Thought I’d take the plunge and post the first chapter here. Hope you like it lots and lots and decide you need this book desperately 😀
My mom always told me not to play with my food. I try to keep that in mind.
She never told me not to let my food play with me, however, so I would let tall, dark, and handsome—with gray eyes, a brilliant smile, and killer cheekbones—flirt with me to his heart’s content. Then I’d let him take me to his place and seduce me into his bed.
Then I’d feed.
By the time he woke up in the morning, he’d remember having great, anonymous sex—and nothing else.
That was the plan, at least. That had always been the plan.
Until things changed, a couple of weeks ago.
I was just about to leave my apartment, when there was a knock at my door. I opened it and was almost knocked over as Dotty, one of the second floor tenants, burst into the room. We weren’t friends, per se, but she’d occasionally pop by for some girl-chat. I’d told her I worked nights and that I needed my beauty-sleep, so she never disturbed me during the day, but she’d never before come by after nine in the evening either.
“I need your help.” She gasped for breath as she turned to face me, running a hand through her short, spiky, black hair.
At nearly six feet tall, on the heavy side, and with a square jaw, Dotty never seemed to need anybody’s help.
“What can I do?” I asked, secretly hoping whatever it was could wait until my stomach was full. Her outfit somehow made me doubt that my hopes would be justified; she looked ready to go out. As did I, which I prayed she’d notice.
She bit her lip, then said, “The sitter was with Mark until now but she had to go, and my date—umm…” She blushed. “I invited him upstairs for a drink, and he’s in the car waiting.” Inhaling deeply, she blurted out the actual reason for her visit. “Can Mark stay here for an hour?” Finally taking in my short leather skirt and bustier that left little to the imagination, she pouted. “I guess not.” With a sigh, she turned for the door.
Even though she turned slowly enough that I knew she expected me to stop her, I felt bad. “Okay, but only for one hour,” I said to her back. I’d looked after him before.
The words had barely left my mouth when she opened the door again and let Mark, her pudgy six-year-old son, inside. “I owe you big time!” she told me over her shoulder, blowing Mark a kiss and rushing out before I could change my mind.
“Why aren’t you wearing pajamas?” the boy asked, tilting his head to the side. “Did you just come back, like Mommy?”
I swear, he would have had a brilliant career with the Spanish Inquisition, had he been born back then. Since I always believed in treating children like adults, I opted for the truth. “Nope. I’m going out as soon as your mommy picks you up.”
“Why are you going out so late?” He had an eyebrow raised, the expression looking out of place in the adorable roundness of his face.
“Why not?” I asked innocently. Ha! I could beat him at his own game.
“My daddy says only sluts and pimps walk the streets at night.” Crossing his arms in front of his easily breakable chest, he looked at me smugly.
I understood why his mother never asked her ex-husband to baby-sit. “Your mommy was out until now,” I said with a saccharine smile. “Is she a slut?”
Apparently he took offense, because he stomped his foot. “No!”
“Well, then, your daddy is wrong.” There. I had the last word. How would he beat that argument?
“But it was day when my mom went out.” Smug again.
I was tempted to try my brain-wash gaze on him, but thought better of it. Instead I said, “If you don’t talk again until your mom comes to pick you up, I’ll give you ten bucks.”
I saw him consider it. “Twenty.”
I should have started lower, but it was too late for that now. “Fifteen, and you never tell her about our deal.” Hey, I said I’d looked after him a couple of times; I never said I was good at it. I’d have to find another way to work around his questions next time. He was getting too expensive!
Dotty wasn’t late to pick him up. She was disheveled and grinning like the Cheshire cat, but not late. I grabbed my keys, stuffed them in the front of my bustier, all but tossed Mark to her, and was out of there.
The Gridlock is one of my favorite bars, which means I visit it only every couple of months. It wouldn’t do to be seen leaving with a different man every night, especially if said man doesn’t remember me the following day.
