Satisfaction Guaranteed

by Samantha M. Derr

  "So take it." Boldly, Brandon leaned forward, slid both arms around Zachariah's waist, and pressed their bodies together. He could feel Zachariah start to panic and try to wriggle free. This time, Brandon refused to let him go.

  "No. Please, Brandon. It's too dangerous for both of us."

  "Are you trying to pretend you don't want me? You know that isn't true. Why else did you send me that message?"

  At that, Zachariah stopped struggling and gazed down at Brandon in astonishment. "Message? I didn't send you any message. You sent me one. I found it under my windshield wiper when I rose this evening."

  "Your windshield wiper?" Brandon, too, stepped back, incredulous. "You think I went back to your house? Hell, I'm not even sure I could find it again on my own. I was pretty out of it that night when the cab showed up."

  Zachariah's burning eyes never left his. "I think I see now what is happening," he said in a low, terrible voice.

  As he spoke, Brandon saw a van pull into the parking lot behind Zachariah. Soon Chuck was walking toward them. Something about his gait tipped Brandon off that he was not simply approaching them to offer a casual greeting.

  "Everything all right, Brandon?" he called when he got close enough for them to hear him. Slowly, Zachariah turned around, though he kept his body in front of Brandon's as if to shield him. Chuck stopped a few yards away, eyeing Zachariah cautiously, his hands poised at his sides, ready to defend himself if he had to.

  "So far, so good," Brandon said, a nervous sweat prickling along his neck. He was picking up on the tension emanating from Zachariah's tense muscles. Surely neither of them had anything to fear from Chuck, though. The very thought was ludicrous.

  Or was it?

  "Glad to hear it," Chuck said in an oddly flat tone. "We want you to be happy here, Brandon. I want you to be happy." He paused and looked at Zachariah. "David, our publisher, really likes Brandon. We both think he could go far with the Rainbow Rag. He just needs a good story to jumpstart his career—just like I need one to get mine back on track. Luckily, I think I've found one that will satisfy both our needs. And I'm looking at it right now."

  From the rear of the parking lot, Brandon heard a car door open. To his surprise, someone else stepped out of Chuck's passenger side. At first, he thought it might be David or even Everett. Then he realized who was walking toward them.

  *~*~*

  "What the—?" he asked as Gregory strode across the gravel toward them. "What's he doing here?"

  "Don't worry," Chuck said. "I invited him because I want him to be present for this. It seems only right—I'm the one who helped to set him up with Zachariah at the Underground Lounge in the first place. I had no idea you would insert yourself into the little drama I had orchestrated, much less that he would prefer you. Years of research into vampire hunting and fate can still throw you a curve ball, it seems. He is your lover now, isn't he?"

  "I—I don't know how to answer that," Brandon stammered. "Not in the way you mean, probably."

  For the first time since Chuck had approached, Zachariah spoke up. His voice came out low, almost a growl. "You don't owe him any answers, Brandon. He's the one who should be explaining things to both of us. I suspect he won't, though."

  "What's there to explain?" Chuck asked, spreading his hands and smiling. "Isn't it all obvious by now? Yes, I wrote the notes to both of you to get you out here tonight, and yes, Gregory and I destroyed Brandon's bicycle. I had to be able to control his movements this week until we were ready for our meeting. I'm sorry, Brandon—I really did feel bad when I saw your face on the porch that night. But I still plan to make it up to you. The article is going to be fabulous." He glanced back at Gregory. "Think of it! Behind the scenes with twenty-first-century vampire hunters. A new angle that's never been done before. And it will be ours!"

  "There isn't going to be any article," Zachariah said. "Are you mad? The hunters don't reveal their secrets to anyone unless they target that person to join them… or die."

  "I'm sure you'd like everyone to believe they're as evil as you are," Chuck said. Behind him, Gregory bared his teeth in a grin. Brandon shuddered to think he looked far more diabolical than Zachariah ever had. "But Gregory and I have come to a gentleman's agreement, something you're not capable of understanding. All I have to do is help him destroy you, and then I'll have the story… and Brandon… to myself."

