Vampires of Orange County Vol. One

by John Bankston

  * [Haunted - Evanescence Copyright 2010]

  -10-

  The District was local without being old local like Blackies or The Shore House with mellower music than Sharkeez. Meat knew it was the chick’s kind of place – maybe even her regular hang. Bitch probably thought she was artsy because she took stupid photos with a camera her daddy bought her, or drew ugly pictures. Or maybe she skated or surfed or... something. Anything so she could tell herself she wasn’t like all the other airhead blondes overrunning the Peninsula.

  But Meat knew what she was. She was a dumb hot chick who’d gotten lucky and managed to kill his best friend.

  Her luck was just about over.

  Unfortunately at the moment he shared The District with the bored bartender and two punks playing pool. Meat didn’t think it would be smart to start asking them questions.

  Draining his beer, he got up and left the bar. Outside, he considered checking out the salon. Unfortunately he’d loaned Lonnie his only key. The door was probably locked. Breaking in would be easy, but then there was the chance of getting caught.

  Plus, the cops were probably watching the place. Not all the time, of course, but he knew they weren’t wrapping up the case yet. They’d guess that a guy like Lonnie wasn’t working alone –– it was only a matter of time before they came up with Meat’s name and started asking that Meagan-Teagan bitch if she remembered him.

  Law and Order had been his dad’s fav show; Meat knew how this worked. The girl’s address could be in the salon but going there was filled with risks. Too many risks. Without a plan, Meat drifted across the street.

  Sharkeez was packed with Monday Night Football fans cheering a Charger’s victory. Outside, there wasn’t a line and he recognized the bouncer.

  “My man, Meat!”

  Meat smiled. He didn’t remember the guy’s name, but he’d sold him Winstrol. Usually he wouldn’t sell to blacks, too risky, but this guy was cool – played at Edison the year after Meat graduated. “Hey, Man, how’s your Monday?”

  “Lame, but I can tell you I like the quiet. Cops came in last night and blocked off the lot, wouldn’t let me get my car ‘til four.” He took a pull off a bottle of something that probably wasn’t soda.

  “No shit... Some guy was killed, right?” Meat did his best to act casual, but his right bicep started quivering the way it always did when he got excited. He was pretty sure Lonnie hadn’t been with him when he sold the bouncer steroids, but pretty sure wasn’t sure. The Reg would be printing his friend’s name underneath some high school photo – if not tomorrow then the day after. If the door guy made the connection...

  “Chick did it. Tore him up from what I hear.”

  “Sorry?” Meat leaned against the railing. Inside the Chargers had scored a TD; for a moment he couldn’t hear anything but yelling. Pulling out a pack of Marlboro Reds he offered a smoke to the bouncer. Meat’s hand shook when he lit them up with his HB Surf Shop lighter. “What about the chick?”

  “She wrecked the dude. Some of my peeps were partying next door. They went in after she got done with the guy. Said the place looked like she’d painted it red.”

  “Shit.” Meat exhaled fiercely, the smoke joining a bellow of fog and ocean air.

  “That’s not the biggy. I saw the girl when she got into an ambulance. I recognized her, Meat. She tried to get in the other night.”

  “What?” Meat flicked away his cigarette, any remaining calm followed the butt into the gutter. “You sure? You knew her?”

  “Not knew. Refused. Baby doll looked about sixteen, I figured she’d borrowed her ID from an older sister or something. When I wouldn’t let her in she left for The District.”

  “No shit?” Meat could actually feel his eyeballs bulging along with the sweat in his pits.

  “No shit. And check this, Meat. It was Saturday, right? We get a big crowd. This group of girls was in line when she bailed and they started ragging on her. One of them was all pissed, said she wanted to go beat the girl’s ass.”

  “What? Why?” Meat rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the sweat despite the cold.

  “Well she said she dropped by her old man’s crib last week and this chick I turned away was there. Turns out that tanning salon chick and her man both crash at that surfer crib. You know the one, it’s over the taco shop on Fifteenth?”

  Meat knew the place, he’d had friends there. Fuck everyone did, apartment was famous. Only place this close to the water you could get a room for five bills a month.

  Meat didn’t even say goodbye. The bouncer called after him, “Hey, you aren’t gonna watch the game?”

  “Fuck no, not if my Raiders ain’t playing,” he replied, calling back over his shoulder. “Take care, Man – next week I’ll sell you some shit that’ll double your bench.”

  Meat headed back to his ride. There was a small bat he kept behind the seat, just for special occasions.

