by Z. Rider
Moss said, “What the—?” He swept open the curtain.
Ray grinned from the other side before turning and dropping his back against the window.
“Don’t open it,” Dan said. “It’ll just let smoke in.”
Moss rapped with two knuckles and raised his voice to say, “Gonna rain tonight.”
Ray shrugged, made an And? face.
The talk show on TV had a celebrity doctor going on about fatty acids. Her voice made the bones in Dan’s head hurt. He massaged his temples.
Moss checked his kit, setting aside what they’d need this evening and repacking it so those items were on top—alcohol swab, disposable needle, the rubber tourniquet.
Dan uncapped the bottle from the night before and chugged the last of it down before rinsing it out and leaving it on the bathroom counter.
The three of them headed out to find pizza. This time dinner and donations would be in separate locations, which Dan was a-okay with. When they slid into a booth at a Frank’s Pizza, he could relax and actually eat something.
“I hope this goes better than last night,” Moss said around a wad of his veggie slice.
“I don’t think it went so badly,” Ray said.
Moss raised his eyebrows.
Ray shrugged. “We got what we came for, didn’t get caught.”
“What’s the deal with this one again?” Dan asked, already wearing his sunglasses, enjoying the anonymity of them. Of knowing no one was going to look in his eyes and see he had a problem. That he was coming apart.
“How are you doing?” Ray nudged a wadded-up, sauce-stained napkin under the edge of his plate.
“All right.” The low-key humming was staying low key. The last vestiges of his hangover was gone too.
Ray nodded.
They paid their bill and went out into the dark, Moss getting behind the wheel this time. Ray rode shotgun with Google Maps, his face lit by the glow of its screen.
Twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of a consignment shop called Skeletons from the Closet.
“Used clothes for goths,” Ray said.
Black and purple crowded the window, lace and velvet, crosses and crystals. A foghorn announced their arrival. Three young women hung around a sticker-covered counter at the back, turning their attention toward the front as Moss, Ray, and Dan made their way through the racks of clothes.
“Which of you’s Esmerelda?” Ray said.
The corner of a scarlet mouth twitched. A thin black eyebrow rose slowly upward. One of the other girls laughed, her cheeks flushing as she turned her face away.
“Well, Esmy,” said the third girl, sizing the men up. “What do you make of this?”
Esmy tilted her head, looking Ray up and down, then Dan, that eyebrow holding its arch. She seemed to have dismissed Moss in his nurse’s smock with barely a glance—not even the battered Doc Martens or the dice tattooed on his knuckles made her question whether he might be the vampire.
It didn’t take her long to rule Ray out too.
Fastening her gaze on Dan’s sunglasses, she said, “So you’re the so-called blood-sucker.”
He lifted his eyebrows. Her lips twitched at the corner again.
“What do you think, girls?” she said.
The one in front of the counter had regained her composure enough to size them up, with a little less pizazz than Esmy had. “You know who you look like?” she said to Ray.
“Not that fucking guy from Two Tons of Dirt,” Ray said. “If I hear that one more—”
Fuck. Ray.
“Who? No. That guy from The Dead Weather.” To her friends she said, “Delia has posters of him all over her walls. What’s that guy’s name from Dead Weather, Leigh?”
Leigh shrugged.
Moss raised the orange bag in the air. “Do you have a place in the back where we can do this?”
Esmy nodded. “He’s coming back there too, right?” Crooking a finger in Dan’s direction.
“Yep,” Moss said. “This way?”
“I’ll hang back out here,” Ray said. “Yell if you need anything. You girls ever seen a vampire in real life before?”
“No,” the Dead Weather girl said, “and I’m not convinced I have now, either.”
The desk in the back of the store was piled under with paperwork and slips of clothing. A cheap, hollow door sat ajar just next to it, leading to a bathroom. Esmy swiveled the desk chair around and said to Moss, “Will this do?”
Moss looked at the dim bulb in the ceiling. “Can you get more light back here? I kind of need to see.”