  The next few moments passed in a blur. All Brandon registered was Gregory lunging forward, both hands holding something in front of him. Zachariah staggered back, letting out a howl that anyone listening would have mistaken for the shriek of a displaced wild animal. Brandon fell to the rough ground, skinning the palms of his hands and getting the wind knocked out of him as Zachariah collapsed on top of him. He might even have blacked out for a moment.

  When he came to his senses, his gaze lit on a horrific tableau. Zachariah lay in a muddy puddle with an ugly wooden stake sticking out of his chest. A few feet away, Chuck was sprawled facedown and motionless. A pool of dark red blood was spreading underneath him.

  Slowly, to his relief, Zachariah stirred and reached out to grasp Brandon's wrist. Brandon quickly pulled him into a sitting position and tore the stake out of his body in a single desperate motion.

  "We have to call 911," Brandon said, looking from Chuck to Zachariah and back again. He fumbled in his pockets for his phone. Had he left it inside the building? In his panic, he couldn't remember.

  Zachariah grabbed him with convulsing hands and prevented him from continuing the search. His words came out clipped and raspy.

  "Leave it. You can't help your friend now. Tried to warn him. No hospital for me."

  "But we have to do something! You're badly hurt!"

  Those pale lips trembled in a smile. "Blood."

  "Yes. Yes, take some." Brandon held out his wrist. Zachariah pulled him close and ran his lips up to the cuff of his sleeve. His movements were shaky. Brandon figured he was close to passing out.

  "Not here," Zachariah managed to whisper. "Inside."

  Hooking Zachariah's arm around his neck, Brandon staggered to his feet and pulled Zachariah along with him. He spared a last glance at Chuck, who hadn't stirred, and knew that Zachariah was right about him being past either hope or help. So far, he heard no sirens or anyone approaching them. The Rainbow Rag's parking lot was positioned at an angle that protected it from outside views, and apparently they hadn't made enough noise to attract attention. He supposed that was why Chuck, spurred on by Gregory, had chosen that spot for their ambush. Chuck had paid a high price for his hubris.

  Not knowing where else to take Zachariah, Brandon dragged him into the mailroom and stretched him out on the floor. The wound gaped in the center of his shirt, but oddly, there didn't seem to be a lot of blood. Or any, actually.

  Noting his perplexed expression, Zachariah laughed weakly. "How could I bleed? I told you over and over that I am already dead. Fortunately, in all the excitement, Gregory missed my sweet spot—my heart. I'll recover… once I feed. I haven't done so in a while. If I had, we would be looking at a much messier situation."

  "I—I don't understand," Brandon stammered. Once again, he feared he was about to faint. Reaching up, Zachariah pulled him close. Brandon felt his icy breath brush the skin on his throat.

  "You know you do, my love. Now we must act quickly, so I can leave and you can report the mugging outside to the police."

  Zachariah was right, he knew. At last, he did understand. And he didn't hesitate.

  "Whatever you want," Brandon said.

  Zachariah tilted his head and bit in and drank. It didn't hurt. In fact, it felt wonderful. Far beyond anything Brandon had ever experienced before. Better than sex, even—though he still looked forward to experiencing that with Zachariah, however vampires managed it. As warm life flowed back into Zachariah's body, he knew that Zachariah felt the same way.

  *~*~*

  The Rainbow Rag shut down for a few days after that, both out of respect for their mur
dered colleague and to enable the police to investigate the apparently random homicide that had occurred in the parking lot. Since Chuck's wallet and car had not been taken, the words "hate crime" began to circulate around the city. Only Brandon knew exactly what kind of irrational hate had spurred the attack, though he revealed nothing.

  Luckily, the police accepted his assertion that he had been waiting for Chuck to pick him up and had found him brutalized on the ground, especially when they uncovered Gregory's DNA at the scene and his fingerprints in Chuck's car. They would never catch him, Zachariah insisted. The hunters moved from city to city without leaving a trail or even their real names behind. Though Brandon longed for Gregory to face the law, in some ways he knew it was best that Chuck's murder remain unsolved. He just hoped that somehow, somewhere, justice would find Gregory in its own way.

  The day the paper reopened, David called Brandon into his office. Everett was there, too, making Brandon uneasy. Was he about to be fired? Did David want a witness to the proceedings? Maybe somehow they had found out about his relationship with Zachariah, which was growing more serious every evening. Tragedy—and saving someone's life, if one could call a vampire existence a life—tended to bring people together, after all.