  -11-

  Colt worried Morgan was in trouble. Although she was only ten yards off shore, he could barely see her. The fog was thick; she was swimming in an angry circle. Finally, she touched bottom.

  Walking toward him, she kept looking back. In the uneven light, her eyes flashed red. Something had scared her. He raised his hand, her name on his lips, when he realized she was naked.

  He looked away but only for a moment. Turning back, Colt felt pervy, but couldn’t help himself.

  He loved her. It was that simple. There were framed photos of them lining the walls of his new place. Five years worth. She hadn’t aged a day. In most, his dark brown hair hung lank over a forehead he thought was too big, too prominent. Sometimes he smiled. There were shots in bathing suits, when he was trying to look muscular, and dressy ones where he wore a jacket and she was in a dress. No matter the lighting, or the season, or how much they’d partied, she always looked amazing.

  They’d spent all summer arguing. After she’d said she missed the year-round sunshine, they’d both laughed. Neither of them left their beds before dusk. Then she said she missed her home. He’d reminded her she was from Corona.

  She didn’t speak to him for a week.

  Last month, she admitted the truth. She missed her family. Corona might have been too close, but Portland was definitely too far. Orange County’s danger didn’t matter.

  As Morgan slipped beneath a lifeguard tower, Colt admired her ingenuity. She’d draped a towel over the front, but from behind it the view was just fine. She toweled off before slipping on her underwear and a t-shirt.

  She’d wanted space. But if anything happened to her while he was over one thousand miles away...

  She was struggling with her jeans when in his deepest voice he announced, “Beach is closed, Miss.”

  She almost hit her head on the overhang. Good thing she was short. Despite the darkness, she recognized him and smiled. “Colt, how’d you find me?”

  She tossed him her bag which he plucked from the air. Waiting until she wrapped a towel around herself, he explained, “I saw your ‘D by my car, figured you were in a bar or at the beach. I didn’t feel like going to a bar.”

  “Good choice... So you wouldn’t happen to have a ––”

  “Smoke?” By the time she’d asked, he already had the pack in his hands. Putting a cigarette between his lips, he managed to light it despite the wind. After a deep inhale, he handed it over.

  Morgan took a deep drag before asking, “How’s my little girl?”

  “Misses Mommy. She’s back at my place.”

  “Lead on.”

  His building was just across the street from where he’d parked his Camry. The apartment’s door was up a narrow flight of outside stairs. Below was a tiny cottage –– “The owner,” Colt explained to Morgan, “a quiet little old lady who said she’d always wanted to rent to an actual writer.”

  Opening the door, he stepped aside to let her enter, then shut it behind them. She waited in silence.

  The sound of skittering claws on a hard wood floor announced
Bambi’s arrival. Colt smiled as Morgan’s teacup Chihuahua raced by him and danced around its owner. She got down to the dog’s eye level, giggling as Bambi licked her face.

  Colt knew he was flawed, and he hated how much they fought. But he remained the only guy Morgan ever trusted to watch her dog.

  -12-

  Slipping into the silent house, Stephanie was grateful her dad was still at work. She shed her Uggs at the doorway, then tiptoed through the living room. Which was pointless – he would have known if she’d been gone. When Morgan broke curfew, he always waited in his recliner.

  Her Dad’s job kept him busiest at night and over the weekends. Recently, however, he’d been leaving for the office instead of doing paper work at home. Undressing in her room, Stephanie realized his strange behavior began after she started dating Victor. After she stopped confiding in her father.

  She’d met Victor when Chad (her now ex-boyfriend) was performing. It was after nine on a Sunday night. She’d watched his set alone at a Chino coffee shop – abandoned by girlfriends busy in the back booths making out with their boyfriends.

  The older guy in black approached her with a smile.

  Now it didn’t even matter that she’d known him for weeks. After spending hours together, she still couldn’t remember how he looked. Sometimes she’d picture his blue eyes and the next time she saw him she’d realize they were brown. Sometimes he seemed way older and other times he seemed her age.

  But no matter what, the feeling never changed.

  It was an all-consuming ache. It was like being outside on a hot day; Victor was the cool glass of water waiting in the kitchen. He was an “all you can eat” buffet after three days of fasting. More than that, he was survival. She’d heard girls say they would die without their boyfriends, but with Victor Stephanie knew it was true.

  At the coffee shop he had complimented her ex’s performance. Victor told Stephanie he was a music producer. She never said anything about it, not to anyone. She kept the encounter a secret. But she held onto his card, waiting an entire day before calling.

  A week later, she broke-up with her boyfriend.