It’s spacious, dimly lit—which I appreciate—and decorated in shades of red and black. Drapes separate a few private stalls, and I know the upper floor houses the super secret VIP area. Get your minds out of the gutter; The Gridlock isn’t a sex-club. The VIP area is only secret because celebrities often choose it to unwind when they need to stay away from the public eye for a while. No orgies take place there as far as I’m aware. What adds most to the bar’s appeal, however, are its patrons: mostly young professionals who aren’t out to get wasted. Pretty people who take care of themselves—look and smell good— relax on leather armchairs, and the music is to my taste, . As is the bartender, but he is off limits…
Heads turned as I entered, and I mentally smacked my forehead. The outfit I had chosen was at odds with the surroundings, which I would have remembered if a phone call hadn’t jarred me just before I’d dressed—always, always change your cell number after breaking up with someone. I looked too cheap for a place like that. Well, it was too late to do something about that now. Holding my head high and keeping from swishing my butt too much, I made my way inside, pretending not to notice the glares a group of women in their thirties–wearing skirt-suits and sporting perfect coiffes—threw my way.
I spotted the guy within twenty five seconds of scanning the room. I was sure I’d never seen him around before. Believe me, I’d remember if I had. He was a head taller than everybody else, and his shoulders looked as wide as my bed. He was leaning casually against the bar, holding a bottle of Heineken.
Even at a distance, I could see his eyes—fringed with long, dark eyelashes—were the same charcoal gray as his shirt. And they were locked on me. The first phase of the plan was complete. The prey had seen me and was attracted.
Phase two consisted of faking disinterest until he made a move. If I took the first step, he might deem me too easy, and that often wasn’t enough of an ego booster to make a man take me home, as I’d discovered years earlier. Although, it might be more than enough to make him follow me into the ladies’ room, if I played my cards right.
With the rent deadline approaching, I needed money that night almost as much as I needed blood, so the ladies’ was not an option.
Oh, the blood thing reminded me, there’s something I should have said earlier.
My name is Cherry, and I’m a vampire.
Sadly, society these days isn’t really brimming with jobs for an ex plus-sized model-turned porn star-turned vampire, so I’ve often found myself in need of cash. When that happens, I look for someone to serve as a… sponsor rather than merely a blood donor. For the day, not indefinitely.
Despite having been in a couple of adult movies, I am not a prostitute; I have always only set my sights on guys I am genuinely attracted to, and only go as far as I feel like. Most of them get nothing other than the promise of sex. I try not to let my needs overlap. That is, as a rule, I avoid sleeping with guys I intend to steal from, and I don’t offer sex for blood. If they turn me on, I may do them as I feed, but it is not an exchange. Letting someone cover my expenses in the long-run would change that dynamic.
So would falling in love with someone. A breathing someone, with a pulse and an expiration date.
It would screw things up majorly, which is why I never slept with a living guy more than once since I became part of the living dead. The living dead. It sounds so very ominous, however, many of us are nice.
But I’m digressing.
One of the coolest vampire powers is mind control, which some swear is the best way to a healthy relationship. I, however, prefer not having to wipe my lover’s brains clean every so often. A human steady boyfriend is, therefore, out of the question for me.
Male vampires, on the other hand, mostly have relationship issues. The way I see it, knowing you’ll be around for a very long time makes you extremely picky as to whom you want by your side.
And they are patronizing, controlling assholes with superiority complexes. And they cheat on you. I admit, I only know one of them that well, but I’m making an educated guess.
I approached the side of the bar furthest from the guy and ordered a Bloody Mary. Silly private jokes like that—lame though they are—always give me a weird sense of accomplishment. I know, I need therapy.
Drink in hand, I started tapping my foot to the rhythm of the music and scanned the dancing—slowly swaying, to be more precise—crowd, mentally counting the seconds it would take for him to approach me. When he hadn’t moved any closer after sixty whole seconds, I turned and gave him the squint.
The squint is a leftover from my short days as a full-figured model, before I went on a diet and made my first of two adult films. You narrow your eyes just enough to make your gaze look focused and promising. Overdo it, and you look myopic. Combine it with a slight pout, and you have guys eating out of your hand.
Or flashing you a smile, as was the case now.
His smile was dazzling. Perfect white teeth—I’m a vampire; we pay attention to teeth—and a lower lip that begged me to nibble on it. And oh those cheekbones…
I clenched my jaw and made a show of turning away. You want me, buddy? You have to come and get me.
He didn’t, but a fifty-something man with alcohol laced breath and red-rimmed eyes appeared out of nowhere and cornered me against the bar. Just my luck. There was one person in the establishment that hadn’t bathed for a couple weeks, and of course he decided to make a pass at me. “Can I buy you a drink, honey?” His voice was slurred, and he stood too close for comfort.
I could rip his head off his shoulders within seconds, but I don’t generally like violence. Placing a hand on his shoulder to keep him at arm’s length, I indicated my glass. “No, thanks. I’m set,” I said with a smile, allowing just a bit of fang to show. A drunk doesn’t have enough credibility to expose us.
