I look down at my shirt and see very large, “HOT GRANDMA” printed across it. Instinctively, I cross my arms over my chest. This is one hot mess right here.
“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone around here either,” I say after a brief moment of silence.
“No, don’t be sorry. It’s just that I thought I was the only one here, being it’s the end of summer. Most of these places don’t see any action until the winter starts, and sometimes not until after the end of the year,” the cute stranger says. He combs his free hand through his sandy blond hair, and his light brown eyes…no, hazel, glisten beneath the overhead light shining over the door. “I’m being rude. Let’s start over here.” He smiles and reaches out his hand. “Hi there, my name is Dillan.”
I take his hand and he looks at it while he lightly squeezes it. Goose bumps form on his arm and the first thought that roams through my head is that he knows I’m different. His body senses it, but his face doesn’t react the way his body did. He tilts his head and scrunches his eyes a little.
“And you are?” he asks.
My mind rummages into a million different directions, yelling commands at me. Don’t squeeze his hand back. Stop looking at his gorgeous face. Ignore the blood vessel that pulses and pumps that sweet smelling nectar through his body. How could I possibly live among these people and not stand out?
“Should I ask an easier question?” he asks and smiles at me after another odd moment of silence.
“Jasmine!” I blurt out quickly, wanting to hit myself in the head once again. “I’m Jasmine.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” His dimples surface, and not a wrinkle exists anywhere on his smooth, tan skin, except the small crease at the corner of his mouth. “Where are you staying?”
“The first apartment,” I reply too quickly, pointing and not thinking about the implications of my revelation.
“Oh, that’s great. I’m two doors down at 103. It’s so much quieter here than the dorm, so I decided to crash at my grandparents’ winter place instead of on campus. I’m not much for big crowds,” he explains.
His neck vein pops out every time one of his words escapes, and it becomes too unbearable. “Well, I need to get going. Nice to meet you,” I say and turn to walk down the path.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” he asks.
“Looking for a place to grab something to eat,” I say.
“Oh, well, when you cross over the bridge off the island, stay to the right and that will take you to a nice little strip where you’ll find shops and cafés. Just stay clear of the left. That’s not a very safe place this time of night, or even during the day, for that matter,” he says. “It’s funny how you have expensive houses just over the bridge and then less than a mile away one of the worst parts of town. There’s a reason for that, historical and all.”
“Thanks.” I hurry down the walkway.
“A story for another time, I guess,” he whispers under his breath, but I hear it clearly.
Before I turn the corner at the end of the street, I look back to see him staring at me. He sees me looking, turns and goes into the building.
The bridge he was talking about looms before me. I cross it quickly, and take a left.
Chapter 6
The stars seem nonexistent here under the big city lights, and it’s vastly different from the bright canvas that blanketed the night sky on the island. I’m tempted to say I miss those sparkly moments, but the island held infinitely more terrors than pleasantries.
The white cement light poles lining the dark street appear to house busted out bulbs. The water of the intra-coastal fades from view the further down the curved street I walk. A loud bass booms and echoes from the interior of a rusted out gold car that sits, rather awkwardly, on top of monster tires as it passes by.
Picking up my pace, I see the car turn onto a busier intersection that’s more lighted with working street lights, as well as the lights from some clubs on the corner. The closer I get, the more I realize they aren’t the clubs you picture on a Miami strip, or at least not what I expected.
Blacked-out windows line the sidewalk, keeping prying human eyes from seeing inside, but my sight penetrates the glass. A few girls stand on the street corners in scantily clad fake leather and fur. My newfound thirst for blood may place me in the immortal category, but I’m pretty sure if I tried to wear some of those high heels, I’d kill myself.
“Whatcha lookin at?” a puffy, curly-haired, dark-skinned woman scowls at me. “I’m gonna need to start charging for the looks.” She pats her hair and swirls around, laughing as she faces another “lady of the night.” “Lady” may be loosely applied when describing these girls.
Her clothes distract me from looking at the plump vein on her neck. “Sorry,” I say, turning away from them and head toward another bar further away from the intersection.
“Did you see that girl’s outfit?” curly head asks the fake red-head standing next to her.
“Umm hum,” red-head replies. “Attack of the 80s. Think she’s in the wrong neighborhood. Mr. Roger don’t live here no more.”
They laugh at one another, not realizing I can hear every word as though I was standing next to them. They are right though. I do stick out here. My light skin color places me in the minority around here, although the few white folks I see definitely dress a little more on the risqué side. My HOT GRANDMA t-shirt and leggings aren’t helping me.
My instincts drive me toward the end of a dead-end street, where a one lighted sign advertises the “Dead-End Bar.” Well, that sounds like a welcome sign for the dead, and isn’t that what I am? A smile creeps up the side of my mouth thinking of the irony.
A small parking lot with cracked pavement has only two cars in it, so I know there can’t be too many people inside. Seeing through the dark black windows, there are four people playing on two pool tables, and about six people hovering around the bar. Four of the bar flies are young women, dressed in sexy clothes, and the rest of the inhabitants are a mix of middle-aged and young men.