  "Everett and I have been talking," David began, making Brandon's stomach twist with dread. "I'm sure you know Chuck was our only full-time reporter, which leaves the paper in something of a quandary."

  "However we felt about him, we can't simply dry up and go out of business," Everett added.

  Brandon nodded, still unsure where the conversation was heading.

  "It's also no secret you're in need of some money to buy a car." David threaded his fingers and rested them on his desk. Brandon thought he caught the brief flash of a smile crossing his lips. "It seems we're in a position to solve both of these problems at one time. Of course, we'll have to look for yet another mailroom clerk—but somehow I doubt you'll mind helping us interview new prospects."

  "I… I don't get it," Brandon said, hoping he didn't sound as befuddled and stupid as he felt. Were they really saying what he thought they were?

  "We think it's what Chuck would have wanted." David's tone grew more serious. "He really did care about you, you know."

  "He knows," Everett said. Brandon knew both of them could see the tears spilling down his warm cheeks. "Welcome aboard, Brandon."

  MY SEXUAL SUPERHERO

  Talya Andor

  "Oh my God, you are such a huge geek."

  Jessan leveled an irritated squint at his friend Marina and raised a hand, casually displaying his middle finger before using it to tuck a braid of cornrowed hair behind one ear. The TARDIS-blue bead at the braid's base clicked against its mates. "Which part of me? What was your first clue?" He covered the mouthpiece of his headset and frowned at Marina. "And why would you bust in making announcements when I've got my headset on? I could be taking a call."

  Marina flicked her pointer finger toward Jessan's headset earpiece. "It's not lit up." She folded her arms and smirked at him. "And, you're wearing another ShirtRage tee? Really? You know that no one gets those obscure geek jokes—"

  "Except the people who are into that stuff; yeah, I know," Jessan interrupted. "But I like it. And we don't have a dress code in the cubicle farm, which is the one good thing about it, so I'm going to wear what I like, and you can wear your clown suits." He gestured to her immaculate pinstriped pants.

  "It's not a pantsuit!" Marina exclaimed, tugging on the hem of her white blouse and shooting him a mock glare. "It's dressing to impress, because I'm moving up in the world. And I barged in because it's time for break."

  Jessan lifted his head to catch a glimpse of the clock. "So it is." He scooted his chair forward far enough to look up and down the aisle, scanning a wary eye in all directions for their supervisor, Darnell. "He won't like it if we go at the same time."

  "Balls to what he likes." Marina waved a hand. "Let's go. I'll beg forgiveness—"

  "And I'll be the one who's sorry," Jessan muttered, but he pushed himself up from his chair and fell into step behind Marina with the feeling he was slinking out rather than taking his duly allowed break time.

  Behind the call center building there were two areas for employees to take their breaks: the sheltered haven beneath an awning that was right beside the door, and the smokers' pavilion further out, a mandated thirty feet from the building entrance. In colder weather people could be seen huddled singly or in groups, shoulders hunched miserably against the elements as they got their nicotine fix. It was a muggy end of summer evening right then and everyone outdoors was either taking a walk, standing around chatting, or checking their phones.

  Jessan's phone cleared his pocket the moment he was out the door. He almost bumped into Marina as she turned to give him an amused look.

  "Anything good?" she asked. Her own phone was in her hand.

  "Atelier Geek is having a sale," Jessan said half to her, half to himself as he considered the benefits of the BOGO against the relative weak standing of his bank account. He had rent, bills, and his stomach to consider and wasn't sure if he was up for another month of ramen and tuna fish.

  "Jessan Pierce!" Marina exclaimed, and Jessan jerked his eyes up, mouth dropping open to object at her tone. "Why don't you stow the phone and pay attention to the person beside you for five minutes out of fifteen?"

  "What? You were checking your texts." His tone was defensive but Jessan slipped his phone into his back pocket.

  "Yeah, because I was waiting to hear back from Blanca, but she's out," Marina said. She leveled a painted finger in his direction. "So you're in."

