Bite Somebody

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  “Is everything okay?”

  Celia nodded. There was no time to think about her apparent fear of orgasm. God, she wondered, was that what it was? Was she afraid of her own orgasm? She was a creature of the night. She could rip a phone book in half! Why was she afraid of sex?

  Ian came back five minutes later wearing a black shirt and looking a little peaky—but everything was fine. He didn’t seem weird or irritated with Celia. He just came out, kissed her head, and lit another joint. Four-twenty continued with but a small pause. Imogene occasionally snuck next door for some blood. Heidi went on and on about the most recent episode of True Crime about a horse jockey who got buried in a tub of toxic waste. She was full of useful information.

  Heidi disappeared around two, after they’d all gone swimming in the ocean—except Ian, of course, who watched the stars from the beach.

  At five, Imogene curled up on Celia’s couch, singing lines of Pink Floyd. Ian and Celia curled up in her bed.

  “You’ve got sand in your sheets,” he said.

  “We live at the beach. There’s sand everywhere.”

  He hummed against the top of her head, then said, “Mermaid.”

  He was snoring when she started playing with his hair. She knew he liked it when she played with his hair.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dr. Savage’s office called to confirm Celia’s appointment, which comforted her, since last time she showed up, her therapist was a no-show. On the bike ride there, Celia considered lodging a complaint. Then, she thought about Ian’s bike and how Ian was so cute and how Ian liked to put his hands on tingly parts of her body, and by the time she got to the office, Celia didn’t even remember her name anymore.

  Dr. Savage looked tired. Celia had never seen her doctor look anything but photo-shoot ready, so the blue pallor of her skin and lack of makeup was just…shocking.

  “Are you all right?” Celia asked.

  “Wonderful, thank you.” She smiled. Her eyeballs looked kind of nuts. “Come in, Celia. You smell different.”

  She plopped down on the couch in her jeans. She wasn’t wearing yoga pants every day anymore—a huge step she hoped Dr. Savage would notice. “I had my first bite.”

  “I can tell.” Dr. Savage smiled again, but her skin looked tight. Celia thought maybe she had Botox during her short time away. “Ian?”

  “Yeah. He’s my boyfriend now. Like, he calls himself ‘boyfriend.’”

  “Oh, Celia!” She laughed an unfamiliar and kind of creepy sound like Maleficent from Sleeping Beauty. “So Ian was completely open and willing to be your first?”

  Oh, dear. Celia just knew Dr. Savage was not going to like this part, being all vampire/human peace and love. How could Celia put things delicately? “The first bite was kind of an accident.” She cleared her throat. Not even the scent of lavender could make her explanation smooth sailing.

  “What do you mean?”

  “See, Ian rides bikes. I think I told you that. He’s a competitive cyclist.”

  Dr. Savage nodded. “Ever since the shark attack.”

  “Yeah, so he wiped out the other night, and um, well, I came home, and…” Celia cleared her throat again because, frankly, her fangs were out at just the memory of having his neck skin between her jaws. She covered her mouth.

  “Did you attack him?”

  “It wuf a complete accfident.”

  Dr. Savage leaned closer in her sleek leather seat. Her brown hair was in a severe bun. She didn’t have glasses on, so she couldn’t even look over the brim of her glasses like usual. “You’re not glamouring Ian, are you?”

  Celia’s fangs popped back in. “What? No! I don’t even know how to glamour anyone.”

  “You promise? Because we are not allowed to do that.”

  Celia would never, ever, tell her therapist about Imogene’s behavior, then. She shook her head. “No, it’s for real. We really have a thing. I swear.”

  Dr. Savage took a deep breath and seemed to calm down. “Too many vampires out there use their abilities to the disadvantage of humans. They treat humans like their personal blood slaves. I could never see you being like that, Celia.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “If anyone’s being glamoured, it’s me. Ian makes me feel…different.”

  The pen and paper were suddenly at the ready. “Okay. How?”

  Celia looked to the ceiling and pictured Ian’s smiling face floating near the light fixture. “I get all tingly when he touches me. I feel warm in my stomach but also kind of like I need to pee.”

