Thrall (A Vampire Romance)(3)

“Whatcha drinkin’?” he shouts.

I look over at him.

“I’m good.”

He puts his hand on my back. He’s pushy. I look over at his eyes again. Out there in the world he’s someone important. Sometimes I hate important people.

They forget their mortality, as if packing enough money in your bank account can buy time to make up for those eighty-hour weeks. As if the couple grand he carries in his wallet will buy me off when I’ve got my knee on his chest and I’m slicing open…

I shudder.

“What’s your name?”

“Sherman.”

I look him in the eye.

“Go home, Sherman.” The name comes to me. “Vera is lonely. You’re fifty-six years old,” how I know that I have no idea, “you’re in good health and you have a wife who loves you. It’s not too late.”

He blinks a few times. Then he leaves. He might go home, he might not. I can’t make myself care.

I keep telling myself that one of these times I’ll say to the guy “These are not the droids you’re looking for” but my sense of humor went away along with everything else.

I turn back to the drink and swirl the dregs around in the glass. I prop my chin on my fist and wait. I desperately need to find a guy looking for someone to take advantage of. They have to deserve it.

The next two are the same. I blow them off. The intimacy of the deep gaze sickens me so I do it the old fashioned way, with the cold shoulder.

Then the suitor comes. Like poor Sherman he doesn’t belong here, but he doesn’t belong here in an unnerving, predatory way. This guy is different. He’s holding a drink but he hasn’t had any. He’s looking around like he expects to get jumped, watching all the corners, checking the exits.

He looks me over three times before he moves to the bar, circling me like a shark when there’s blood in the water. I watch him in the long mirror behind the bar. His reflection is blurred.

The glass must be dirty.

He’s about six two, narrow in the way of a guy that leads a sedentary lifestyle but takes care of himself and works hard on staying in shape. His clothes are all tailored, his belt and shoes alligator, and he’s wearing an Omega. When I spot the watch something stirs, deep down, something fluttery and scratchy waking up in my belly. When he sits down next to me the feeling grows. It’s heady, intoxicating. I forget to pick up my drink.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” I say, and I blink. He has a lean face, not model handsome but, I don’t know, endearing. He wears glasses, by the little marks on his nose, but doesn’t have them on now. His hair is a sandy blonde and when I see his hands I decide they belong to a doctor, for no particular reason. He touches my wrist and I’m aware of pressure and heat and the texture of his fingertips, but it’s as dead as any other touch, just an awareness.

Except it isn’t. I don’t stop him or pull my hand away.

“You don’t look like you belong in a place like this.”

I don’t belong anywhere with the living.

“I guess not.”

“Are you upset about something?”

I flinch. He says it like he already knows the answer.

This has to end. This man is kind. I don’t dare meet his eyes. I don’t want to feel that.

“Go away.”

I take my hand away and prop my chin on it. I might go thirsty tonight. I’d rather take the risk than hurt someone undeserving.

He’s not leaving. He’s not giving up.

“You look upset.”

A tiny part of me wants to tell him. Tell him all of it. Of course I’m upset. I’m a corpse, I have every reason to be upset. I don’t. I turn away even more.

I catch the motion out of the corner of my eye. He passes his hand over my drink. A flicker passes through his face and I can’t read it. I turn back and taste my drink.

He’s put something in it.

“Why don’t we get out of here?”

I squeeze the glass and stop myself before I crush it. This is worse than usual. I feel betrayed. I’m angry and I want to savor it. Feeling something is precious, even if it’s hate. If you crawl through the desert and find a drink of water, who cares if the water’s warm?

I down the rest of the drink and slip off my stool and think. This guy is probably not going to have a dingy apartment. This might be a mistake. I should go, but I can’t. I have to have this one.

Then I look over and see his face and hate myself for what I’m going to do to him, even though I now know he deserves it. Something is off about this, something wrong. My instincts are starting to scream at me to leave, hole up somewhere for the day and come back to the hunt tomorrow night.

We leave the club. I walk with him. It’s late, now, fewer people on the street.

“I’m parked on the next block, in a lot,” he says, and squeezes my hand.

I drift along with him. The parking lot is half empty, surrounded by barbed wire that glows under harsh high pressure sodium lamps. The attendant’s booth is empty, closed up. There’s a big white van parked in the corner, away from the lights. He starts leading me to it.

His hand tugs mine when I stop.

“Come on, honey.”

Something familiar in his tone. I’ve had enough. I don’t like this. I pull away.