood artists, I believe.”

“Why would they do that?” I asked, fidgeting on the cushions, trying to find a stable way to sit. “It looks a little . . . ”

“Grotesque?” He leaned in closer to me, before laughing again. “They're artists, Helaine—who knows why artists do any of the things we do.”

“That's a fair point.” I shrugged. I couldn't exactly judge him there.

Helaine.

Honestly, if I didn't already have a weird feeling about Evan, I would have thought that this apartment was the coolest place ever.

I mean, his coffee table was a fucking coffin for fuck's sake.

He was looking at me again, and I shifted uncomfortably on the couch, wishing he'd either sit down so we didn't feel so . . . unmatched, or that he'd just take his clothes off so we could get started already.

But, he seemed starved for a little conversation.

In all the years we'd hung around the same circles, he'd never really talked about himself. I realized for the first time that I didn't really know a damn thing about him.

Maybe he was just . . . lonely and awkward.

The thought made me feel a little bad for the way I'd blatantly avoided him over the years.

“You're staring at me,” he observed—and that's what he was doing, observing me with the corners of his mouth upturned slightly with amusement.

“Oh, sorry.” I quickly looked away, and he laughed at me.

“No, no you're allowed to look.” He grinned, grinning wider when I shot him a look. “I'm just curious as to what you're thinking right now.”

“Just thinking about how weird it is that we've known each other for so long, but we don't really know each other,” I admitted, trapped in his eyes.

He had a way of doing that—it was one of the first things I noticed about Evan when we met—he was difficult to look away from once you started.

He laughed at that. “I had the feeling you were avoiding me.”

My cheeks flushed, and his eyes narrowed, but his grin never fell. “What gave you that idea?”

“Just a hunch.” His voice was cool, mostly unaffected with a hint of amusement—he had the kind of casual smugness that would be unbearable if he weren't otherwise attractive. “Or maybe I'm just an insecure weirdo who doesn't know how to talk to women.”

“Well, are you?” I asked, feeling a little brave with my brow raised.

“Insecure?” He laughed, resting his hands on his hips. “No, not even close.”

I grinned. “Just a weirdo then?”

“Oh honey, you have no idea.”

“I think I'm starting to get the idea.”

I wasn't embarrassed to look around the room anymore, taking in his strange and macabre art pieces, both finished and not. There were paints left out, a plethora of melted candles, and scraps of leather in all different kinds of colors.

He was certainly not a neat freak.

“So . . . I'm assuming you live alone?” I asked, my eyes snapping back to him.

“Not technically.” He grinned, excitement palpable. “Would you like to meet my roommate?”

My eyes widened, and my heart raced.

Roommate?

I couldn't help fidgeting uncomfortably, and he walked off before I could even answer.

I didn't know how I felt about that, given our arrangement. I didn't really want anyone knowing that I was whoring myself out to him, and I really wasn't sure how I felt about the idea of a total stranger being introduced to the situation.

Before I could worry too much about it though, Evan returned with a large snake draped over his shoulders, a wide and genuine smile on his face—it was different from his grin earlier. There was nothing mischievous or predatory about this, it was pure happiness.

“This is Bacchus, he's a ball python,” he introduced. “Named for the Roman god of wine and revelry—basically like, Dionysis, but I thought Bacchus sounded more . . . ”

“Edgy?” I teased with a grin.

A grin he returned. “Yeah, you've got me there.”

“He's gorgeous.” I was in genuine awe.

Honestly. I'd always loved snakes, but I'd never had one as a pet personally. I'd never had a landlord who was cool with it, but I figured Evan probably owned this place, given all the murals painted directly onto the walls—either that or his landlord was very cool.

He beamed proudly as the snake explored his arms. “Would you like to hold him?” He asked, not waiting for a response as he came closer.

“Uh, yeah.” I sat up on the edge of the cushion, holding my arms out excitedly. “That's not even a question.”

Honestly, the fact that he had a pet did a lot to put me at ease—it meant that he was clearly capable of taking care of something, and he placed some value in life.

Not that serial killers never had pets, but to be honest, I was so excited about getting the chance to hold a big snake that I didn't really give a shit about much else at the moment.

My heart raced as Evan crouched in front of me to let Bacchus get close. I had never really been that close to him before today, not intentionally anyway, but I couldn't keep from grinning like a kid on Christmas day when the snake slithered onto my forearm.

“Oh my god,” I hissed softly, excited, but not wanting to startle my new friend. “Look at his little snoot.”

“I think he likes you.” Evan smiled as Bacchus wound himself up between our arms, wrapping us together, and I blushed, a little surprised by how cold his arms were.

No wonder the cold-blooded creature moved to me so quickly.

My heart raced at our proximity. “Maybe he just has good taste.”

Evan stuck his tongue between his teeth as he laughed. “We tend to have that in common.”

I blushed, and he stood again when Bacchus released him to slither over my shoulders, nestling himself comfortably around my neck.

He was like one big scaly security blanket.

“I'm glad you get along.” He walked slowly around the room as he spoke, lighting candles as he went—candles that were melted onto surfaces, and candles that sat in odd fixtures hanging from the ceiling. It was a mess I could never get away with in my apartment, but I couldn't deny it offered a certain . . . ambiance. It suited him. “He's pretty much my closest friend, so his opinion matters quite a bit.”

I couldn't tell whether he was teasing me or not—I'd only ever seen him when we were hanging out with mutual friends, but I supposed he wasn't exactly an open book with the group.

“It seems like you might be a little lonely.”

“Maybe.” He had a small grin on his face, but as he lit the candle in front of his face the sudden illumination made his features look intense. “But I like it this way.”

“I'm just not sure why you have to pay for sex.” Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut and minded my own business—after all, I needed the money, but my curiosity had a way of getting the better of me. “I mean, you're an attractive guy, I'm sure there's plenty of weird artist types who'd be lining up to sleep with you.”

He laughed at that, sincerely, with a broad smile on his face. “You're a weird artist type,” he reminded me, as if I'd forgotten.

“Yeah, but you're paying me.” I shifted my position on the couch when Bacchus wound around me again. “Don't get me wrong—I'm very grateful, like, you know I really need the money, but is this a regular thing for you?”

The idea that he had only decided to pay me for sex because of my rent situation crossed my mind, and to be honest that was worse.

“To be honest, Helaine, it's not just about sex.” His eyes captivated me, and I felt uncomfortably small under his intense gaze. “It's about the type of sex.”

I couldn't stop myself from biting my lip. “And what kind of sex is that?” Evan had never exactly seemed like the vanilla type, but I couldn't imagine what was so nasty that he thought he had to pay for it.

It made me nervous.

And excited.

He cracked a grin, leaning in close to me as he unwound Bacchus from my shoulders. “Here, let me put him away first.”

I couldn't take my eyes off of him when he left to put his snake back in the enclosure.

I had no idea what he was going to do to me, but I realized as the night went on that I was becoming more excited than nervous. The little voice in the back of my head was still ringing alarm bells, but the more curious I got, the easier it was to squash her down and ignore her.

At this point, even if I didn't desperately need the money, I needed to know what his deal was.

“Now then . . . would you like the tour?” He had that grin on his face again, with that mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he offered me his hand.

I accepted, touching him intentionally for the first time, and he helped me off of the too-plush couch. “By all means.”