  Dr. Savage looked like she was trying not to smile.

  “What?”

  “So you haven’t been intimate with him yet?”

  Celia sighed. “Well, he was doing something the other night, but I got all dizzy and felt like I was gonna wet the bed—and that’s not sexy—so I made him stop.”

  “Do you like touching Ian?”

  “Oh my God!” She was loud enough to make Dr. Savage sit back and recross her legs, as if Celia’s voice was like a breeze about to knock her over. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. I just really like to touch Ian, yeah.”

  “Good.” She nodded. “That’s great.”

  “So why does he make me have to pee?”

  Again, Dr. Savage looked like she fought a giggle. She assumed the pose Celia imagined mothers used when they told their daughters about the birds and bees—although Celia wasn’t sure, because her mother had never talked to her about either. Her mother apparently didn’t think Celia had anything to worry about. Instead, though, Celia now had a super hot two-hundred-year-old vampire goddess about to explain human sexuality.

  “Celia, have you ever had an orgasm?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You would know.”

  “That’s what Imogene says.”

  “Well, although I don’t always agree with what she tells you, in this case, she’s right.” She paused and put down the paper and pen. “What you’re feeling with Ian is the beginning of sexual pleasure.”

  “Orgasms feel like peeing?”

  Dr. Savage shook her head. “No, but sometimes, when things are just getting started, women mistake the feeling.”

  Celia nodded. “So if he does that thing with his mouth again, I won’t wet the bed?”

  “No, Celia, you will not wet the bed.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because vampires rarely use the facilities, especially now that you’ve had your first bite. Your transformation is nearly complete.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Now, you don’t have to rush into anything with Ian—not until you’re comfortable.”

  “That’s the thing!” Celia smacked her own thigh, which caused a skin tidal wave across the farty couch. “When I look at Ian…” She closed her eyes and pictured him, all six-foot-something of him, long, lanky, standing there in Dr. Savage’s office in one of his button down linen shirts, khaki shorts, barefoot, hair all a mess, and freckles, always freckles. He was smiling at her, because Ian was always smiling or laughing.

  “Celia?”

  “I want to have sex with Ian.”

  “Okay.”

  “But every time he starts to…” She moved her hands in the air like she was clawing an invisible net. “I start to panic. I literally throw him off furniture.”

  “Celia, are you afraid of intimacy?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I mean, I love when he spoons me and when we have sleep-overs—”

  “But the idea of sex makes you uncomfortable.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Not with Ian.” She buried her head in her hands. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I was a pussy human. Now, I’m a pussy vampire.”

  “That sounds like Imogene talking.”

  “What if she’s right?”

  “Have you considered that you’re afraid of sex because every time you’ve had sex in the past you’ve ended up rejected?”

  Oh. Terrance. Danny. “H
uh,” she said.

  “You’re afraid that if you are intimate with Ian, he’ll leave you, too.”

  Was Dr. Savage right? In college, Terrance had been a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, and they’d never seen each other again. She never even went to frat parties again. Danny, that was obviously rejection with a capital R. He was supposed to be Celia’s prince, her Richard Gere. Instead, he disappeared and left her a note. Rejected, rejected; Celia always got rejected.

  But Ian wasn’t like that. Celia suddenly felt like a panda bear had been lifted from her chest.

  “You’re kind of good at your job, you know that?” she said.

  Dr. Savage pressed her lips together. “Thank you, Celia.”

  She toyed with her hands in her lap. “Um, this might be a dumb question, but…what about birth control?”

  “As members of the undead, we’re no longer able to bear children,” the doctor said.

  Celia thought about Ian and how he wanted children and felt kind of sad, really.

  When she got home that night, Imogene was on her couch, per usual. She was almost as much of a standard at Celia’s apartment as her eighties film collection. Put her on a shelf, and she would have been a decorative item.

  “See your shrinky-dink?” She had a bag of B-negative in one hand, her cassette player in the other.

  “How’d you know?” Celia shut the front door.

