A Stitch on Time 5

by Yolanda Sfetsos

  Like an idiot, I stamped my foot against the old wooden floor and something rattled behind the clothes. I shoved them aside like a curtain and lifted my foot to take a step, but it snagged on a box. I didn’t have enough time to catch myself and slammed my left arm into the back wall. My elbow broke the fall, but cracked the wall.

  I righted myself from the awkward position, almost jumping out of my skin when the sound of my home phone started shrilling downstairs.

  “Crap.” I ignored it and examined the damage. My long-sleeved T-shirt was torn at the elbow, the skin scraped underneath. Nothing big, considering I’d had my shoulder bitten and throat cut earlier this year. A little scratch wasn’t going to kill me, but the curiosity of finding out why the wall had cracked might.

  Cats weren’t the only ones seduced by curiosity.

  One bad corpse can ruin your whole day.

  Dead, Undead, or Somewhere in Between

  © 2014 J.A. Saare

  Rhiannon’s Law, Book 1

  After leaving the flash and sass of Miami for the no-nonsense groove of New York, Rhiannon Murphy is eager for a clean slate and fresh start. A bartender by trade, a loud mouth by choice, and a necromancer by chance, she’s managed to keep her nasty habit of seeing dead people hidden from those around her—until now.

  The dangerous and deliciously sexy vampire, Disco, knows her secret. When he strolls into her club to ask for help investigating the mysterious disappearances of his kind, she quickly gets the vibe that he’s not exactly the kind of guy you tell no.

  Yet in a world where vampires peddle their blood as the latest and greatest drug of choice, it’s only a matter of time before the next big thing hits the market. Someone is killing vampires to steal their hearts and, unlike Rhiannon, this isn’t their first stroll around the undead block.

  Warning: Includes violence, strong language, and references to sexual abuse that may disturb some readers. Oblique references to ’80s films are hidden here and there, which could result in tickling your geek-like fancy.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Dead, Undead, or Somewhere in Between:

  My gaze darted around the dark, cloudy room. The tables were full, but that was to be expected. The BP wasn’t the most exclusive club in town, but we had decent girls, a hospitable crowd, and we kept it clean. Those inclined to visit a topless bar could get their Johnson on in relative safety and enjoyment as long as they kept their hands to themselves.

  Old-school David Bowie blasted from the speakers and Destiny launched into another dance. She sashayed past the pole, the white glow of the stage lights bringing the crowd’s attention front and center. One of the few dancers who chose not to tan, her skin was soft and luminescent in the stage lights, her pink bikini appearing to glow and sparkle. Despite being new, Destiny was one of my favorite dancers. She told it like it was and always kept it real. Like when she used her double-jointed limbs to work the pole.

  You can’t get more real than that.

  Disco appeared in front of me and I attempted to act as if I’d seen him coming. The way they moved always creeped me out—so fast it appeared instant. It was unnerving and jolting.

  Fucking vampires.

  “Can we talk later?”

  “Uh…” I wasn’t sure what to say, my thoughts obliterated in a tailspin.

  A lush requesting a refill on his Wild Turkey saved me. I hurried over and reached under the counter for the bottle. I poured him a little something extra for the assistance. When finished, I stayed put, feet firmly planted, but I knew I was delaying the inevitable. I would have to speak to Disco at some point. I couldn’t have him showing up like this every night.

  “Bartender!” Lonnie yelled.

  I rolled my eyes. The most demanding of them all was the shittiest tipper to boot.

  What I wouldn’t give to shove a bottle of Crown up his ass.

  I unplanted my feet, rubber-soled boots squeaking against the wet plastic floor mats. I always wore my shit-kickers, even on nights like tonight. The laced-up boots were reminiscent of emo goth punk, but they did far more than help me seem fashionably depressed. The reinforced steel toe was great for shots to the crotch when I needed to exert a little extra bartender attention.

  “What do you want, Lonnie?”

  “When’s Deena coming back?” He didn’t bother looking at me. That would take too much effort. Instead, his beady eyes remained locked on the stage. Typical.

  “When she comes back,” I answered flatly. “Can I get anything else for you?”

  He shook his head, and I rolled my eyes again.

  Poor Deena. Her best client was a pot-bellied pig living in the bright lights of New York City. I hoped she was enjoying her time away from this clandestine hellhole while soaking up the cancer-laced rays in sunny Florida.

  A surge of black snagged my attention and I chanced a glance. Disco was there, staring at me again. I couldn’t read his expression.

  Shit.

  My thoughts tumbled back, taking me into the past.

  Why did his undead—and I mean un-dead—friend have to show up on the one night I decided to take a breather, shoot a game of pool, and serendipitously rub elbows with Disco and his partner in crime, Cash? I remembered our introduction all too well. I was on the nine, slinging the money, when I noticed someone standing over the pocket. When the eyesore in question didn’t move after a polite request, I lost my genteel sensibilities and yelled for him to get the fuck out of the way. I realized my mistake, of course, when I took a better look and could see the people directly behind his airy body.

  The ghost had revealed my nature to Disco.

