I Bite She Sucks

by Bloom, Penelope

  Half a dozen people who had been casually going about their night stopped to gawk at us. Steve was leaking blood all over my sister and looked very much like a dead body. Without Riggs' imposing size, I imagined somebody would've probably tried to stop us or call the cops. Instead, he just glared at anybody who stared too long and ushered us all in the truck. He made Maisey put Steve in the bed of the truck, where he strapped him down with bungie cord like a load of cargo, despite Maisey's protests and even a few useless punches she'd landed on his back.

  The whole process took less than a minute. Before I knew it, he was driving, and we were in a car with a dangerous man while being pursued by vampires.

  Exactly how I'd expected my Wednesday to go.

  There were about a thousand questions I wanted to ask, but I blurted out the most mundane of them a few seconds after he started driving. “You just left this running in the middle of the street? What if someone stole your truck?”

  “Then I would hunt them down and kill them. And we would’ve walked to the bar instead of drove.”

  I shook my head to myself, staring out the window.

  Despite the obvious shit we were in, a thudding thrill was pumping through my body. I was doing something. Even if it was running for my life. Even if it made absolutely no sense. I looked around the interior of his old truck and felt the familiar fear rise up in me. If the “vampires” hunting us didn’t kill us first, I had a feeling whatever I caught in this filthy truck was going to do the job. I didn't even have my hand sanitizer with me.

  I did my best to breathe shallow, although I was fairly sure that wasn't a true preventative technique.

  “Who are you?” Maisey asked.

  Riggs was driving now with either some of the worst driving skills I’d ever seen or the best. I couldn’t decide. He was weaving onto the sidewalk to avoid traffic and nearly killing pedestrians who got in his way. But he did it all with that same calm, deadly serious look on his face.

  “I told you already. I'm Riggs, and I'm unwillingly coming out of retirement to help your dumb asses. You're welcome,” he said. “We can discuss payment now, if you like.”

  “Payment?” Maisey sputtered. “For abducting us and-” she clutched the dashboard to stop from being flung across the cab as he swerved to avoid an old lady who was giving us the middle finger from the center of a crosswalk.

  “For saving you. Yes. You can pay me in cold hard cash, or you can owe me. Either one works. But you’ll owe me pretty good for this. The cleaners are no joke.”

  “We can owe you?” I asked. “What kind of respectable businessman lets people “owe” him?”

  “Who said I was respectable?” Riggs asked. Somehow, while looking at me, he weaved the truck around a stopped car and passed into oncoming traffic, then narrowly dodged a bus coming toward us. “Nobody particularly wants an asshole. But I’m the asshole you got, and, unfortunately for you, the one you need.”

  I wanted to roll my eyes. What an egotistical prick. As far as I could tell, Maisey and I were in mortal danger. But this guy was treating it all like it was an ordinary day at work. And he had the nerve to start trying to extort money or “favors” out of us while we were still on the run? Besides, he looked like he couldn't have been much past his mid-thirties. Who retired in their thirties?

  “Look on the bright side,” he said. “The fact that I’m asking for payment means I expect to get you two through this in one piece. You would need to be worried if I wasn’t asking.”

  “Or it means you’re hoping to collect as quickly as possible because you don’t think we’ll last long,” I muttered.

  He gave me another concerning look—considering he was still driving like a lunatic in an action movie—then chuckled. “Good point. We can pick this discussion back up when we’ve met with my partner, then.”

  Oh, great. He had a partner. Of course he did.

  He pulled the truck to a screeching stop outside a nondescript bar, then tossed the keys to a young guy about my age outside. “Park this somewhere inconspicuous.”

  The guy caught the keys and nodded at Riggs like he was afraid of him.

  "Oh, hold on." Riggs went to the bed of the truck and unstrapped Steve. "There's a wounded vamp in the back. Put him in storage for now."

  "No," Maisey said.