  “You always smell like a fuckin’ massage parlor after you see her.”

  “Dr. Savage says lavender is soothing.”

  Imogene put an earbud in her head. “So is Phish.”

  Celia stood there, brow wrinkled. “Since when do you listen to Phish?”

  “Ian told me to. Now, shut up, I’m meditating.” She leaned her curly, purple hair on the back of Celia’s couch.

  “Are you ever going to pay me for any of the blood you drink?”

  From over the rims of her sunglasses, Imogene opened her dark blue eyes, wide, and smiled. “Wow. Shrinky-dink gave you balls.”

  Celia sighed and headed for the kitchen. Then, she stopped, because Ian was outside her front door. Celia smelled him; Imogene smelled him, too, based on the way her brows were knit together in the center and she had duck lips.

  Celia walked to the front door before Imogene could move.

  When she opened it, Ian stood there in another of his super spandex bike outfits, covered in sweat. Celia had noticed he’d taken to riding at night. As usual, she had the yearning to lick the sweat from his nose, but she didn’t, because if she couldn’t have sex with him yet, she didn’t think she should lick his face—it might send mixed messages.

  “Hi.” She smiled.

  “I wanna take you on a date,” he huffed, out of breath. He always seemed to come up with the craziest ideas post-ride.

  “I’ve never been on a date,” Celia said.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I have to work.”

  Imogene was at her side in seconds. Celia thought maybe she really could turn into mist. “Take the night off.” She poked Celia in the ribs.

  “Can you take off work tomorrow night?” Ian asked.

  “I’ve never taken off work before.”

  His light blue eyes looked up into the palm trees that surrounded the Sleeping Gull. Then, he licked his top lip. “You’ve never been on a date, and you’ve never taken a night off. I think you should do both.”

  “Me, too,” Imogene agreed.

  “Imogene, go away,” Celia said.

  As Imogene plugged earbuds back in her head and laid down on the couch, Ian’s hand found Celia’s chin and pulled her lips up to his. He tasted salty and Ian-ish. She’d kissed a couple guys in her life, and they always wanted to shove their tongues in her mouth like they were bobbing for tonsils. Ian’s tongue just always kind of touched and tickled and made her want to open her mouth wide.

  His kiss had the desired effect. Celia weaved on her feet when he pulled way and tried not to look as cross-eyed as she felt.

  “So can I take you out tomorrow?”

  “Where?”

  “I’m not telling, but you have to wear a dress. It’s a proper date. Wear a dress.”

  “Okay.”

  He glanced down at the hand she had clenched in the front of his bike outfit. She wondered when that happened. “I actually have to work tonight,” he whispered. “But tomorrow, I’ll be by at ten.”

  “Ten. Yeah. Okay.”

  He kissed her again, on the cheek this time, probably because he noticed her fangs were out.

  As soon as Celia shut the front door, she turned to find Imogene staring at her. “What?”

  Deadpan: “You don’t have a dress.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “That fucking blue muumuu doesn’t count. You need a dress.”

  Celia ran her hands over her full hips and looked down at her feet. “What kind of dress?”

  Imogene put one combat boot on the living room table and stepped over. “You know that hot guy next door?” She pointed to Celia’s kitchen. “His name is Ian, and he wants you to wear a dress tomorrow night. My guess, he’s gonna be in a suit. Now, together,” she took Celia’s hand in hers, “let’s think about Ian in a suit.”

  Imogene closed her eyes, so Celia did the same and was overwhelmed by a barrage of imagery, running the gamut from James Bond to Mr. Darcy, all with Ian’s face. By the time she opened her eyes, Celia felt flush.

  Imogene watched her. “How’d that work for you?”

  “Uh…”

  “Because I got Niagara Falls between my legs.”

  Celia opened her mouth to make a disgusted noise, but Imogene continued.

  “All I’m saying is Ian’s gonna look super hot tomorrow night. Like Billy Idol in ‘White Wedding.’ You need to look even hotter.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “I know, dude.” She shoved her cassette player in the back of her tight jeans and took hold of Celia’s wrist. “We’re going to my place.”