Esmy pushed open the bathroom door and turned on the light inside. “How about this?” The walls, toilet, sink, and even the linoleum floor were white, the latter flecked with charcoal. It was miles brighter than the office.
“That’ll work.” Moss set his bag on the sink and unzipped it.
“I’m not sure I want money for this.” Esmy floated closer to Dan, just outside the bathroom door. Her glossy dark hair was parted in the middle, the ends curling toward her jaw. She lifted a slender hand to brush her thumb over Dan’s lower lip. A bracelet made of lace and antique beads slipped down her arm. Her skin was paler than his by several shades.
He felt she was doing a much better job of exuding a vampiric air than he had so far managed.
She said, “You’re warm.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“Ready?” Moss asked, leaning in the doorway.
“Well.” She smoothed her short skirt. “I guess I am.” She started to turn away, then swung back. “I definitely do not want money for this. I want you, in there”—she pointed a scarlet fingernail toward the bathroom—“after this is done. Or I’m not doing it.”
She was so close. He traced his thumb slowly along her lower lip. The pink tip of a tongue tasted his skin. She pulled back and smiled.
After some fortifying blood, he thought he could manage that.
“All right,” she said to Moss. “Let’s get this over with. You’ve done this before, yeah?”
“You bet. Sorry about making you sit on a toilet.”
“No, it’s fine.”
Moss grasped the edge of the door and gave Dan a raised eyebrow.
Dan nodded.
Quietly, he pushed it shut.
Dan’s jeans were a little tight in the crotch. He turned away, studying the floor, or what he could see of it through the dark glasses. Seconds accumulated into minutes. Ray’s voice and the voices of the other girls filtered through the wall. He paced, slowly, stopping every now and then to read a paper on the desk or touch a clipping pinned to the wall. Tucked under an invoice might be a hand-penned poem. Tacked behind a labor notice might be a charcoal sketch of a willowy gothic lady whose curve-hugging gown ended in tentacles where her feet should have been.
The shop, from what he gathered, actually belonged to Esmerelda.
Every now and then a laugh—Ray’s—or a giggle (the girl in front of the counter, Dan thought) made its way into the back. He wondered if Ray was going to get lucky tonight too. Be a shame if he didn’t; on the other hand, Moss was straight up about being faithful to his wife, so there’d be a twinge of guilt, the two of them having a great time while Moss sighed, watching the news, wishing Ray and Dan would go to hell.
Dan leaned toward the bathroom door. A murmur from Moss filtered through. He pictured Esmy sitting on the toilet, watching the blood run from her vein down the tube, into the bottle. Moss was probably staring at the one-pint mark. As quickly as Dan had downed Vin’s blood, they’d decided they needed to up their take to Red Cross levels—though he still hoped Ray’s theory was right, that switching up donors would make the blood last longer. He pictured Moss lifting his gaze every so often to make sure everything was going as planned, then sliding the needle out of her arm, pressing a cotton ball over the puncture wound.
“Hold that there awhile,” Moss said.
Dan stepped back.
“How
long’s ‘a while’?” Esmy said.
He took a few deep breaths, actually looking forward to this as Moss said, “Ten minutes,” and Esmy said, “Can I use a Band-Aid?”
“Sure.”
A few swallows—top himself off—and he’d be good to go. He was horny as fuck. How long had it been? He couldn’t remember the last time. The tour was a whole other life.
The door swung open. Moss emerged with his bag. “All yours.”
A bottle of blood sat on the sink, cap on. Esmy was on her feet, applying a Band-Aid to the crook of her elbow, over the cotton. She glanced his way.
Moss, behind him, said, “Get what you need, and I’ll put the rest on ice.”
Dan’s nerves hummed. He licked his dry lips. As he unscrewed the cap, his hand trembled, like a junkie’s. He took two swallows before recapping it.
Moss shoved it in his bag.
“Tell Ray I’ll be out in a few,” he said before he stepped into the bathroom and pulled the door shut.
“You all right?” he asked Esmy.
Smiling, she nodded.
