Satisfaction Guaranteed

by Samantha M. Derr

  Well, he'd never know, he supposed. Setting his mouth in a grim, determined line, he got back to work.

  *~*~*

  Brandon's first week at the paper passed without incident, and with only a few chastising speeches from Everett, none of them related to compromising the integrity of the personals column. Left to himself in the mail room for the most part, Brandon concentrated on filing and sorting along with matching up the new responses with the box numbers assigned to each ad. He put the odd request for a vampire-lover out of his mind, even when the newest issue of the Rainbow Rag came out with the ad in the center of the personals page. He glanced at it just once to be sure it had been printed correctly and to verify the box number.

  After a few days, he wondered if his curiosity had been misplaced. No one had sent in a single reply. It might as well have been a prank or the act of a harmless crackpot making a futile bid for attention. The guy who had placed it might not even bother to come back, satisfied that his little joke had run its course.

  Then, almost a week after the ad first appeared, a single response arrived.

  At first, he decided not to speculate about the contents of the ordinary white envelope and simply slid it into the appropriate cubby. Every now and then, however, he sneaked a look back, as if to check that it was still there. Before long, he began thinking about nothing else. What kind of letter did one send a supposed vampire, after all? What sort of person would sit down to write one?

  Later that same afternoon, when the letter had sat undisturbed for several hours, Brandon found himself alone and unwatched. Everett had gone out to recruit retail advertisements in person, Chuck was out following up on a story, and David had left early to get his car serviced.

  Brandon knew it was wrong, but the quiet atmosphere of the deserted office, the lack of stimulating work to keep his mind busy, and the sheer temptation grew too difficult to bear. Snatching it from the cubby, he held the envelope up to the light bulb so he could see through the paper. He couldn't make out much, since the paper had been folded over—just the name "Underground Lounge," which was presumably a bar, and the words "Saturday night at 9 PM." Apparently the vampire and his willing victim would meet then, assuming he ever returned to pick up his mail.

  Casting a guilty look around to be doubly sure no one had witnessed his transgression, Brandon noticed that outside the window, a gloomy veil had once again descended over the parking lot. It got dark so early these days—before long the first snow would arrive and make it impossible to ride his bike to work and on errands. He only hoped he'd have enough money saved up by then to buy at least a beater car with some semblance of a heating system.

  Quickly he stuffed the envelope back inside the numbered cubby, ashamed of himself and his weakness. What happened between the two, assuming anything ever did, was none of his business.

  When he turned from the mail slot, his heart briefly froze in his chest. The so-called vampire himself was standing at the teller's window. His hand was raised as though he were about to tap on the glass to get Brandon's attention. When he saw Brandon staring at him, he let his arm drop and smiled.

  Brandon shivered as he forced himself to cross the mailroom and lean toward the window.

  "Do you remember me? I've come for the responses to my advertisement."

  That silky voice curled around Brandon's ears and stroked at his body like long, sensual fingers. He had missed that voice, he realized now.

  "Uh… yeah. Box 17Z," Brandon managed to stammer. "I remember."

  "Oh, how I hate being reduced to nothing but a number. I would prefer that you think of me as Zachariah Vale. But whatever works in this statistics-driven modern world, I suppose."

  "Let me… uh… let me check." Relieved at the opportunity to hide his red face, Brandon hurried back to the mail cubbies and pretended to search for the right slot. Somehow, he suspected he hadn't fooled Zachariah in the least. "Oh, yeah. You have one response. I put it there myself."

  When he came back with the letter in his hand, Zachariah flashed his beautiful white teeth in a broad smile that made Brandon's stomach flutter. "Do you find it odd that a vampire would advertise for a mate?" he asked as he accepted the envelope through the small partition.

  Brandon felt his blush return. "I have to admit, I never heard of such a thing. I always thought… you know… they lured people into dungeons and stuff."

  "It's a rather new concept, but alas, I have no musty castle into which I could entice donors. Still, thanks to certain publishing and theatrical ventures we are all familiar with, vampires are more accepted in today's world than they have ever been before. This method has the advantage of saving time and eliminating unsavory prospects at the outset. Why go through the usual tedious steps and repetitive innuendo?" He took his letter and tapped the edge against the counter. "My date will know what he's getting into from the outset, and I will feel confident that he is curious, at the very least, and won't run screaming when I ask him to bare his neck for me."