  They got in the car, and Celia found herself wondering: where would someone like Imogene live? She pressed a couple buttons on the dash of her black convertible, and Prince sang about money and astrological signs. They drove down Beach Drive, off Admiral Key. They drove through Barkentine Beach. Thanks to Imogene’s raucous tunes, Celia didn’t have to hear another chubby beach bum sing yet another Jimmy Buffet cover in one of the many open-air bars. They passed the Drift Inn, which Imogene saluted with a friendly middle finger. As they crossed the bridge, the ocean shimmered black beneath the stars and far-off city lights of Lazaret.

  To Celia’s utter shock and bewilderment, Imogene lived in a beachfront shack on Mizzenmast—the poorest, most worn-down segment of the keys. Mizzenmast was a fishing community. It smelled of fish. Celia thought about asking Imogene how she had such a fancy car when she lived in such a super shitty house. She decided against it, because she was pretty sure she didn’t want to know the answer.

  Imogene flipped her keys in a circle on the edge of her finger and unlocked the front door. Celia was relieved when lights came on; she wasn’t sure there would be electricity. In fact, due to the state of the place, she kind of wondered if Imogene was squatting.

  “Landlord gives me a good deal,” she said.

  Okay, so not squatting but hopefully not paying more than fifty cents a month. Then again, it was beachfront property, even if the entire little house felt crooked and smelled damp. There was a single couch in the living room, no TV. The windows were covered in black velvet curtains. There was a stereo, of course, with huge speakers. Records and cassette tapes littered the floor, some in states of disrepair, all artists from the late seventies through the early nineties. The walls were blank; the kitchen was empty. A statue of the Virgin Mary sat in the corner, scary as a Chucky Doll. Celia vaguely remembered Imogene saying she’d stolen it.

  Imogene wandered into a darkened back room, and Celia assumed she was to follow.

  She ended up in Imogene’s bedroom, and the
re, on racks surrounding an unmade bed, was a cornucopia of multi-colored fabric and high-heeled shoes.

  “Whoa,” Celia said.

  “This is what a woman’s closet it supposed to look like.” She gestured to a dress the size of Celia’s thumb.

  “Where’d you get all these clothes?”

  “I wanted to be a dancer in music videos.” She shrugged. “Had ’em just in case.”

  Celia watched Imogene’s hands move at immortal speed through one of the silver racks until she pulled out a lime green dress that might have fit Kermit the Frog.

  “I wore this when I crashed my high school prom. I ended up fucking my history teacher.” She shrugged. “My style wasn’t very popular in the Midwest.” She put the dress back. “Now, we need to find something for you.”

  “I can’t wear any of your clothes, Imogene. They won’t fit.” Celia gestured to her friend, to herself, and to her friend again and then tugged hopelessly on a strapless purple satin number that could easily be confused with an expensive sock.

  “Merk, I have tons of corset dresses. We’ll just tie you in.”

  Well, that sounds painful.

  They moved from one rack to another while Celia stood by and watched, wondering how long it would be before a heavy wave knocked Imogene’s house over.

  “With your hair color and sickly complexion, we should go blue.”

  “I have a blue dress.”

  “Bitch, you have a blue muumuu.”

  Sometimes Celia wondered if Imogene was a flaming gay guy in a past life—the angry kind that would snap his fingers a lot before he stole your boyfriend.

  “Here. This one.” She pulled a flash of blue from her collection. “Corset top. Flared skirt to cover your hips. And I have these fucking fabulous silver heels.”

  Celia took the dress when Imogene shoved it against her chest. “I don’t wear heels.”

  “You’re wearing heels tomorrow. You can’t wear flip flops with that dress.”

  Celia muttered a random selection of letters.

  “Ian said ten tomorrow night, so I’ll be over at eight-thirty, the second your annoying alarm goes off.”

  “You never get up that early…”

  “I’ll do your hair, makeup, and strap you into that dress.” Imogene reached under the bed and pulled out shoes that glittered in the buzzing overhead light. “Practice walking in these.”