The Fangover (The Fangover #1)(39)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“I’m guessing the answers to those questions are as stupid as the answers we’ve already gotten,” Drake said. “I think I’m going home. This is our last night off for four days and my tooth hurts like a motherfucker. It figures that even undead, going to the dentist sucks.”

“Alright. Feel better, man.” Wyatt clamped Drake on the shoulder and watched him head out the door. “We could probably give Benny his phone back and head out.” Wyatt wanted to take Stella back to his place and have a repeat performance of her on his lap.

“No, wait.” Stella was sitting on a barstool and she tapped Benny’s phone again. “There’s another video.”

Wonderful. What stupidity would they get to view now? “Am I wearing a dress this time?”

“No dress. Look.” Stella held it out for him to see. “It looks like The Blair Witch Project.”

It did. Benny was obviously running at full speed. They could hear his heavy breathing and he yelled, “Come on! Come on! Run!” The camera turned and they caught a bouncing shot of Saxon’s panicked face.

“Go, go!” Saxon said. He looked behind him, clearly scared.

The phone dropped to the ground, the voices no longer clear. Benny obviously picked the phone back up, but the video stopped there.

“What was that?” Wyatt asked. “They both look terrified.”

“I have no idea.” Stella rubbed her forehead. “What’s terrifying is that all of this happened and none of us remember it. Not that I was there for this, but where was I? It’s so damn frustrating and unnerving.”

“Agreed.” Seeing yourself moving on camera when you had no memory of it was a truly bizarre experience. “And where is Saxon, by the way? He should have been back here by now.”

“Do you think he’s in danger?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Wyatt said truthfully. “It feels like nothing out of the ordinary has happened in ten years and now all of a sudden everything is crazy.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

The bartender tapped Wyatt on the shoulder. “Are you ordering a drink or not? Because about nine thousand people would like this stool.”

Wyatt glared back. He knew bartenders worked off of tips. He did, too. But the guy didn’t have to be a dick about it. And hadn’t he tried to get drinks ten minutes ago and been ignored? “We’re leaving.”

“Wonderful.”

“Let’s head toward Saxon’s. If he’s walking back, we’ll pass him on the street.”

“Okay. Let me give Benny his phone back.” Stella walked over to the other bar and passed the phone to Benny. She got a kiss on the cheek for her efforts. Wyatt refrained from rolling his eyes. After all, he could totally understand digging Stella. He suffered from the same problem himself.

“Let’s go.” Stella gripped the strap of her purse and tossed her red hair back.

“I’m going to have Cher stuck in my head for the rest of the night.” Wyatt stepped out into the fresh night air. Or as fresh as Bourbon Street got. He wasn’t the least bit sorry to leave Bounce behind.

“Don’t be hating on Cher. She’s awesome.”

“I’m not hating. I just said it’s going to be stuck in my head all night. That’s not the same thing. Though I have to say no one was at all friendly in that place.”

“I know. It’s like they were drinking Hater-ade.”

Wyatt laughed. He put his arm around Stella. “I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor even if it is goofy.”

She made a sound of irritation and elbowed him in the side. “I’m not goofy.”

“No. You’re gorgeous.”

She stopped walking.

Wyatt looked down at her, curious to why she’d stopped in the middle of the street. What he saw made his eyes go wide. She was looking at him like she cared about him. Like she wanted nothing more than to be in his arms, kissing him. Her lips were parted, her eyes were dark and glassy with desire, and her body leaned toward him.

It was a look filled with more than lust. There was a raw emotion there as well, an intimate longing, and Wyatt didn’t have a choice. He had to kiss her right here, on the street.

Not that it would be the first or last time someone had shown affection on Bourbon, but it was a first for him. Using one hand, Wyatt cupped her chin and tilted her head up toward him. Then he bent down and kissed her gently, wanting his lips to convey how much he admired and respected her. How much he loved her.

Because he loved her.

He could admit it.

Hell, he’d already admitted it.

She had run then.

But she wasn’t running now.

She was kissing him back, with more tenderness than passion, and Wyatt felt his heart swell. She was giving in, he could feel it.

“Wyatt . . .”

“Yeah?” She was going to say something important, he was sure. Something that would change the course of his immortal life.

“Ack!”

That wasn’t it.

Stella stumbled as someone plowed into her, and Wyatt grabbed her arm to keep her upright.

He was ready to give attitude if whoever bumped her didn’t apologize, but when he focused on the intruder, he swore. It was Saxon.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked indignantly. He and Stella had been having a moment, damn it. Trust Saxon to ruin it.

“Sorry, Stella.” Saxon put his hands on her shoulders to stabilize her but then took off running down the street.

“What are you doing?” Wyatt called after him.

“Gotta go. Trouble.”

Looking around, Wyatt didn’t see any obvious reason why Saxon was running. There was no one after him and no one else on the street looked concerned. He was about to ask Stella if they should follow Saxon when she took off.

“Well, that answers that question.” Wyatt starting jogging after both of them.

Saxon was running full steam, yelling, “Ahhhh,” the whole time.

Wyatt wanted to laugh. It was just too ridiculous.

“Saxon! Stop!” Stella shouted, her arms pumping as she ran to keep up with him.

Saxon was dodging and weaving like a Dickens pickpocket, even going sideways to slide through a pack of women in skirts and heels. Stella veered around the women entirely and lost a few feet on Saxon. Wyatt was torn between wanting to hang back and see how this absurdity played out, and just tackling Saxon’s sorry ass to the ground. His foot landed in a puddle of God only knew what, splashing up onto his jeans, and he nixed the tackling-to-the-ground idea. He didn’t want to touch anything on the street with any part of his body other than the bottom of his shoes.