  Brandon could hardly believe what he was hearing. He'd almost managed to convince himself the whole thing had been a joke, but now…

  "Do you doubt me?" Zachariah asked, raising his brows. "Or do you have a moral objection?"

  "Neither," Brandon stammered. He knew Everett would have a fit if he overheard even part of this conversation. "It's just that things like vampires don't exist. I mean… they don't, do they?"

  "The fact that most people think so is what makes my approach unique and safe. To be honest, I had hoped for more replies. This will do for a start, however."

  Zachariah turned to go. "Well, good luck," Brandon called after him. Zachariah paused for a moment, as if to acknowledge his remark, but did not glance back or reply. For a long time after he'd gone out to the parking lot, Brandon stood in one place as if he'd been mesmerized. He didn't move, in fact, until Chuck returned, swinging his laptop case and whistling in a buoyant mood.

  "I've just been interviewing the new bookstore owner over on Maple Street," he announced. "You need to see this place. A gay bookshop with a large erotica section and a New Age vegetarian restaurant rolled into one. I'll probably be smelling of incense for a week."

  "Yeah, I'll have to check it out," Brandon said and then paused as an idea struck him. "Chuck, you know about all the… ah… hangouts around here, right? Have you ever heard of a place called the Underground Lounge?"

  Chuck shrugged. "Sure. It's a bar on the other side of town. You weren't thinking of going there alone, were you? I wouldn't recommend it."

  "Nah." The fib rose easily to Brandon's lips. "Someone I know asked me and I promised to find out for him."

  "Glad to hear that. I don't think you'd enjoy the place."

  "Why not? What's it like?" Chuck's mysterious pronouncement set his imagination racing all over again. Was there something dangerous about the Underground Lounge? Could it be some kind of secret meeting point where guys who believed they were vampires congregated?

  "It's just a rough dive, mostly for the leather-jacket-and-piercings crowd. You seem more like the cappuccino bar type to me, and I do mean that in a good way." Chuck glanced at the clock over the mail cubbies. "Listen, it's almost quitting time. Why don't you lock up early and come for dinner with me? Nothing fancy. Hamburgers or Texmex or something like that." Obviously noticing Brandon's nervous look, he waved a dismissive hand in the air. "And yeah, I know David hasn't paid you yet. This is my treat. Sort of a welcome-to-the-salt-mines thing."

  "Well… okay," Brandon agreed self-consciously. He hated the idea of Chuck having to pay his way, but until his first check came in he couldn't afford to dine on anything fancier than stovetop noodles and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. "I'll have to come back here and pick up my bike, though."

  "Don't worry about that. I'll put it in my car and drive both of you home afterward. Now come on. Looking at that vegetarian menu got me craving a big, greasy cheeseburger. How does that sound?"

  "Delicious, actually," Brand
on admitted. It had been so long since he'd enjoyed a big, filling meal that Chuck's suggestion sounded positively decadent.

  "Great. Let's go." Chuck switched the lights off, leaving the office bathed in the pale and somewhat eerie glow of the yellow safety bulb by the fire exit. He motioned toward the lobby.

  As he picked up his coat and accompanied Chuck outside, Brandon recalled the way Zachariah had swaggered out that same back door only a few minutes earlier. When they got out to the parking lot, he couldn't resist looking around, though his rational mind told him there was no way Zachariah or his car would still be around. Sure enough, the secluded lot was empty except for an older van he assumed was Chuck's.

  "See?" Chuck pointed to the solitary vehicle. "Plenty of room for your bike."

  "Great," Brandon said, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he felt. Chuck deserved at least that much after being nice enough to buy him dinner. He knew he'd have to make a focused effort to keep the conversation going. "Thanks again."

  "My pleasure," Chuck said, smiling as he opened up the back of his van. "Load 'er up."