  Dating Victor made Stephanie feel like she was snowboarding down the face of a mountain. Stephanie wasn’t scared, not exactly. But her new passion felt unfamiliar and dangerous.

  By their first week together, Stephanie was already sneaking out. She never knew their plans. He took her to L.A. clubs and Laguna Beach mansions. They were always at the front of the line, the center of attention. Stephanie felt mature and desirable. Well, she did until tonight.

  Tonight she just felt stupid. And for the first time, she wanted it over.

  Exchanging the Joan Jett ensemble for sweats, she crawled into bed. She’d played dress-up for the guy, and he’d acted like she was in the same-old, same-old.

  Drifting off to sleep she considered the clothes he’d purchased –– now back in their shopping bags, hidden once again in the closet.

  Tomorrow after school she’d take a walk. There was a dumpster behind a Taco Bell half-a-mile from the house.

  -13-

  Morgan’s back twinged when she picked up Bambi. “What have you been feeding her?”

  “Does she seem fat?”

  “No.” Morgan ran her hands over her dog’s flanks. “She feels...muscular.”

  “Well, I’ve been walking her –– you can’t just keep her in a Juicy purse.”

  “It’s a doggie-approved carrier...Forget it.” She yawned, accepting a glass of wine before collapsing onto a familiar couch.

  He set a copy of the OC Reg down in front of her. “What’s going on?”

  “I should have remembered you like newspapers.” She held it up. “Already subscribing?”

  “Of course... I like their politics and local stuff, but I get the LA Times for movie news and The Journal for business.” He smiled. “That was an evasion.”

  She sipped the wine. It was amazing. Which did not surprise her. “It was a gap, Colt.”

  “I figured. Your gaps... They’ve been getting worse. And more violent.”

  She sighed. “I know.” He sat in the chair across from her. She’d sold him the white leather furniture right before she left. It wouldn’t fit in her new place, and she needed the money.

  “Do you remember when you found out I wrote? You told me you were writing a book of your own.”

  “I was there...” She leaned over, touched his hand. “That wasn’t a gap.”

  “You said you didn’t want it labeled. That it wouldn’t be non-fiction and it wouldn’t be fiction.”

  “I wanted a blend.”

  “Which doesn’t work.” He flipped over the paper. She saw the story about the tanning salon even as he explained, “If you add fiction to fact it becomes fiction.”

  “I disagree.” She smiled at his irritation. She drove him crazy, but knew he saw it as part of her charm.

  “Morgan, it’s November.”

  “I don’t need a paper to know that.”

  “The ocean is freezing.”

  “Now who isn’t being factual? It was sixty degrees, maybe fifty-nine.”

  “Fine – sixty – it was too fucking cold for naked swimming. Not without cramping. And that’s how people drown.”

  She stood and crossed the room. Bambi followed her every step, her tail wagging with delight. Atop the sideboard beside Colt’s wine decanter was a photograph from the 1920s, a young couple he’d said were his grandparents. After replenishing her wine, she returned to the couch. “It’s el Niño – keeps the water warm.”

  “Nice try.”

  She sat down, letting her dog climb onto her lap. Calm returned when she rubbed Bambi’s head. “So, what’s your explanation, smarty pants?”

  “Well, let’s see... You skinny-dipped in water most people drown in. And you tore apart a guy twice your size.”

  She looked away from him, trying to skim the article. She hated reading, part of why she’d stopped acting. As she got older, the scripts kept getting harder. She knew her face was crunched up –

  “Where are your glasses?”

  “What?”

  “You can’t read without glasses, and you hate contacts.”

  She rubbed her head, feeling interrogated. “I outgrew it.”

  “You don’t outgrow –– never mind.”

  She returned to the article, starting at the beginning, taking her time. Again she felt distanced from its descriptions. And then she realized something. “There’s nothing here about the size of the guy I...” Her voice caught and she looked up at Colt. He was so cute sometimes, even when he was serious.

  “The guy you killed? No, of course not, it was a tight deadline. I just guessed.”

  “Based on what?”

  “On the last time a guy attacked you. And the aftermath.”

  -14-

  It was almost three a.m., and Meat’s back was aching. He worked out all the time, but standing was uncomfortable. Hearing the slap of flip-flops on the pavement, he abandoned his concealment. And then he saw her. She was crossing Balboa Boulevard, talking to her purse. In one hand, she held a small dog crate.

  Meat got ready for batting practice.

  He hoped she mimicked other self-absorbed females – waiting until she reached a locked door before digging for keys.