  I had been at the wrong place at the wrong fucking time.

  Necromancy—or as it is defined in the dictionary, divination by means of the spirits of the dead—is a bitch, and I hate the hell out of it. I see some pretty insane shit whether I want to or not. Since the state in which a person dies is the state they maintain in spirit, it’s a constant box of chocolates, and I don’t mean the momma always says kind, either.

  Death by heart attack—just another day at the office. Death by electrocution—not so bad. Death by car, head sliced neatly open with brain matter galore—beyond all concepts of nasty.

  I discovered my nifty talent when I was just a kid. I’d started seeing deceased neighborhood pets, followed by Mrs. Beaterman mulling over her neatly manicured lawn a week after the heart attack that killed her. I thought it was normal.

  That all changed the day a drunk driver blew past a stop sign and plowed into my parents’ van. When Mom and Dad paid a visit to their own funeral, I knew I had issues.

  “Bartender!” Lonnie yelled, his gaze remaining on the stage.

  I bit my tongue—literally. The sharp edge of my incisor hurt, which was the point. I had to hold it in or I was going to blow.

  “What can I get for you, Lonnie?”

  “Will Deena be back next weekend?”

  Count to ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten. Got your shit together? Okay, good. Answer the gentleman.

  “I don’t know, Lonnie.” I smiled, speaking through my teeth. “She’s on vacation. An extended vacation.”

  “Yo, Rhiannon!” Cletus called out and stepped up from the lower floor, coming right at me. His smooth muscles bulged under the lights, bringing attention to his warm, chocolate-colored skin. His bald head gleamed as he neared. New York’s most intimidating bouncer and I shared a happy working relationship, and the rules that governed that relationship were simple. No lies, no ass kissing, no bullshit. It worked better than most marriages.

  “Yo, Cletus,” I responded, walking in his direction.

  Everyone made way for him, backing off. No one wants to be in the path of a six-foot-four Mack truck with guns the size of two-by-fours. He stopped at the bar and asked, “You headed to the gym after thi
s?”

  I glanced at Disco, who was undoubtedly listening. “Probably. I missed my set last night. Why do you ask?”

  He produced a set of keys. Nothing fancy, just a plain ring surrounded by various scraps of metal that held the power to unlock doors. “Give that to Mike. He’s on tonight.”

  “No problem.” I took them and pushed the jangling chain into my skirt pocket. I had to pay my dues anyway, and since Mike owned the joint, it was a win-win.

  Cletus returned to the floor and the night picked up. I was thankful for the distraction. I filled drink after drink, order after order, and I loved it. I didn’t want to be in this place any longer than I had to, and Friday and Saturday were the busiest nights of the week. A fast pace made time go by faster.

  I was filling a shot of Absolut—focused entirely on work—when I heard Erica snarl, “You fucking skank!”

  My chin snapped and I turned toward the sound of a bitch fight in progress. Erica and Lacey were engaged in a heated discussion at the opposite end of the bar. They pointed at each other and exchanged insults. I topped the shot of vodka and plopped the bottle under the counter when Lacey started pulling off her three-inch, red patent leather, fish high heels.

  I ran to the lift and tossed the heavy wood aside, shouting, “Cletus!”

  Someone yelled as his fingers got smashed beneath the lift, but I didn’t have time to apologize, and I didn’t have time to be courteous. Lacey was barefoot and ready for battle. The clock was ticking.

  Oh shit.

  There are a few things everyone should know about the women who work in these establishments. They are very savvy. Exotic dancing is a business, and many of them can retire young with sound financial planning. They are excellent actresses. That little show you see up on stage every night is just that—a show. And they scrap. I don’t mean as in going to the local dump to look for spare aluminum. I mean as in they will eat your ass for lunch.

  Lacey’s punch came before Erica could take off her shoes. The blow sent the older stripper to the ground. Lacey pounced on top of Erica and straddled her prey. She struck Erica again, landing a solid blow to the woman’s mouth. A crowd started forming around them, intoxicated men cheering them on. I shouldered past the group, forcing my way toward Lacey and Erica. Lacey pulled her arm back, poised to strike another time. I grasped her wrist, holding on tight.

  “Cool down,” I commanded softly, not wanting my voice to carry. “Hector’s coming over. You don’t want to lose your job. The bitch isn’t worth it.”

  That got her attention. The fight left Lacey’s body. She stood, chest heaving as she drew deep breaths. I let her go, stepped back, and watched Erica’s head slump to the side.

  Girlfriend was out cold.

  Blood mixed with her lipstick, covering the lower half of her face in blotchy red. She looked like a deranged life-size Joker Barbie doll, complete with bouffant hair, rhinestones and fingernails that made it impossible to scratch certain surfaces.

  Cletus picked Erica up and tossed her over his shoulder. Her head flopped as he carried her to the curtains, reminding me of a bobble head doll.

  Hector walked over, addressing Lacey. “Mind telling me what happened?”

  “I’m tired of her shit. I warned her.” Lacey pouted like the diva I knew her to be, appearing her actual, youthful age for once. “I told her to back off.”

