by Ash, Lauren
Last Bitten
The Emerald Night Series, Book One
A Novella
By Lauren Ash
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 Lauren Ash
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form without written permission.
Published in the United States of America.
Cover by Amygdala Design
Editor: Janet Green
The night was turning into something of a disaster. She closed her eyes and endured the pain.
Thirty minutes earlier . . .
“Come on. Come on. I’m telling you . . . this ID, it’s solid. My brother, he’s good for it.”
“I don’t know.” Nia examined the slightly blurry photo. “Jessica Brown . . . Jessica Brown . . . that’s all he could come up with? I sound like I was born in a barn.”
Hana laughed, “You were. You’re so freakin’ fresh, it’s not even funny. I’ve never met a twenty-year-old virgin in my life.”
“Shut— Up— Already— About that. God. I’ve done everything else. Does that not count for something?”
The line shoved up against them as they inched along into the hottest club along the Seattle waterfront—Johnny’s—the big, green, neon sign blinked ahead of them bringing on a feeling of angst, of boys, of trouble, of fun, and best of all—of booze.
Nia ran her fingers through her long, black hair again, giving it a tussled look.
“You look hot okay. I knew that skirt would suit you; stop fussin’ already.” Hana applied her third coat of pink gloss, checked her bright, sparkly-blue eye makeup again, clicked the Clinique powder case closed, and shoved it in her fluorescent-pink bag. She was in a tight, black, spaghetti-strapped dress with stilettos that could bring any man to his knees. She was blonde. She was bad. At least that’s how Nia saw her friend.
“I just don’t usually wear things this tight. I’m like a tramp in this outfit.” Nia pulled the zipper up higher on her red leather jacket and pulled up her hoodie.
“You need to get laid so bad, you don’t even know it.” Hana teased.
“I don’t need men.” When Nia said the words, a set of stunning, green eyes caught her as she glanced back at the long line of moonlit misfits behind them. The emerald set vanished just as quickly as they found her.
“We’re going to find you someone older this time. I don’t know what it is about older men. These college boys just don’t make the cut sometimes. They’re like drunken dogs, humping anything they can get their paws on. Sophistication. I can spot it a mile away. And a big one. I can tell that too.” Hana ran a thumb confidently under a strap.
Nia burst out laughing, feeling lightheaded all of a sudden. Was it the cold gust of the Puget Sound or something else? She crossed her bare legs. “I’m not getting out of this, am I?”
“Hell no!” Hana declared. “You’re done for.”
“I guess I’ll just lie down and take it then.” Nia watched for those same pair of emeralds. She couldn’t shake them out of her of mind—even though it was just a second that she saw them—but there was nothing, just the blank-faced centipede mass undulating along.
“ID.” The bouncer was typical: big in size, a shiny bald head, tight black V-neck, and black pants. The new best friends and college roommates handed their plastic pieces over. He handed Hana back hers, but faltered on Nia’s, looking her right in her cobalt-blue eyes.
Lowering her head, Nia found herself saying a quick prayer. Why am I praying to get into a club? She interrupted her thoughts and looked Mr. Clean straight in the eye.
“$10 cover.” That’s all he said, holding firm his grim gaze.
Nia had been holding her breath, and she slowly let it out. Hana gave her a friendly nudge, handing over the green and yanking her into the dark.
BOOM . . . BOOM BOOM . . . BOOM.
The bass rumbled against the bodies that struck out against the flashing blue and white strobe lights. Nia and Hana were caught in the wave of salt and sweat that crashed them in only one direction—the bar. It had the same flashing, green-neon light over it as the sign outside. It was the drive behind the sin: Drink and thou shalt See.
“What do ya want?” Hana yelled.
“Rum,” said Nia. “I only drink rum.”
Hana signaled the bar angel, who was in a short, red corset dress to match her hair, which was treated with something to bring the red out against the black light that mused above.
Focused on the angel’s glowing, red lips, Nia sipped from the rocks glass that was slipped in front of her. “This isn’t rum.” It burned, whatever it was.
“Gin. It’s what the Queen drinks. If it’s good enough for her, it’s good enough for us,” said Hana as she turned away from the bar, looking like a cat about to pounce on something plump and delightful.
Watching Hana was fun. Nia just squished along after the brown-eyed beauty as they eked a path towards on open black, circular standing table. There were dozens of them lining the outer rim of the dance floor. It was a ploy to suck them into the demon pit in the center, where a male could have what he wanted and girl could pretend she didn’t. But the boys knew otherwise in the bump and grind.
The gin hit hard. Nia giggled a little as two such boys approached their table.
“Ladies, care to join us?” the tall, dark one said, like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Nia looked at Hana for the response, unable to wipe her innocent, red smile away.
“No, we’re fine,” said Hana avoiding eye contact, keeping her focus on another tight ball of yarn.
“What about you then?” The dark one turned shifting his dark-brown eyes to Nia. He was an Italian mix of some kind.
“What she said,” Nia squeaked, dying for a giggle.
“What? You can’t think for yourself?” He was growing impatient with the two femme fatales.