  He heard her speak as she climbed the outer stairs. “Here we are, Bambi,” she said, her girlish tone like most OC bar babes. Except there was something different about it, something throaty and sexy. “Welcome to your new home, Baby.”

  The dog was already whining, a low noise punctuated by a slight growl. The girl ignored it. Meat would have to hit fast, before the dog started barking.

  Along PCH, a siren screamed. Too late and too far to matter.

  A flyer slipped from her purse; she bent to retrieve it. The lobby light cast a thin amber spot over his prey. Meat focused on her ass: muscular and revealed perfectly beneath tight slacks. An ideal target. He’d smack her once and she’d fa
ll right over. He’d brain the dog and –

  The dog barked. It was a single throaty noise, not a yelp or a yip but a bark that would intimidate a Rottweiler. “That’s a new sound, Bambi. Colt teach you that?”

  Meat stepped forward as she slid in her key.

  He swung the bat

  His arm was immobilized. “What the –”

  Turning, he saw some old fart, his white hair messy over a smooth forehead. Dick was meth head skinny. Couldn’t be more than a buck-thirty.

  “You’re done, Faggot.” Meat twisted his arm, but the old guy held on. A second later, the geezer grabbed Meat’s throat with his free hand. The pressure was tremendous.

  Meat went down to one knee. Behind him, the door squealed open and shut with a smack. The man stared, his eyes a cold blue as he whispered, “Not today.”

  The siren approached. Meat’s free hand formed a fist. He aimed a punch toward the guy’s groin. There was no such thing as dirty fighting.

  His fist hit only air.

  Meat knew what was going to happen.

  And then it did.

  Meat was flipped over the older man’s shoulders. He rolled off the curb, smacking his shoulders against a Hyundai.

  The car alarm went off.

  The girl’s protector bent down. A smell like fresh soil enveloped him.

  The man’s voice sounded like it came from far away: “She’s mine.”

  And then he returned to the shadows.

  -15-

  Morgan was glad to be back home, plopping the crate by her bed. Bambi crawled in while her owner walked through the small apartment, double-checking the lock and turning off the living room lights. Drawing tight the bedroom curtains, she made sure not even a sliver of light would trespass. Then she locked her bedroom door and stripped off her clothes.

  The mirrors offered up a surprising reflection. The bruises that had decorated her skin last night were fading while the mark where the guy had tried to strangle her was gone completely. Examining her calves, she realized she couldn’t remember which one had suffered a carpet burn and there was nothing on either one of them to let her know.

  Her dog often shared her bed, cuddling under the blanket and sleeping until dusk. But after she’d showered in the adjoining bathroom, dried off and moisturized, her dog was snoring. It was cute. Small steps rested beside the bed. Bambi could always climb up if she wanted to.

  Morgan slipped naked beneath satin sheets.

  She was horny. Probably the steak. Or maybe...

  Morgan considered Colt. She could have stayed over. Despite trying to be “a good girl,” she couldn’t help picturing what would have happened. She hadn’t gotten laid in a long time.

  That thought melted into an image as she lay on her back and closed her eyes. A picture formed – what Colt saw when she stepped out of the ocean. It was arousing, visualizing herself nude and walking toward him.

  She imagined ascending the dune, sand clinging to her bare feet. As she thought of him wrapping a towel around her, she touched her breasts. Sighing as her nipples responded, she let her other hand drift beneath the sheet. She was wet. Thanks to her illness she was as smooth down there as she’d been at ten.

  In her mind, he kissed her. Morgan exhaled.

  In her fantasy, Colt removed the towel and spread it on the sand. She remembered his well-defined chest and arms, the perfection of his abdominals, his tiny belly button. She recalled his hipbones, almost too prominent for someone his size. She pictured Colt’s legs where thin lines delineated the muscles. She’d undressed him before. She imagined him letting her pull off his t-shirt, unzip his jeans, lower his boxers.

  Morgan thought about how his ass felt beneath her fingertips, how thick his cock was in her hand. She was panting, moaning.

  She imagined pressing him onto the towel, climbing atop him.

  She thought of him penetrating her.

  Morgan rolled onto her stomach.

  Her eyes parted. Her volume increased. Darkness obscured nothing. She saw the wall’s blankness awaiting art as she awaited a lover. She closed her eyes as one hand slid from her breasts to her bottom. She squeezed herself, recalling Colt’s soft hand on her. She smacked herself with one hand while fingers from the other entered her in rough approximation of Colt’s sex.