The drunk stumbled back, hands held up in the universal giving up sign, just as the yummy male specimen made his way to us. I saw yummy’s face fall and thought to myself, aha! Hero complex.
“I was coming to save you,” he said, confirming my assumption, “but I see you handled him yourself.” His voice complemented the rest of him. Deep, masculine, the voice you’d want whispering dirty things in your ear.
The ball was in my court. “Maybe you should stick around, in case I can’t handle the next one.” I smiled harmlessly. No fangs.
He grinned, giving me a better look at his pearly whites. Yup, still flawless. “I’m Alex. Alex Marsden”
“Cherry.” No last name for me. There was no reason.
Up close, he looked even better. I figured he was in his late twenties, thirty tops, and it seemed like he worked out. His fingers, which I got a good look at when he raised his beer to his mouth, were long, and I couldn’t help but imagine how his big hands would feel on me.
“So, what do you do?” he asked, throwing me. People didn’t usually ask what I did when I was dressed in leather and thigh high boots. I wondered how he’d react if I said I was a lawyer.
“Used to model,” I said after taking a sip from my overpriced, alcohol-laced tomato-juice. “I’m between jobs now.” Had been for a long time, since my maker hadn’t bothered to ask about my future plans before turning me. At first I’d been really pissed off to wake up dead while at the peak of my career.
Meh! I may as well be truthful here. I hadn’t been at the peak, just at the beginning—I’d filmed two highly erotic movies as an extra and had just been given the starring role in a third one—and the main reason I’d been pissed off for the better part of six years was that I’d been turned before getting the lipo and boob-job I’d planned on pampering myself with for my twenty fourth birthday. Now I was doomed to go through eternity without the perfectly flat belly and double-D breasts Dr. King had promised me.
Alex nodded and looked me up and down. “You look familiar, and I don’t follow fashion. Have we met before?” To his credit, his gaze didn’t pause anywhere but on my face during his perusal.
Classic pick-up line, although he actually might have seen me before. I couldn’t really ask him if he liked porn, so I just shook my head. “What do you do?” I changed the subject.
“I’m a cop. Detective.” He shrugged like he was saying, nothing special.
A detective. That could be bad. Those guys have good memories as a rule, and he might have seen my missing person’s report. My hand flew to my hair of its own accord. I’d gone from blonde to redhead for Knotting Cherry Stem—hell; I’d changed my name for it—and had bangs now and forever. No, he wouldn’t recognize me.
And no, I’m not telling you my real name.
“Sounds exciting,” I drawled, all wide-eyed. “You should tell me more!” To stress how interested I was, I ran the tips of my fingers down his bicep. Nice and firm. Yum squared!
As if he didn’t even notice, he began saying something about my eyes. Most guys would be all over the chance to touch me back, but not him. I could see he was the type to really take his time with a woman, and it intrigued me. I suddenly wanted to find out for sure; would he take his time with everything? I cut him off. “It’s too loud in here.” I pointed to the speaker booming overhead. “Maybe we should go somewhere quieter?”
His left eyebrow arched, but he put his palm on the small of my back. The touch gave me goose bumps, and that’s a real feat when talking about a dead girl. “My place is quiet.” Ah, he got the hint at once. Smart man.
He caught the bartender’s eye as soon as I left my drink on the bar—which was immediately—and paid for us both. I didn’t offer to cover my half, but I made a mental note to thank him properly once we were alone.
“Do you have a car?” he asked, as I let him lead me to the exit. “You can follow me in it, or I can drive you back here…” His voice drifted off. What would—could¬—he say? Later? After? I decided the fact that he didn’t finish his sentence was for the best.
Not all of us can fly, but only because some cannot fathom lifting off the earth, and therefore can’t focus their will enough to achieve it. I can; I’d flown to the bar, but I couldn’t really tell him that, so I said I’d taken a cab.
“Are you okay with taking my car? Riding with strangers and all?” He was so thoughtful, and I had to try not to swoon… until he added, “We could go to your place, if you’d feel more comfortable.”
No no no no no. No. It was bad enough that I was still going through with my plan even though he was a policeman—but he was so hot, who could blame me? Bringing him to my apartment would take risky to a whole new level. “I wanna see how a cop lives.” A bat of my heavily made-up eyelashes, and the deal was closed.