Why the hell not? The smell of cigarettes and booze drift up my nose when I open the door to the bar. All heads turn toward me. The men playing pool look away quickly and put their concentration back on their game, but the girls at the bar stare a little too long. Although I can’t read their minds, I can guess what their thinking.
I sit at the first stool at the far end of the bar, away from everyone. The older, dark-skinned, bald bartender comes over. “What can I get you?”
Damn! I don’t have money. Why didn’t I think about that before now?
“Water please,” I say, and shrug my shoulders. I’d rather have the real stuff coursing through his veins, but I don’t think he’ll give that up willingly.
“Fine,” he says, rolling his eyes. He grabs a clear glass from under the counter and squirts a stream of water over ice, plopping it back in front of me. He walks away quickly.
“Thanks,” I say to no one.
The smell of sweat begins to penetrate the air, as the girls start dancing to some fast beats that blare from the speakers overhead. The men join in with what can only be described as the worst grinding moves known to man. One of them looks like he’s having a seizure behind one of the girls. And she looks like she’s enjoying it.
With the mixture of sounds and smells, my senses are on overdrive, which I am thankful for since my hunger seems to be growing by the second. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m surrounded by bodies that makes me ache with desire for the sweet stuff to flow down my throat. I watch each of the men playing pool and wonder what they would taste like. Do they deserve the fate of death I could surely bring them? Then, I think of Dillan. He must taste amazing; there’s no way he couldn’t. Oh my God! What is wrong with me, I think as my conscience kicks in.
The clock over the bar mirror clicks faster and faster it seems, or perhaps my patience is wearing thin.
“Is that all you’re go
ing to have? You haven’t even touched the water,” the bartender speaks softly. “If you’re having trouble, girl, I can slip you a cold one, on the house. You look like you need it.”
He looks at my shirt, and then back up to my eyes, waiting for my reply. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Needed to get away from your family for the night? Are you visiting from out of town?” he asks, and then continues, “You know, this isn’t really a good place for your type.”
“What type would that be?” I ask.
“You know…pretty, and wealthy,” he says, and walks away mumbling under his breath, “and white.”
He’s right. I don’t belong here, and I need to leave. Do any of these people deserve to die tonight? Then the thought hits me that I could probably kill them all if I really wanted to, but that just seems like a waste. All I need is one.
My mouth salivates. I leap from my barstool and hastily leave the bar. The street seems darker now, since all of the street lamps in this area are busted, and most of the inhabitants have either left or are still inside the few remaining bars along the strip.
Instead of taking the main street that will lead me back past the hookers on the corner, I cut into an alley leading behind the buildings. It’s quiet, and maybe I can find a stray cat or dog, or something to sink my teeth into. The thought of another animal sends a tingle of disgust through me.
The island girl pops into my head, her drunken stupor and her sweet taste makes my mouth water. Amber. A hint of guilt lingers on my mind for the life I took from her. She’s trapped there on that sandy open grave forever, and I finally found freedom, but at what cost? An emptiness weighs heavy in my gut, but I know that I must feed.
Animals will not suffice to satiate the appetite I have now. Now that I’ve had a taste of human blood, nothing less will do.
Footsteps echo through another alleyway about 100 feet ahead of me, and I take refuge behind a tall hedge that outlines someone’s crappy, garbage-ridden backyard full of dead metal relics.
“It’s just up here, I promise,” a deep male voice bellows.
“And home, eh?” a slurred, daintily high-pitched voice responds.
“Yes, I’ll take you home, just like I promised your friends I would,” he replies.
“You’re nice,” she slurs.
They exit the narrow alley, entering the back alley between the buildings and the yards, the one I’m hiding in.
He holds her up, and leads her to a dirty patch of grass fifty feet away from me. A rusted swing set sits ten feet from them, and he pushes her to the ground.
“Wha?” Her ass crashes and she rolls over. The contents of her purse litter the pavement of the back road where it meets the grassy edge.
He starts to pull his zipper down, and falls to his knees. “This will only take a minute, sweet thing. I bet this will feel good.”
“No!” she yells and pushes him away, trying to crawl backwards, but he grabs her legs and pulls her toward him, scratching her back against the rough grass. Before she can scream, he covers her mouth with one hand and takes both of her waving arms into his other.
“Hold still now, you know this is what you wanted.” He parts her squirming legs with his powerful thighs, which inches up her short skirt high enough to reveal her leopard print thong. “Oh, that’s beautiful. Did you wear that especially for me?”
He takes his hand away from her mouth and finishes undoing his pants, exposing himself.
She screams, and he punches her.
That’s when I take flight from my hiding spot, and grab the back of his neck and yank him off of her.
“What the fuc—” He looks at me from the side as I grip his neck and his eyes widen.
The girl on the grass lifts her head and our eyes meet for a brief second, and then I drag him away faster than she can utter a single syllable.
In the next alley over, I pull his struggling body into the dark shadows, so not even the moonlight reaches us.
“Wha—” He swings his large arm at my face, but grunts when the action hurts him more than me.