  "In for what? No." Jessan folded his arms. He didn't need to hear an answer to be sure he wasn't interested in Marina's plans. They would involve going out, and he was a 'staying in' sort of guy.

  "Come on, Jessan. Wouldn't you rather come out and have fun instead of staying home and playing Minecraft all night?" Marina clasped her hands together and aimed wide eyes at him.

  Jessan returned the look with a skeptical expression. "I came out years ago, so that's not an issue. Playing Minecraft is fun for me, even if it's not for you, so trying to nerd-shame me, again, isn't going to work."

  Marina stuck her tongue out. "Fine." She abandoned that line of attack for another. "When's the last time you got laid, Jessan?"

  He slumped and looked out across the pavilion beside the building, not ignoring her so much as stalling for time. It was hard to explain to Marina, so pretty and outgoing, that it was more than introversion keeping him from a night out at a club, party, or whatever venue she had in mind. It was hard for a short, skinny, geeky half-Jamaican, half Persian kid to get a date on a good night, but any place where people were in it for looks and unable to hear witty repartee over the bass reverb, Jessan was out of luck. He would strike out before he got his hand stamped.

  "A while," Jessan replied. He folded his arms. "And it'll probably be a while longer."

  "With that attitude, you're damn right!" Marina swatted the back of his shoulder with a light touch. "Come out with me. I need a wing man."

  Jessan sighed, glanced in Marina's direction, and rolled his eyes. She had her lips pursed in what she probably thought was a cute pout but it looked more like a duck-lipped selfie.

  "I'll buy you drinks." She hung off his shoulder, her tone wheedling. "Come on, I can't go alone."

  That, at least, Jessan could not dispute. It was risky for any of his female friends to go alone, but twice as bad for Marina, who wasn't white and was leery not only of overeager fratboys, but getting shaken down if the cops cruised by and were in a profiling mood on the pretense of cracking down on fake I.D.s.

  "Ugh." Jessan refused to make a verbal response that sounded like an agreement. "You say now you'll buy me drinks, but I bet you'll buy one—if that—before you go off with some hot hook-up and leave me at the bar."

  Marina huffed. "Would I do that?"

  "If you knew the guy and wanted to get into his
pants, yeah," Jessan said.

  She sighed noisily. "Fine; I may or may not have gotten a tip that Marc might be there tonight."

  Jessan's mouth pinched. "Pass."

  "Come on!" Marina applied more weight to his shoulder, overbalancing him and making him stumble. She let go and straightened, laughing. "Please? I can't go if you won't. All my other ladies are busy."

  "All your other ladies?" Jessan was not amused.

  "Besides Blanca, who ditched me last minute," Marina said.

  "And you want me to join you instead, last minute." Jessan echoed her delivery right back at her. To him, asking to jump into a night out was every bit as disruptive as plans falling through.

  Marina clasped her hands together. "I'll make it up to you," she said. Her face blossomed with a grin. "Besides, if you come with, you might have a few drinks, relax—"

  "If you finish that with 'take that stick out of your ass,' you killed all your chances." Jessan held up a warning finger.

  She sputtered. "I wasn't… I wouldn't… no, that's not what I was going to say!" Wounded innocence transformed into mischief. "But if you eased up a bit, you might get a big stick in, rather than out."

  "I hate you," Jessan said without heat. "You'll pay for my cover and my drinks."

  Marina bounced up and down. She tossed off a snappy salute. "Will do."

  Jessan sighed. "What time will the cab come by?" He and his friends always pooled for a cab whenever they went out drinking, whether that was at the local brew and view, or clubbing. Nothing good was within walking range in their sprawling college town.

  "Eight?" she suggested, and he nodded, taking out his phone and pulling up his calendar. "Nerd."

  He shot her a repressive look. "It's not nerdy to use my calendar function. You want me there on time, right?"

  "Yeah, it takes so much time for you to get ready—throw on a different geek shirt and maybe a pair of slightly tighter jeans if you actually feel like trying to get laid."

  "Shows what you know." Jessan lifted his chin, looking down his nose at her—a feat he could accomplish only because Marina was petite as well, under his five foot five by a full three inches. His parents were both average height for their ethnic groups, and he supposed he was lucky he was as tall as he'd turned out to be. "I have my own masculine preparations."