“Emmett,” I whisper finally, shattering the silence. “You do realize this is going to make our feud a bit more complicated, right?”
“Oh, Emmeline,” he murmurs, smirking back at me as his hands squeeze my waist tighter. “On the contrary — I think this just made our rivalry a hell of a lot more interesting…”
THE END
About the Author
JULIE JOHNSON is a twenty-something Boston native suffering from an extreme case of Peter Pan Syndrome. When she's not writing, Julie can most often be found adding stamps to her passport, drinking too much coffee, striving to conquer her Netflix queue, and Instagramming pictures of her dog. (Follow her: @author_julie)
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She published her debut novel LIKE GRAVITY in August 2013, just before her senior year of college, and she's never looked back. Since, she has published eight more novels, including the bestselling BOSTON LOVE STORY series and THE GIRL DUET. Her books have appeared on Kindle and iTunes Bestseller lists around the world, as well as in AdWeek, Publishers Weekly, and USA Today.
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You can find Julie on Facebook or contact her on her website www.juliejohnsonbooks.com. Sometimes, when she can figure out how Twitter works, she tweets from @AuthorJulie.
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Also by Julie Johnson
STANDALONE NOVELS:
LIKE GRAVITY
SAY THE WORD
FAITHLESS
THE BOSTON LOVE STORIES:
NOT YOU IT’S ME
CROSS THE LINE
ONE GOOD REASON
TAKE YOUR TIME
THE GIRL DUET:
THE MONDAY GIRL
THE SOMEDAY GIRL
UNCHARTED
THE FADED DUET:
FADED
UNFADED
Crimson Cocktail
Karpov Kinrade
When Ember White wakes up married to a stranger, she thinks it can't get much worse, until she finds out he's a vampire and has turned her into one too--and someone's trying to kill them both. Just another day in the life of a librarian.
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A standalone novella from the USA Today bestselling Vampire Girl world.
Copyright ? 2018 by Karpov Kinrade All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Crimson Cocktail
A thirst like I’ve never before experienced wakes me from a deep sleep full of vaguely haunting dreams. When I peel my eyes open enough to take stock of where I am, I realize three things at once: I’m in a bed not my own, there is a stranger’s arm draped around me, and . . . we both seem to be naked.
I study the arm in a detached kind of way, like a scientist studying a strange animal. His muscles are well-defined, and his skin is a shade lighter than mine, which is saying something given my pale complexion. His hand is manicured with long tapering fingers that I imagine are perfect for playing piano. It’s an attractive arm, but one completely unfamiliar to me.
The fourth thing that hits me is that I can’t recall a single thing from the last night.
Nothing. Not a whiff of a memory floats inside my confused brain.
The last thing I can recall before this moment is my best friend dragging me to a club on the strip after work to "blow off steam." As if working as librarians in Nevada is so stress-inducing.
An ache at the base of my throat reminds me of my thirst . . . or maybe it’s hunger. I can’t actually tell, which is odd in and of itself. I just know I won’t be able to focus on anything else until I drink or eat something. I carefully extricate myself from the strange man’s hold and scoot to the edge of the bed to sit up.
It’s then that I realize a fifth thing.
I’m wearing a wedding ring.
And not just some cheap gold band, either.
I’m wearing a rock to rival all rocks. A glittering diamond the size of a small egg is tucked between sapphires. It’s antique-looking. Art Deco maybe. I gawk at it, confused. Surely it isn’t real. But damn if it doesn’t look real.
I suck in my breath, and all thoughts are lost as the scent of something delicious overtakes me. My eyes land on the crimson cocktail sitting on the nightstand, and my mouth literally waters. With drool. It isn’t a good look, and I have to wipe my chin with the back of my hand to keep from dribbling on the expensive sheets.
I reach for the cocktail, not even bothering to question why I’m craving liquor first thing in the morning, and I sniff. I can’t place the smell, but it’s tantalizing and sets all of my senses on fire. I take a tentative sip, expecting something with blood orange, or maybe a Bloody Mary, but it’s nothing like that. It’s viscous and coats my throat in a way that eases all worry and care. I drain the cocktail without pause and have to force myself not to lick the glass clean.
Who am I kidding? I totally licked the glass clean. You know us librarians . . . wild to the core.
Whatever was in that drink effects me pretty instantly. My whole body pulses with energy and adrenaline surges through me. My senses are heightened. It was unnaturally silent in this room thanks to a private suite in a fancy Vegas hotel. But now, I can hear all the little things that keep the room functioning. The buzz from the lights. The currents of electricity surging through the wires in the walls to power the television. I can even hear guests on other floors—the sounds of chewing or early morning lovemaking. And that’s when I begin to worry about what was in the drink.
Am I hallucinating?
Maybe the stranger in bed drugged me last night, and that’s why I can’t remember anything.
And now I’ve just voluntarily drugged myself.
I rush to the bathroom without bothering to dress first. As soon as I get to the toilet, I do my best to induce vomiting. If that drink was drugged, maybe I can get most of it out before it’s absorbed. My mind whirls, planning as I lean over the porcelain rim.
I need to get whatever I just drank out of my system. Then I need to get dressed and find my phone—or any phone for that matter.
After that, I need to get out of the room and call Molly, find out what the hell happened last night, and make sure she’s okay.
Once I’m sure she’s okay, I’ll head to the ER and have them do a rape kit, just in case. I’ll also need STD testing and a morning-after pill. This has never happened to me before. I’ve never had a one-night stand. I’ve never been sexually assaulted. But I live in Las Vegas, so of course, I’ve heard stories. And naturally, I have a contingency plan. What woman doesn’t?
Oh, and before I escape this hotel suite, I need to find the identity of the man in bed. In case he did do something to me.
When my stomach is emptied, and red bile floats in the water, I flush and stand so I can then lean against the sink. I splash water over my face, wash out my mouth, and then stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look more pale than normal, which isn’t surprising given a night of drinking and god knows what else.
What is shocking is that I actually look effing amazing. And I don’t mean pretty-good-all-thing-considered amazing. I mean photoshopped-glam-pic amazing. My skin is flawless. The permanent line in my brow—what Molly calls my librarian line—is gone. A pimple that had just started to form by my nose has disappeared. Dryness. Sun damage. All those little imperfections we get used to . . . all of it gone! My eyes, normally a dullish blue, now sparkle and look like they’ve been run through a filter. Even my cheekbones seem more pronounced. Sexier. My mousy brown hair looks shiny and rich, like chocolate. And everything else is . . . perkier, let’s just say.
"What the hell happened to me last night?" I whisper to myself.