  "Calm down Wonder Woman. We can't take him in there. The howlers will tear him to pieces the second they smell him. He'll be safe in storage. Safer than anywhere else, at least. Anybody finds out I brought a half-dead vamp to The Wet Flea, and he'll be fucked, though. That means you'll be fucked if anyone finds out, got it kid?" He was speaking to the young guy still holding the keys, who gulped and nodded.

  "Storage," Riggs repeated. "Nobody knows what's in the back."

  The kid nodded rapidly, then half-ran to get in the truck and took it around the block and out of sight.

  "I don't like this," Maisey said.

  Riggs sighed. "And I don't like missing my favorite food truck, which is closing in about ten minutes. But here we are, aren't we?"

  "What is a howler?" I asked.

  "One step above feral," he said offhandedly. "Oh, uh," he paused, frowning at me. "Steve might've spurted on you a bit."

  "What?" I asked.

  Maisey winced. "You got some blood on your face."

  My stomach sank and I started to rub furiously. Blood. On my face? Calling myself a germaphobe wouldn't be accurate. It was more like I was allergic to germs. Blood was like the king of germs, and the idea of it on my face made me want to step into the nearest washing machine head-first.

  "Here," Riggs said. He actually licked his thumb and started rubbing at my face. "You're just smearing it around like that."

  I swatted at him and squirmed, but he just gripped me by the back of my head and proceeded to clean me with his spit. Just beneath my outrage, I found the whole ordeal equal parts mortifying and embarrassingly exciting.

  As sad as it was to admit, having a hot guy thumb his spit around my lips and chin was about as erotic as my life had ever become. My poor, deprived body was humming with heat by the time he was done, and it definitely wasn’t all embarrassment.

  Maisey tried slap at him to get him to stop, too, but it was all over in a few seconds. "She's got a compromised immune system, asshole," she grunted in between useless swings. “Quit slobbering on her face!"

  "She's going to have a compromised neck if she goes in there smelling like vamp blood," he said.

  He reached out and took hold of Maisey, just like he had with me, and started cleaning the blood from her skin with spit and elbow grease.

  I had to admit I enjoyed watching her struggle and swear as he worked to clean her up, especially considering she needed a much more thorough cleaning.

  My smile faded when I remembered what he was cleaning from us. Blood. On our faces.

  A shiver ran through me. How the hell had I gone from throwing hopeless love notes out my window to this?

  With us apparently cleaned enough for his standards, Riggs pulled open the nondescript door to the building. Instrumental music played with a dance-like rhythm inside. It was all electric guitars and heavy drumbeats.

  I glanced past his broad shoulders to the room inside, which was packed with people who were all gyrating to the rhythm. I could see a bar off to the side and a band up on a stage, but not much else. It seemed dark in there, but instead of scaring me, that just made it seem more exciting.

  This was like the books I'd read—like the things I always imagined real, normal people doing. Well, minus the vampire angle, I guessed.

  But even if some part of me was practically vibrating with excitement at the idea of seeing where this all lead, I had to be realistic. If I hadn't already exposed myself to a deadly dose of foreign germs, I surely would inside that building.

  I caught Maisey's eye when Riggs had his back turned. With silent, sister telepathy, we both agreed.

  Run for it.

  I gave a small nod, then
we both turned and ran as fast as we could from Riggs.

  9

  Sylvie

  I made two glorious steps toward freedom. The music of the club was behind me and the wind was in my hair. The night was warm and inviting. All I had to do was pump my legs and get away from the big, confusingly sexy bastard who insisted he was trying to keep us safe.

  But all his muscles and athleticism apparently weren't just for show.

  A grip that might as well have been cold hard steel stopped me in my tracks. I saw Maisey get yanked back just like I had by his other hand.

  As quickly as that, our escape was thwarted, and we were being physically dragged into the building.

  Maisey was putting up more of a fight than I was. She even managed to land a kick on his leg. "Let us go, asshole."

  "I'm starting to consider it," he said, shoving us in front of him and through the door, which he pulled closed behind him.

