Page 49 of Bleed

“Well, you don’t look a day over forty,” I quip, smirking.

“I was thirty-six when I was turned.”

I blink. Thirty-six. For some reason, that surprises me more than one hundred and twenty-four. Maybe because thirty-six feels real. Human.

“And what about before that?” I ask, suddenly far too curious about his life story.

One dark brow arches. “Before what?”

“Before you became a vampire.” I gesture vaguely in his direction. “At thirty-six, you basically lived an entire life before all of… this.”

“I was mortal,” he replies flatly.

“No shit, Sherlock,” I snort. “I mean what did you do? Who were you?”

“Just an ordinary human.”

Cryptic bastard.

I roll my eyes. “That’s hardly an answer.”

“I find the older you get, the less interested you become in looking backward,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to me briefly before returning to the road.

I study his profile again, as if I’ll somehow find the answers hidden beneath the surface if I just stare long enough. Something tells me there are a lot of ghosts buried in all those years he’s lived.

“You vamps get off on being all dark and mysterious, don’t you?” I mutter.

“Perhaps,” he says. “Though in my experience, mortals would benefit from a little more discretion.”

I narrow my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His gaze stays fixed on the road. “If certain relationships remained private, we wouldn’t be here right now.”

The jab lands with surgical precision, heat flashing through me.

“Taylor’s my best friend.”

“I’m aware.”

The calm certainty in his voice only makes it worse.

“I didn’t realize it was a crime to actually care about people,” I huff, folding my arms.

“I wasn’t criticizing your friendship.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

His grip shifts on the steering wheel, gaze flicking my way. “I’m criticizing the assumption that every meaningful relationship needs an audience.”

“Oh that’s rich, coming from a literal celebrity,” I scoff. “Didn’t you have a very public relationship last year? Because I’m pretty sure I remember seeing photos in the tabloids of some leggy brunette hanging all over you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “What makes you think that relationship was meaningful?”

I open my mouth with every intention of firing back, then close it again, because arguing with this man is fucking pointless. I turn toward the window instead, glaring at my own reflection in the dark glass.

I don’t say another word for the rest of the drive, and even though the silence is intentional, that doesn’t make it any less oppressive. And the most infuriating part is that it probably bothers me a lot more than it bothers him.

Whatever. I don’t need to explain myself to Elliott Faulkner. I don’t need him to understand me, or sympathize with me, or try to be my fucking friend. This arrangement is purely transactional.