The tiny room smelled like blood. It got to his head—the contentedness of the bees, the satiation. He drew his gaze from the red of her mouth to the alabaster skin above her heart-shaped top, then over to her red fingernails, still pressed against the Band-Aid.
As he touched it, her fingers moved out of the way. He picked at the edge with his thumbnail, peeling it up, revealing the tiny hole and the vague purple of bruising to come.
He brushed his lips against the hole. Touched it with the tip of his tongue. Then kissed higher on her arm. Her shoulder. Her neck, flicking his tongue over her pulse.
“You’ve tasted my blood.” She turned her face, bumping his jaw. “Can I taste yours?”
He looked in her eyes. What about his blood? Maybe it was contaminated with whatever was forcing him to drink blood. His saliva seemed to be safe—at least Ray seemed to be unaffected, despite Dan sucking on his arm. But blood was the core of it all. If anything was infected, it was that. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
She pouted. “Just a teeny taste?”
He kissed the lower lip she’d pushed out, and her mouth stretched into a smile as he backed her against the sink. Her tongue was more brazen than his, pushing into his mouth as she clasped the back of his neck with both hands.
She pulled back after a taste of her blood on him, saying, “Rust,” as he kissed her cheek, her temple.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should have rinsed.”
“Shh.” She tipped her face up and slipped his sunglasses off. “It’s mine anyway. You don’t look like what I was expecting.”
“Too well fed?”
She laughed. “Too tragically all-American.”
When he raised an eyebrow, she dropped the sunglasses into the sink behind her. “You look like a college guy who’s too normal to be goth and too goth to be a jock. Woe-is-me middle class.”
He decided to take ‘college guy’ as a compliment. The rest, he had no idea what she was talking about.
“But you’re cute,” she said, “and a little broody-looking, and the blood drinking is hot, so kiss me again.”
In a moment, he had her balanced on the edge of the sink, one of her platform boots pressed against the opposite wall. Silky purple panties lay between his feet.
“Shit,” he said against her neck. “Condom.”
She produced one like magic, presenting it between two fingers. No smiles now. All seriousness. She leaned back and closed her eyes as he tore the packet open.
Glancing up, he realized she was studying him through her lashes.
He guided himself inside, making her chin tilt up. She grasped his shoulders and drew her lip beneath her teeth. As he started moving, she pulled herself up and wound her arms around his neck. She whispered something against his cheekbone, then whispered it again: “Bite me.”
“Bite me,” she said.
Her fingernails dug into his back.
“Come on, vampire. Bite me.”
He turned his lips against her face and kissed her temple, her ear.
“You know you want to,” she whispered, clutching him tighter. “Bite me.” She wrapped a leg around his waist, trapping him against her—not that she needed to. He was into this, the fucking at least. Scared shitless about the biting stuff, though. He could do it, playfully…but what if he couldn’t stop at playfully?
The bees hummed as he fucked her, reacting to the closeness of her, her scent, the heat of her blood surging around his cock.
“Fucking bite me, vampire,” she said against his teeth, fucking him back as much as her position on the edge of the sink allowed.
He grabbed her ass in both hands and plunged his tongue back into her mouth, pulling her against him, thrusting as deep into her as he could get.
His mouth was on her neck. He rubbed the pulsing of blood just beneath her skin.
“Yessss, yessss…”
He fucked her and sucked her neck, his teeth buried behind his lips.
“Do it. Bite me. Fucking bite me.” She jerked at his hair.
He closed his mouth around a patch of throat, right over the pulse. Pressed his tongue against it. The beat coursing through the artery turned him on like nothing else. He could smell it. Almost taste it. He bit harder.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!”
He dug his fingers into her ass and slammed her against him, biting and licking, giving her nothing more dangerous than a hickey, but it felt good. It smelled good. He bit and she squealed, clamping down on his neck, trapping him with her legs wound around his. He picked her up, turned her, and fucked her against the wall, grunting, denting her with his fingers. He found her neck and bit, making her moan, making her clutch him with her fingernails and say, “Yes! Fuck, yes!”