  I got a real look at the place—and a real smell. The whole building smelled like a mixture of cheap women's perfume and Axe body spray with a dose of body odor for good measure. There was a cheap neon sign hanging over the stage that identified the fine establishment as The Wet Flea.

  The atmosphere was all cracked, dated woods and handmade furniture with a touch of industrial gothic. Overhead, a rickety cast iron walkway stretched from one side of the room to the other. When you threw in the mob of shaggy haired men—many of whom looked like they belonged at a heavy metal concert—and the equally metal, frighteningly dressed women, it was unique, to say the least.

  I realized there was something similar in the way Riggs was dressed to the dancing people. Riggs had the look of an off-duty rock star and these people looked like groupies. I took a closer look at his wild hair, the various bits of tattoo showing beneath his leather jacket, and the collection of bracelets on one wrist. I glared at the bracelets. I hated when guys wore stuff like that, but Riggs pulled it off, which made it even more irritating.

  I couldn't put my finger on what it was about the way the people were dancing in front of the stage, but something seemed odd. I guessed it was probably the fact that I'd never actually been to this sort of place before and I'd only read about it. Maybe it was normal for people to kind of hop together in unison or let out weird, dog-like barking sounds and howls.

  I took in a deep breath of the vaguely nauseating smell and found myself smiling wide.

  Maisey shot me a disgusted look. "Why do you look so pleased? This place is a shit hole."

  "Smells like an adventure," I said.

  She rolled her eyes. "Adventures get people killed in real life. Speaking of which, we need to get you to the nearest doctor and load you with every antibiotic they have as soon as we can shake this creep."

  "This creep can hear everything you're saying. And what's wrong with her immune system?"

  He was slowly moving us past the dancing people and toward a bar, where a handful of more normal looking people were hunched over drinks. A beautiful woman in black leather pants and a jean jacket was grabbing a brightly colored bottle from a mirrored wall lined with what had to be about a thousand different choices of liquor.

  "I told you," Maisey snapped. She had to look over her shoulder to glare at Riggs because he was prodding us from behind toward two stools, which he sat us in. He took the seat beside me, which meant Maisey was directly next to some huge man with a shaved head. "She has a compromised immune system. She hardly ever leaves the apartment because it could get her sick. Really sick. And now you just dragged her through every fucking germ in the city and it's probably all having a free for all in her body right now."

  Maisey's voice shook at the last sentence, and I realized she was barely covering her fear with the anger she felt toward Riggs.

  I gave her hand a squeeze. "It'll be okay. There's that thing you were talking about, right?"

  Maisey bulged her eyes slightly and shook her head. Our conversation about vampires and her desperate attempt to cure me felt like weeks ago, but mentioning it brought it all back to the surface.

  "What are you two muttering about?" Riggs asked.

  "I was asking if she thought they sold sandwiches here," I said quickly. Stupid. I needed to catch up, and fast. Vampires and werewolves still sounded like silly kid's stories to me. But my reality had rapidly changed, and I needed to shake that reaction as fast as I could. If this guy was who I thought he was—or what I thought he was—then he must not have any idea what my sister was.

  God, I still hadn't even had a chance to let that sink in. Maisey said she was a vampire. But if the vampire blood would've supposedly been a dead giveaway to the people in this club, why wouldn't he smell that my sister was a vampire?

  Either it was all bogus, or there was some reason. Maybe the smell got stronger with time? Or he thought he was just smelling the blood he hadn't completely cleaned from her? But what would happen when he insisted we get all the way cleaned up?

  All that mattered was I needed to start being more careful. Way more careful.

  Riggs seemed to light up at my mention of a sandwich. "You're hungry?" he asked.

  "Uh," I stammered. "Yeah, actually." As if to confirm I wasn't lying, my stomach let out a pitiful gurgle.

  Until that moment, I’d only ever seen Riggs as a stoic, somewhat grumpy beast of a man who looked like he punched holes in walls for fun in his spare time. But the mention of food seemed to light him up. He plucked a menu from the bar and leaned toward me.