  The bed squeaked as she pressed against her palm. Her moans grew in volume; her breathing a sprinter’s. Bambi yelped, but she didn’t stop. The hill approached. She climbed over it, as she suddenly thought of Colt’s mouth on her, licking her bringing her

  “Oh God, I’m gonna come,” she announced.

  Sighing, she rolled onto her back.

  Bambi had left her crate. The Chihuahua was shaking, staring not at her owner but at the far end of the bed. “What’s wrong, Baby?”

  Bambi growled. Morgan leaned forward, wondering if she’d freaked out her dog. Unlikely. Her chi witnessed more than any boyfriend.

  A shadow shifted and formed. She clicked on her bedside lamp out of habit.

  Victor was on the edge of her bed.

  “Oh, fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” Her back pressed against the cold wall.

  “That was nice.” His hair was black, slick while his eyes were dark – reflecting nothing in the dim light. His face was pale and tight, like skin pulled over bone. When he smiled his teeth looked sharp as butcher knives. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  Leaning forward, she pulled the sheet over her breasts. Victor’s weight provided no resistance.

  She was going crazy.

  “How did you -?” She stopped. Questions piled up in her head like cars slamming into a braking driver.

  Her face was hot. Which was stupid. Why should she be embarrassed? She’d masturbated before a mirage.

  A thin trickle of blood slid down his chin. “Tell me, darling, how did that boy you killed taste?” He licked his lips.

  And then he was gone.

  Morgan left the bed, shaking with rage. Tears streaked down her face. Nothing was over. And she’d lied to Colt.

  She hadn’t come back to California for her family, or because she missed her friends.

  She’d come back for Him. She’d come back for Victor.

  Their connection was unsevered.

  Five years was nearly a quarter of her life. To Victor it was the blink of an eye.

  A tinny version of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata interrupted her reverie. Opening the door, she crossed into the living room expecting Victor to materialize.

  Finding her purse she pulled out Colt’s phone. His new place came with a landline, he’d explained, so she could borrow his cell. She hit answer but didn’t speak. Colt’s voice was calming. “Sorry to be over protective, I just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

  “Colt...” Her voice cracked. “I need to leave. I need to go back to Portland.”

  “What? Why?”

  “My ex-boyfriend is going to kill me.”

  Acknowledgements

  Writers usually create in a sort of solitary confinement. Yet every book ever written owes its existence to the unnamed many, the people who influenced it and the people who supported its creation. Vampires of Orange County is no exception.

  I wish to thank the many writers who have inspired me, including F. Scott Fitzgerald, Stephen King, Michael Connolly, and Don Winslow. I owe a huge debt to dozens of teachers, from Mrs. Rolands in second grade to Lou Nelson’s workshop at UCI in 2011. Some of the best editors are also teachers. The work I do today benefits from the lessons I learned at The Daily Commercial, The Orlando Sentinel and The Tallahassean.

  When I began writing nonfiction books for children and young adults, Sue Wilkins was one of my first editors. She took on an early novel of mine as well. Although that work never found a home, she was responsible for line editing two different versions. I believe the best teachers teach by doing and the work she did on 18 to Look Younger was an education for me. It has greatly improved everything I’ve done since.

&nb
sp; I’d also like to thank the early readers of this novel, including Carolyn Hunt, Virginia Hilton and Amy Larouche. Your encouragement was priceless. My parents have both followed unconventional lives. I’ve learned more from their examples than I like to admit. Regardless, my mother had a minor in creative writing and her short stories represented one of my earliest introductions to the form. I’m grateful to her for early encouragement in this crazy writing career.

  When I began considering e-publishing, one person has guided me. Stacy Brecht

  I’ve met and observed countless dozens during the years I’ve lived in and around Newport Beach, California. So I’d like to thank this town, one of the prettiest spots for people watching I’ve encountered.

  Thanks to my furry boy, a Jack Russell-Chihuahua named Astronaut. I’m fairly sure he has no idea what I’m doing when I stare at a computer screen or scribble in a notebook. But I have to thank him for cuddling in my lap and giving me kisses when he’d much rather be chasing a ball on the public tennis court at A Park.

  Finally, last but not least, I want to thank Lora Noesen. For over five years, she has encouraged and supported my crazy dreams. She’s even watched a few of them come true. Because of Lora I have been able to attend workshops and conferences; I’ve been able to write my fiction even while I labor on books about countries I’ve never visited and people I’ve never met. Over the last few months she’s helped with the surprisingly difficult task of transforming a printed book to e-pub. She’s formatted and corrected and reread. If this book is a success, it is because of her. I love you Soup!