  *~*~*

  The next day was Saturday, so Brandon didn't need to worry about getting up early, going to the newspaper office, or doing much of anything, really. He puttered around the house, able to concentrate only on one fact—today was also the day Zachariah and the man who had answered his ad were meeting at the Underground Lounge.

  Dinner with Chuck had been low-key but thankfully not too stressful. They had talked about neutral topics like journalism classes, the difficulties of breaking into big-time publishing, and some of the local-interest articles Chuck was working on for the Rainbow Rag. Brandon sensed that Chuck longed to move onto bigger stories and perhaps a bigger city, but opportunities were both scarce and elusive. He also sensed that Chuck would have liked to hang around longer into the evening, but Brandon had feigned exhaustion and asked to be dropped off at home right after coffee.

  Once, in the middle of the meal, Brandon had looked up at the restaurant's big picture window and thought he'd seen Zachariah standing outside, watching them. After he'd blinked in surprise, he saw no one was there after all. Needless to say, he hadn't mentioned his vision to Chuck, and Chuck didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. Brandon chalked the hallucination up to an overactive imagination. He had to stop thinking about Zachariah and his strange ad, but fighting the obsession only made it worse.

  After another meager supper of boiled noodles and instant coffee, Brandon headed for the address he'd scrounged up for The Underground Lounge. Though he could barely afford it, he decided to splurge for a taxi. Given the distance and what Chuck had told him about the bar's questionable atmosphere, pedaling up on a bike seemed ill-advised. He did his best to dress street-smart, slicking back his hair with gel and wearing a tight gray Henley shirt and black jeans instead of his usual button-down and khakis. His appropriately scruffy brown bomber jacket and matching motorcycle boots completed the ensemble.

  Still a bit embarrassed about his mission, he had the taxi driver drop him off a couple of blocks away from his target address. That way, he figured, he could approach the bar on foot and casually watch the door to see what sort of people entered and exited. He wasn't sure if he would see Zachariah coming down the sidewalk, or if he might already be inside. As far as the other guy, Brandon had no idea what to expect. He could have been any age, build, or social class. He might arrive at 9 PM, as his letter had promised, or he might not show up at all.

  As the name of the bar suggested, it was located in the basement of an otherwise abandoned industrial building. Brandon took up watch across the street, leaning against the corner of what had once been a convenience store but was now a deserted husk with a hand-printed "Out of business" sign in the soaped-over window. Most of the other buildings in the area seemed unused, too. Only a few cars and a motorcycle or two stood parked along the sidewalk, probably belonging to bar patrons. No one else dared to venture into this area, it appeared.

  For nearly an hour he observed various men come and go, many of them older and, as Chuck had warned him, tough-looking. There was no sign of Zachariah, and since most of the others were in groups, he doubted any of them were the mysterious letter-writer, either. Were they, too, masquerading as vampires? At least none of them was wearing a cape. One pair of men, both of them dressed like bikers, stopped in front of the door and embraced. Brandon watched closely to see if they might bite one another, but they simply hugged like old friends and then continued down the concrete steps.

  He checked his watch. Quarter to nine.

  As the minutes ticked by, a pall seemed to drop over that eerily lifeless city block. The sky grew inky, smothering even the light of the stars, and a sinister silence enveloped the cold, litter-strewn street. Brandon was beginning to lose his nerve and was about to turn and head home when someone new appeared. This guy was clearly younger than the others he'd seen, and he was alone. When he passed briefly under a streetlight, Brandon saw that he was dressed Goth, complete with gleaming facial piercings and a wild blue streak that zigzagged through his spiky blond hair. He didn't seem to notice Brandon as he headed for the bar entrance.

  Heart pounding, legs numb, Brandon peeled himself away from the brick wall and followed.

  *~*~*

  Inside the bar, he stood pressed against the wall and watched the shadowy figures of men move around the narrow space, talking and flirting. To Brandon's relief, no one paid much attention to him.

  It took a few moments for him to locate the man who had passed him on the sidewalk. Eventually he spotted his unusual hairdo, the spikes sticking up above the more sedate styles worn by the rest of the patrons. He strode to the end of the bar, where he took up a post and scanned the room—looking for Zachariah, perhaps? Had they arranged to meet at that particular spot?