“Back up the truck now, honey buns. We’re not interested. Scat,” Hana shooed them away with her long, pink nails. They finally took the hint and moved on to their next victims.
“He was cute. What was wrong with him?” Nia leaned in close to Hana, as she was tired of yelling above the noise.
“Oh, do you not know that trick?”
“What trick?”
“Playing hard to get. We can’t just go for the first lot. I don’t care what they look like. Anyway, he had a small one. I’m tired of small ones. They just don’t do it for me anymore. I’d rather have an average boy with a big one, than a looker with a small one.”
“You’re stuck on cock tonight,” said Nia, seeing a flash of green amongst the sea of dancing sinners.
“Yes, I am,” said Hana, downing the rest of her gin. She took an ice cube and sucked on it with her sparkling, pouty lips, giving Nia a seductive glance.”Now you do the same, so we can dance already.”
“This is a double, isn’t it?”
“Yeah baby,” sang Hana.
“Here we go.” With a quick tilt back, Nia swallowed the rest, slammed the glass back down, and let her new friend lead her out into the hot pit.
BOOM . . . BOOM BOOM . . . BOOM.
Dead center was where it was at. Hana knocked Nia’s hood down, and the two danced like they were more than just lovers. The music pumped through, within, drowning out all thoughts of the real world and their real problems—college, money, the busy barista job, overbearing mothers, ex-boyfriends, and the dorm-room rat. It was screw all and
let’s have a ball.
The music changed to something slower, something deeper, a carnal rhythm calling on all to find a partner, calling on all to move. Nia felt a hand tug at the back of her jacket. She turned to see the green eyes.
Struck by love, Nia lost her breath, lost her mind.
Hana pulled back at Nia jealously, like she was in it for more than just the boys.
The green eyes flashed red, and Nia blinked—surprised, confused. Hana, dazed by the color change, let go of her dear friend as she was yanked away by a tight ball of yarn who had been eyeing her. The girls gave in to their boys, and Nia found herself in the grips of a tall, firm body with black, spiky hair that matched her own, lips ready to kiss, and features so sharp, he could have been the new Brad.
Oh my God . . . Oh my God . . .
She wanted to die right then and there, he was so hot. Nia looked down, but he forced her chin up, forced the first kiss as he rocked her V against his hard mate below.
Oh my God . . .
A warm lust washed over her as her mind blanked out and their tongues met. He prodded her above like he wanted to below—oh how she wanted him to take her someplace else. Any place else, so they could.
My God . . .
It was like he could read her every thought. He withdrew from the kiss, held her eyes in his, and stopping dead center in the dance floor, his body said, “Come with me.” His lips didn’t move. It was like a thought transferred from one mind to another. “With your permission . . .” He smiled. He taunted.
“Yes,” Nia agreed. “Take me with you,” she pleaded.
The mysterious suitor swept her away from the sinful tide and they withdrew to the quiet beach, down a few dark halls, one last left to black door with a sign: “VIP” in red.
The door opened automatically. More black lights, a few odd couples moving in tandem strewn out against a back drop of blue velvet pillows, curtains to cubicles, some tied some not. Nia saw skin, plenty of skin. Nia heard sounds, sounds of pleasure, sounds that made the heat in her belly boil as all she could think about was sex—sex with a stranger.
God . . .
“There is no God here,” he said opening a curtain and leading her inside. “Just me.”
She laughed, “Just you. And you are?”
“I’m Johnny. Take a seat, relax, enjoy. You’re Jessica.”
“How do you know my name?” she asked.
“My bouncer. He takes notes for me.”
“Oh, I see.” The pillows were as comfortable as they looked; Nia took off her red leather jacket and laid it beside her.
“But that’s not your real name then? More gin?” he asked.
She already felt the buzz—the buzz from him and the buzz from the booze. “No thank you. And no, that’s not my real name,” she said watching him, wanting him to take off that tight black shirt, those tight black leather pants, and . . . more, she wanted more. “I’m Nia.”
He eased down next her and slid on top of her, spreading her legs with his. “You want this, Nia?” He pressed hard against her sweet spot, and as he did, she slung her head back, the buzz shooting up through her.
“Yes.”
“You’ll have me?”
“Yes.”
“Forever?”
“Yes.”
Removing his shirt to reveal his perfect body, firm pecs, and delectable abs, she was all too happy as he helped her off with her hoodie and skirt. Nia wore a simple black G-string, no bra.
Johnny smiled at that. He liked that. She was free enough to let loose. He rolled her over onto her stomach and had her kneel, running a finger under her thong, pulling it up and letting it go so it slapped back against her, “I want you from behind,” he said.
She nodded.
He unzipped and thrust into her wet spot, leaving her string on so he could admire the frame of her hips and her tiny waist. “You’re so right, my Nia.”
And he was so big. The pain was pleasure, as she felt sensations she’d never imagined. He yanked back on her hair as he took her, slow at first, building, writhing, until she felt his hand upon her large, firm breast and another slip around to her spot. He massaged the one ache she had left, and in an exclamation of utter satisfaction, they surged. The two collapsed upon the pillows. It was quick and hot—just what they craved.
