"Laymon, Richard - Bite" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laymon Richard)

Her words stunned me.
She faced forward again to watch the road.
"You're . . . like my safety hatch," she said. "The one person I figured I could count on, no matter what. So I always had to know where you were living. Just in case."
"That must've been a pretty good trick."
"I've stayed in touch with Lynn."
"My _sister_ Lynn? You're kidding. She's never mentioned anything about . . ."
"It's our secret."
"I can't believe she didn't _tell_ me."
"She didn't want to get your hopes up. It would've driven you crazy. I mean, I only wanted to know where you _were_, not marry you."
I grimaced.
And took it without a complaint.
One thing I'd learned -- mostly from my early experiences with Cat -- is not to whine or beg. Acting like a baby never improves your situation with a girl. And it makes you feel like a jerk. You've got to keep your dignity.
"So, why tonight?" I asked. "This vampire . . . he's been at you for a while, apparently. But you waited until tonight to . . . come and see me about it." _Make a run to your safety hatch_.
She glanced at me, then faced the road again. "I don't know why," she said. "I was starting to get ready for him tonight, and . . ."
"Ready for him?"
"He likes me to do certain things before he shows up. Take a bath . . . a few other things. Light candles."
"And you _do_ this stuff for him? The _vampire_ you're asking me to kill?"
"It's complicated."
"I guess _so_."
She gave me another glance. I couldn't see the expression on her face, and she couldn't see mine. That was probably a good thing.
"We . . . came to an understanding," she said. "Elliot and I."
"_Elliot_? Your vampire's name is _Elliot_? What's his last name?"
"I don't know. He's never said. But even Elliot might not be his real name."
"Why would anyone make up a name like that?"
"I don't know. But I'm pretty sure he lies about a lot of things."
"What was this 'understanding'?" I asked.
"Like an agreement to get along. I used to fight him. I mean, he came at me in the middle of the night like a rapist, so I tried to fight him off. I would've killed him if I could. But it was never any use. He was always either too strong for me or too clever. No matter what I tried, he'd end up winning. And then he'd . . . punish me." She sighed, glanced at me, and said, "So we finally called a truce. I'd be nice to him, and he'd stop . . . doing certain things to me."
"How long has this been going on?" I heard myself ask. It seemed like someone else's voice. Someone pretending to be me, and rational. While the real me was half crazy, laughing and screaming at the monstrous absurdity of what Cat was saying.
"He started coming about a year ago," she said.
"A _year_ ago?"
"He doesn't come every night. He gives me some time to recover between visits."
"My God," I said.
"Tonight, I finally just couldn't face going through it all again. It's like . . . being his whore. I feel so filthy afterward. Soiled. Ashamed of myself. I _like_ how it feels when he has me. That's what makes it so awful. I _love_ it. But then I hate myself."
When she said that about hating herself, her voice trembled and she started to cry. Weeping quietly, she leaned forward so her face almost touched the steering wheel. We passed under a streetlight, and I saw silvery trails of tears on her cheek.
I hate it when women cry.
_Cat_ crying almost broke my heart.
Reaching over, I put my hand on her shoulder and said, "It's all right."
"No, it's not."
Her shoulder was jerking as she sobbed. It felt small and warm and smooth. I didn't try to say anything else. She continued to cry, hunched over the steering wheel. After a while, I slid my hand off her shoulder and rubbed her back.
Comforting her. Comforting myself.
Her back sure felt good through the silk.
At last, she settled down. She sniffed a few times and wiped her eyes with her hands. Then she eased herself away from the steering wheel. My hand almost got trapped against the seatback, but I moved it out of the way in time. She took a deep breath. On the way in and out, it made trembling sounds as if her lungs were shaking.
"Anyway," she said. "I was getting ready for him. I took my bath for him, the same as usual. But then when I climbed out of the rub and looked at the mirror . . ." She shook her head. She was silent for a few moments. Then she said, "I see myself in the mirror all the time, but tonight was different."
"You couldn't see yourself in it?"
"What?" She let out a small, quick laugh -- a very good thing to hear after the crying. "No. I could see myself just fine. That was the problem. I hadn't _really_ seen myself in a long time. Tonight, it just hit me. How I'd changed. I saw my wounds. I saw how thin I'd gotten to be. How tired I looked. I saw that I'd turned into his . . . his slut, his midnight snack. And it hit me that this was my _fate_, this was it, this was how I'd be spending the rest of my life. As his slave. I _had_ no life anymore. I was _his_, and he was destroying me. So I didn't wait around for him. I just threw on my robe and grabbed my keys and ran." She glanced over at me. "I should've done it a long time ago. But . . . I don't know, you go along to a certain point, even with something you know is awful. Then all of a sudden you just have to make it end . . . even if it kills you."
"Do you think he'll want to kill you?" I asked.
"If he can't have me, he'll kill me. But I don't think he wants to _lose_ me. I mean, he's been at me for a year. This is a guy who could have almost anyone, but he keeps coming back to me."
"I can understand that," I told her.
"Yeah, I'm such a prize."
"Do you think he _loves_ you?"