  While Brandon kept a close eye on the situation, an older guy in a sleeveless leather vest and a black t-shirt with a biker logo came through the door and sidled up beside him.

  "I haven't seen you here before," he commented, leaning close enough that Brandon could smell the stale beer on his breath. "You alone?"

  "Not exactly," Brandon mumbled. The older man followed his gaze to the end of the bar and laughed a bit unkindly.

  "If you were hoping to hook up with that guy, I'd say you just lost your chance. Gotta be quick around this place. The hot ones go fast. I'm Hawk, by the way."

  Sure enough, Spiked Hair was watching the dance floor expectantly. A tall, silhouetted figure stepped forward and crossed the room toward him. When the light touched the side of his face, Brandon recognized Zachariah. He had kept the appointment after all.

  Though Hawk continued his inane patter, ignoring Brandon's monosyllabic replies, Brandon was no longer listening. Instead, he focused completely on Zachariah, who smiled and bent forward to speak to Spiky Hair. To judge by his rapt expression, their conversation pleased and interested him. Though Brandon had no hope of hearing what they were saying, he longed for Hawk to shut up so he could at least try.

  Things went from bad to worse when another couple got up from the bar, stepped into the middle of the room, and blocked Brandon's view altogether.

  "No!" he whispered, forgetting about Hawk and starting forward. When the couple finally moved on and his view was clear again, his heart lurched in his chest.

  Both Zachariah and Spiky Hair had gone. They seemed to have vanished in a puff of invisible smoke.

  Icy sweat prickled along Brandon's spine. Had the two slipped onto the dance floor? Had they left together? What were they on their way to do, if so? Would they get to know each other first, or would they proceed directly to the bloodletting ritual—whatever that might entail?

  "Normally, I don't care for the bar scene," Hawk blathered on, the too-loud quality of his voice suggesting to Brandon that he was fibbing. "Places like this are too focused on looks. It's what's inside a guy that matters to me, not just what's inside his jeans." He paused to laug
h at his own humor. Brandon winced.

  "Would you excuse me?" he asked, intending to stroll around the barroom in case Zachariah might still be lurking around somewhere. When he stepped forward, though, Hawk discreetly shifted over to block his way.

  "Everybody these days seems to want the fresh young pretty-boys," he griped. "No one realizes that a guy with experience has a lot more to offer, if you know what I mean. Looks aren't everything, though you probably haven't realized that yet at your age."

  "Uh-huh," Brandon said, looking past Hawk and sliding to the right in what he thought was an obvious bid to slip away. Hawk didn't get the message, however.

  "Nothing wrong with trying something new, is there? I mean, what have you got to lose? Does it matter so much who's doing what to you, as long as it feels good? Come on—answer me. I want to hear your answer."

  Hawk's voice had sunk to a growl, and this time he moved deliberately in front of Brandon, trapping him in one spot. He winced when Hawk's stubby fingers brushed past his fly.

  "I really don't think—" he began, but trailed off when the pressure of Hawk's hand grew more intense. Brandon felt a blush rise to his cheeks.

  "Let's get out of here, you and me. My hog's parked right out back. I'll give you the ride of a lifetime—and I don't just mean on the bike."

  "Really, I can't," Brandon said. He had never been terribly assertive, especially in these kinds of situations, and guys like Hawk seemed to sense that and zero in on him. Hawk's nickname was obviously an apt one.

  Sure enough, Hawk's grin widened, his face hovering so near that Brandon could see a few broken teeth on the sides of his mouth. He drew back in revulsion, but Hawk only leaned in closer.

  "Yes, you can. In fact, I think—" Hawk began, but to Brandon's surprise he stopped in mid-sentence. His eyes lifted to a spot above Brandon's shoulder just as Brandon felt a hand drop onto the upper part of his arm.

  "I believe you were looking for me." The silken voice seemed to stroke inside his ears. Brandon watched as Hawk scowled, muttered something most ungentlemanly, and turned away. Brandon looked up and meet Zachariah's intense gaze. The hand on his bicep tightened. "I didn't expect to see you here. Don't bother saying that the same goes for you. You obviously tracked me down for a reason."