“My Nia,” he said. “Thank you.”
“For what?” she asked, thinking she knew what he’d say next, feeling something deeper for this man.
“For this,” he said, holding her in close and sinking his long, sharp fangs into her pulsing, virgin neck.
Nia now had no idea what he was doing to her. The night was turning into something of a disaster. She closed her eyes and endured the pain.
“Don’t fight it, my Nia.”
The fight was exactly what she had in her. It hit, boiled up the same pathway that all the lust had just flowed through. But regret was a horrible thing to fight as the life slipped away from her. Nia fumbled with her one free hand for her jacket. Finding it, she reached in her pocket for that one item that her father had given her the day she’d left for University.
Where was it? Where was it?
The black switchblade was missing. She groped around the jacket as he groped her breasts and drank from her neck. Becoming weaker and weaker, she fought the urge to just close her eyes and give in. Finally, she felt metal—the cold but friendly weapon that she’d gripped in her pocket everyday while mazing the campus. It was there for a reason. It was fate. She pressed the button and brought it down on him; where it hit, she wasn’t sure.
He ripped away from her neck, all she saw was a bloodied lip, and his red eyes were filled with so much . . . what was it? Nia couldn’t tell; it was like he loved her and was saddened by her sudden aggressions.
“What the hell are you doing to me?” she grabbed her neck and looked down. The blade was stuck in his gut. She quickly yanked it out and stuck it into his heart.
Johnny fell back, his own dark blood sprayed out on their love bed. He gave her an ungodly grin before his eyes returned to that lovely shade of green, and his lids dropped.
Panic set in as Nia reached for his shirt, her clothes, and the switch blade, closed the blue curtain behind her and ran, searching for another open stall, she found only one after interrupting a whole bunch of sex in action and other bloodied images she didn’t want to acknowledge. Who were these people? She didn’t want to know. She wanted to be dressed and out.
In the other pocket of her jacket was her red lipstick and her small, sparkly Pier One mirror—a buck—she examined the two ripped holes in her neck, oozing with her own blood. They don’t really exist do they? No they don’t. She denied the obvious, wiped his spray of blood off her face and body as best she could, turned the shirt inside out, and tied it around her neck to cover up the marks. After redressing, she returned to the main club room.
Hana, where are you?
There was no sign of her roommate in the crowd, and Hana was tall—noticeable. The round tables fell short as well as the outer edges packed with dark faces. A feeling fell over her, like she was being watched, but by whom or what she wasn’t sure. It was like everyone was staring at her in that moment.
Hana . . .
There was no time to wait, no time to search. Nia had to escape; she did so out the front of the club, avoiding Mr. Clean at all costs, and hailed a cab. They circled like ugly, orange sharks, and she secured one, got in.”The University, McCann, please.”
The cab sped off down the waterfront street, and Nia looked back at the continual centipede wriggling into the club. The blinking green Johnny’s sign quickly vanished in the distance, further shrouded by the mist coming off the Sound.
She returned face-front to watch the turban in the driver’s seat and the flash of multi-colored city sights flying by: lights, buses, small groups of people meandering on drunk to the next dive bar, to the next hole in the wall. You could tell their vice by how they dressed: the stoners in their
plaid, the easy in their short skirts, the hipsters in their skinny pants, ready for it all. It was too much for her, all of it. Her neck hurt, so did her below.
What was I thinking? I’m just like them now. I never wanted to be just like them.
You won’t, an unknown voice answered, and she realized it was in her head. .
Nia covered her ears.”Go away, go away,” she said.
“Excuse me?” said the driver, turning his head slightly to reveal his long black-grey beard.
“Not you, not you, sorry,” she said.
Twenty-four hours, the voice said.
“Twenty-four what? Twenty-four hours to what?” Nia shouted.
“Do you want me to pull over?” The driver asked.
“No, just go . . . go,” Nia cried in the backseat and pulled her hood over her face so she could hide in the dark, hide from her mistakes, hide from her guilt. “I’m nothing,” she whispered.
The freeway whizzed by and before she knew it, the cab had stopped in front of McCann—the tall, sixties-styled dorm set.
“Forty-two dollars,” said the driver.
“Forty-two dollars? What’d you take the long way or something? I don’t have that. I have a twenty.”
“Forty-two dollars,” he said again. “I’ll wait for it.”
“Oh frick,” said Nia opening the door and hurrying over to the gloomy, grey building. She punched in the code and entered the building, only to bump into him. Of all the people in the world why’d it have to be him—her personal stalker.
“Nia, what are doing up so late? You’re usually in bed by now. Nice scarf.”
“Andy, I need twenty-two bucks.”
“For what?” The tall, awkward, blond lank, happily pulled out his wallet. It was exactly the moment he’d been waiting for—she owed him now.
“The cab, he’s back there, can you go? I just need a shower. I need to go.” She handed him her crumpled twenty.
“Why, something happen?”
Nia looked down, “I . . . Andy . . .” She sighed. “Just don’t ask. You win, okay? You win.”