His legs thrash trying to make contact with the cement to stand, but I hold him at a perfect level and sink my teeth deep into the vein pumping in his neck. That’s when a flash of the white familiar face enters my peripheral vision. Those dark and mysterious, yet vaguely familiar eyes stare at me feeding. In a fleeting second, it vanishes, and the bulky man before me clouds my vision.
He moans, making it sound as if he takes pleasure in the pain. His blood streams freely down my throat and I suck harder to get it to flow more quickly. It tastes different…more bitter than the sweet taste of Amber.
The more blood that fills me, the more powerful I feel with each drop. It’s as if my senses become even more heightened with each passing second. His body begins to spasm and jerk, until it becomes suddenly still. His heartbeat slows until it completely stops. I let go and watch his body fall to the ground. His pants hang at his knees, exposing his shriveled weapon. I bend down, grab the wallet that protrudes from his back pocket, and retrieve the cash from inside. The mere $55 is better than nothing. No guilt enters my mind having taken his life, or his money. Society is better off having one less rapist roaming the streets.
I peek out of the alleyway toward the girl that was about to be savagely raped, and another girl is by her side, consoling her. She’s weeping and trying to tell her what happened, but her words aren’t coherent, and I don’t think she really knows what happened.
The wind feels like a soft pillow against my face as I race toward the apartment. This invincible feeling has to be better than any high that any type of drug could produce. I race through the empty streets like a blur, and know that no one could possibly see me at this speed.
Once I’m over the familiar bridge, entering the retirement community I’ve taken residence in, I decide to climb back into the same apartment as the night before, knowing it’s a safe bet with no alarms.
Two hours left until sunrise, and I plop down on the flowered sofa and click on the TV, which blares entirely too loud for my overpowering senses. I turn the volume down to the lowest level and channel surf. Some of the TV shows are familiar to me…reruns of Seinfeld and Friends…I know I’ve seen those before, haven’t I?
My neck begins to feel heavy and I know sleep is mere minutes away, when I flip the station to the news channel. It’ll be nice to know what’s going on in the world these days.
All of a sudden, my sleepiness fades as an uneasiness inches through my body. Right there, on the TV, is a sketch of me.
If you know this woman, she’s wanted for questioning in the death of the man found in a downtown alley this evening. No details were provided on his identity just yet, but we will keep you posted.
Chapter 7
This apartment has become my new cave. For the last two days, the television has been on. The remote has become an extension of my hand. I’m careful to stay clear of the news stations, fearful I’ll see my face again. The reruns play over and over like a marathon of the entire series. I hope to see something, anything that will jar my memory of who I was. And what my life was like before I became…this creature.
The sound of footsteps grows louder as they walk down the narrow hallway. I mute the vampire show and listen. At the silence of the footsteps, the knocking begins. Three hard knocks on my door. Instant fear strikes me and my immediate thought is that it’s the police. They’ve found me, and want to arrest me for killing that rapist…who deserved what he got.
Glancing at the slider that faces the beach, I quickly debate if I should make a run for it. I ease off the couch, walk the short distance to the door, and look through the peephole. Relief floods through me when I see who it is. It’s the guy that lives two doors down, Dillan. Reluctantly, I open the door. His tall, tanned, toned body stands just on the other side of the threshold.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I lamely return, closin
g the door to a sliver so he doesn’t see I’m wearing the same stupid ‘HOT GRANDMA’ shirt.
“I haven’t seen you in a couple of days and wanted to see if you were all right?”
“Yeah, fine. Thanks.” I start to close the door and he catches it with his hand.
“Hey, I’m not trying to come on to you or anything. I just really wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I try to look anywhere but at him. But the short distance between us makes it very difficult. If he watches the news, and it won’t be long now until he recognizes me.
“Listen, I was just on my way out to grab a bite to eat.” He pauses, looks, and points down the hall. “And I thought maybe you’d want to go.” His stunning hazel eyes patiently wait for an answer from me. He shifts from one foot to the other.
Taking another few seconds to prolong saying the word no, instead I hear myself spit out, “Sure.”
A gorgeous radiant smile forms on his lips. “Great.”
What in the hell do I think I’m doing? Mingling with a human, getting a “bite to eat.” If he only knew what I wanted to bite, he wouldn’t look so pleased. “Let me get my shoes on.”
Rushing around the bedroom like a lunatic, I slide my feet into the flip-flops, find a pair of sweatpants and flower shirt in the drawers to replace my current clothes, and walk back toward the door, closing it behind me. Dillan waits for me to go in front of him, as there’s barely enough room for us to walk side by side.
“Do you like Cuban food? I know a great little place on the corner that’s open late,” he asks from behind me.
When he pushes open the door that leads to the outside, the scent of an oncoming storm fills my nostrils.
“I’m not hungry, so wherever you want to go is fine with me.”
“If you’re not hungry, why’d you come?” he asks as he settles in beside me and puts his hands in his pockets.
My fingers feel as though they might break from twisting them. “I just thought the company might be nice.” I refuse to let my self-induced reclusion take over. And the opportunity to spend time with a guy who looks like Dillan, and actually seems to have manners just might be exactly what I need.
Delicate Thorns Page 3