  Hector frowned at her for a moment, then his face smoothed and relaxed. The big boss could be an asshole but, for the most part, he was a decent employer. He understood the human condition. As well he should. He profited directly from it.

  Hector Fernandez peddled in the most dependable and lucrative of markets—sex. He was all about the good old-fashioned dollar. The expensive suits he always wore, the Mercedes parked outside, and the cash in his bank account were a testament to his success.

  He pushed chin-length mahogany hair away from his sublime face, his full lips curving into a thin smile. His Dominican heritage made him a natural ladies’ man. He was handsome, tanned and had an attractive lean build. Women couldn’t stay away from him.

  “Consider this strike one,” he warned Lacey, scolding her as if she were a child who had stolen a cookie. “Don’t let it happen again.”

  “I won’t,” Lacey promised and leaned over to pick up her heels. She stood tall when she had her shoes in hand, her spine erect and her head held high, and pranced toward the curtains.

  “And you, Rhiannon.” His dark eyes turned to me, and I steeled myself for a lecture. “You are supposed to be on the lookout for this very type of transgression. Where were you?”

  “Doing my job.” I folded my arms, going on the defense. “I’m the bartender, not the bouncer.”

  “Then I suggest you multitask. Or is that too much to ask?”

  “Multitask? Do I look like a fucking secretary?” My temper flared before I could bite it back. Erica wasn’t the only one with a big mouth. I was constantly in danger of writing checks my ass couldn’t cash; the bearer a lifelong disease of potty mouth that no amount of soap in this world could properly cleanse.

  “If I say so, yeah.” Hector narrowed his eyes in a clear reprimand, his lips thinning in anger. “Next time, watch the floor. Butch and Cletus can’t cover everything. If you can’t handle it, tell me, and I’ll find someone who will.”

  He stormed off without another word, his back an adequate goodbye and dismissal. Hector was a man of few words. He said it; you did it. End of discussion. I released an exaggerated sigh and lowered my head. The night couldn’t end soon enough. I wanted to get my ass home.

  A cold hand grasped my arm, startling me. “We need to talk.”

  I knew the voice too well. Disco.

  I told myself to remain calm as I met his gaze. I could have attempted to yank free of his hold, but I’d only embarrass myself. Vampires are strong—unbelievably strong—and his grip was as unbreakable as steel.

  “Let go of me.”

  “Only if you promise we can talk.” His blue eyes flashed, striking against his pale skin and golden blond hair. His face was smooth, his jaw squared. With high cheekbones, a straight and lean nose, kissable full lips, and unbelievably smooth skin, he would be a twenty-something looker frozen in time.

  “Not here.” I glanced around, studying my surroundings. No one had noticed our little encounter. Not yet. I couldn’t afford to lose my job. If Hector saw me chatting while I was on the clock, he’d probably fire me. Personal visits during work hours were a big no-no.

  “Where?” His grip loosened as he studied me.

  “After close. Meet me outside, around the back.”

  He didn’t release me right away, gazing into my eyes. My stomach knotted and my palms felt sweaty. I couldn’t think when he looked at me like this, as though he was trying to find his way into my soul. The world was spinning and fading away, leaving the two of us alone.

  Slowly, he eased back and released my arm. The fogginess lifted, clearing my head.

  I turned from him and strode to the bar, trying to slow the erratic beating of my heart. Once I was safely behind the counter, I apologized to the gentleman I’d injured in my rush to get between Lacey and Erica. He displayed his purple thumb, clearly angry over what had happened. To make amends, I gave him a drink on the house. He went from annoyed to understanding, accepted the gesture. Alcohol always seemed to tame the savage beast.

  I peered up at the clock—12:58 a.m. Wonderful.

  I was on for another hour. Afterward, I had a meeting with a guy who scared the piss out of me. So much for making it to the gym.

  “Bartender!” Lonnie’s deep bellow ricocheted off the ceiling like a frazzled fart.

  I stomped over, feet pounding against the plastic mats, anger and agitation coursing through me. I always kept my head with Lonnie, but damn it, this was getting old. Deena would just have to find it in her heart to
forgive me.

  “What the fuck do you want, Lonnie?” I couldn’t be certain, but I assumed my eyes had turned black—something that happened when my temper was stoked. The change in color was the first warning you’d pushed my big red button, or so I’d been told. For once, he didn’t order me around. Instead, he gawked at me, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and shocked. “What do you want?” I repeated, softening my voice. “Can I take your order?”

  “Can I have a Crown and Coke, Rhiannon?” he asked politely.

  Stunned by the swift change in his attitude, I managed to keep a straight face as I made his drink. He watched quietly as I poured the Crown, mixed in the ice and cola, and even thanked me when I placed the effervescent drink in front of him.

  The evening seemed to be full of surprises.

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

  Cincinnati OH 45249

  A Stitch on Time

  Copyright © 2014 by Yolanda Sfetsos

  ISBN: 978-1-61922-363-9

  Edited by Holly Atkinson

  Cover by Kanaxa

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: October 2014

  www.samhainpublishing.com