  He was close enough that his forearm was touching mine. I should’ve been running for the nearest full-body hand sanitizer bath, but all I could think was how exciting it was to be around people. Real people. Even if “people” in this case meant a kidnapping asshole.

  “You’ve got to try the burrito. It’s got jalapenos, but they’re not that spicy. I can ask her to go easy on them too, if you aren’t a big fan of the heat.”

  “Uh,” I said. “I do like burritos.”

  “Of course you do,” he muttered. “What’s not to like?”

  “Dammit,” Riggs said. He was looking past me toward the door.

  10

  Riggs

  The small human women beside me both turned to follow my gaze toward the door. I gripped the bar top feeling the wood threatening to crumble beneath my fingertips. Of all the fucking people to show up at this exact moment…

  It was Fang.

  He was wearing his usual leather getup with random bits of metal dangling in places like he’d tried to put together a motorcycling outfit while on hard drugs.

  “Uh,” Sylvie said from beside me. “Friend of yours?”

  “He’s under that impression," I said under my breath.

  Fang spread his arms when he saw me, approaching with a big, crooked smile. He was short for a werewolf at just under six feet. He wasn’t particularly strong, either. Both the strength and height usually came with the package, but he appeared to have missed out on those benefits, among others. He had dark hair, but he dyed two strips above his ears silver so they ran back and met in a point above the nape of his neck.

  He looked young, but apparent age with werewolves was almost as deceptive as with vampires. We didn’t age at normal rates, so a werewolf might be eighty and only look twenty. I happened to know Fang was young—like in his teens, because the dumbass had drunkenly told me. He also had a blog he didn’t think I knew about where he wrote about all things werewolf and tried to pass it off as fiction. I honestly suspected it was why he never left me alone. He just wanted writing material.

  “Riggsy,” he said. He went in like I was going to hug him, but I stuck my palm out, stopping him at arm’s length.

  Fang smoothly clapped me on the arm like he’d been expecting the gesture.

  “I’ve told you not to call me Riggsy,” I said. “And you can fuck off. I’ve got something important going on right now. I don't have time to babysit.”

  “Great news. No babies here. Just a man,” he half-growled the last, t
ilting his chin up at Sylvie like a come on.

  “Don’t even look at her,” I gritted through my teeth. “And I don’t have time for you. So I’ll say it again. Fuck. Off.”

  "We had time for burritos, apparently," Sylvie noted.

  "Anyway," Fang said. There was a hint of southern accent to his voice I wasn't entirely sure was genuine. "Friends don't fuck off when friends need help. They fuck in."

  I squinted. "Don't say that again."

  Fang smiled easily. "Come on, Riggsy. Nothing wrong with a little fucking in between friends. You don't have to be like that."

  "We’re not friends. And I don’t need help. Especially not from you.”

  I let out a long, suffering sigh when I saw Sylvie had hopped down and was petting a random, ugly dog that had followed Fang into the bar. She had it by the face and was scratching its wrinkles, sweet talking nonsense to it while it happily tried to lick at her hands and face.

  “He’s so cute,” she mouthed, looking up at me with bulging eyes.

  Of course. The woman who throws suicidal love notes from her apartment window can’t resist a deformed dog, either.

  "Wait," Sylvie said. "We've got to go back and get Gravy Boat. He is not pleasant when he misses his dinner."

  "Absolutely not," I said. "Consider your cat dead. We can't go back there."

  Sylvie, Maisey, and even Fang all turned to glare at me in the same instant.

  "There's a cat in trouble?" Fang asked.

  "No," I said. "We are not going back to get that disgusting cat."

  11

  Sylvie

  The night air was warm and sticky. Foot traffic was at a minimum, and many store windows were darkened and closed except for those that catered to night life.

  Maisey and I trailed behind Riggs and Fang.

  It had only taken a little not-so-gentle convincing to get Riggs to agree we couldn't leave Gravy Boat III to die on his own in the apartment. I thought it had actually been when I promised I'd sneak off to get him myself the moment Riggs tried to sleep, but who really knew.