After he came, his teeth slipped over her skin. He made himself kiss her pulse, softly. Kiss behind her ear. She loosened her grip on his thighs, letting one leg then the other drop. He kept her pinned against the wall until he’d had another kiss from her lips, another long, messy kiss. Then he eased her to the floor.
She smoothed her skirt as he slipped the condom into the toilet. She crouched to retrieve her panties, balling them in her fist.
He didn’t know what he was supposed to say, so he said, “Sorry.”
She flashed him a look—and he didn’t know what that was supposed to say, either.
He put his sunglasses back on. The room got darker. She seemed to shrink, as though he was looking through the wrong end of binoculars.
“Thanks,” he said. “For…you know.” He was a disappointing vampire. But the sex had been fucking good.
“Are you going to come back again? For more?” Looking in the mirror, she rubbed at her smeared lipstick with the edge of her thumb. She raised her eyes toward him.
“Uh, if you’re willing to donate again…”
She nodded. Serious about it, though.
“It’d…it wouldn’t be more often than every three weeks. You know. So you have time to replace the lost blood.”
She returned her attention to fixing herself up.
“You might want to take some supplements too. You know, if you’re interested in doing it as a regular thing.”
“I’ll do that.” She straightened to her full height, gave him a raised eyebrow and a glance toward the door. He moved aside. Caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. So that’s what tragically all-American looked like.
He followed her out to the shop, where Moss had an elbow propped on a clothing rack, the side of his face in his hand. His eyelids were at half-mast.
Ray lifted his chin to Dan. They locked eyes. And Dan said, “Ready?”
“Turn the sign around when you go.” Esmy made a circling motion with her hand.
The foghorn sounded, and then they were walking across a rain-slick sidewalk. Moss got behind the wheel, Ray riding shotgun. Dan slouched in the back seat, his head back, eyes shut behind his sun
glasses.
“How was it?” Ray asked. He half turned in his seat, the side of his chin against the headrest. An unlit cigarette jutted between two fingers.
“Fine.” He let his eyes slip closed again. He pushed his hands inside his open jacket, into his armpits, hugging himself.
“Funny how the one girl—what was her name, Moss?”
Moss didn’t say anything; Dan imagined he’d shaken his head.
“Anyway, as that Esmerelda chick got louder and louder, the girl with the red extensions—or maybe it was black extensions and her hair was red? Anyway, she just kept talking, louder and faster, like she was trying to cover up the noises.”
“You heard that, huh?” Dan kept his eyes closed.
“Vin and his little shit friend in Rhode Island heard that.”
The seat creaked as Ray turned and settled into it.
“You all right, Moss?” Ray asked.
Moss sighed. “Yeah. I’m fine. It’s starting to come down again.”
Dan glanced out the window. Raindrops smacked hard against it, sliding down the glass, blurring the lights they passed.
“Is this the street we turn on?” Moss said. “Do you remember?”
“Uh, I think so,” Ray said.
Dan was spent, but not like he could sleep. “You guys hungry?”
Ray turned around again. “I could eat.”
“I wouldn’t turn down some pie,” Moss said.
“Danny’s already had that,” Ray said. “Lucky asshole.”
Dan laughed.
“You had two chances to get some yourself. Not my fault you can’t pick up women.”
“Maybe you should have said you were Jack White,” Moss said.
“You, shut the fuck up.” To Dan, Ray said, “Can you believe she didn’t know who Two Tons of Dirt was?”
“She was like fourteen,” Moss said.
“You could have educated her.” Dan smiled a little.
“I wouldn’t have touched her with your dick. Fucking Dead Weather. Seriously?”
“Esmy wants us to come back. She said she’d donate again. I told her it’d have to be three weeks—”
“We can’t go back,” Moss said.
“Why not?” Ray asked.
“Let’s suppose”—Moss put his turn signal on, a Denny’s coming up on their right.—“one of those girls decides to look up that guy from Dead Weather. And let’s say while they’re at it, they Google this Two Tons of Dirt band you mentioned—twice.”
