by Alex Owens
Kill Me
Blood Chord Novel #1
Alex Owens
QuirkyGurl.com
Thirty-something Claire is normal to the point of boring. She has a child, a husband who’s leaving her and a decent job as a PR rep for a boutique firm. While at a music industry convention for work, Claire’s life goes from status-quo to Oh, no! when she meets Bette, a sultry Italian woman with a haunted violin; an instrument that can only be played by the supernaturally gifted. Bette, a vampire with an eye on Claire’s untapped talents, tries to turn her into one of the undead.
Only it doesn’t appear to have worked, at least not one-hundred percent.
While figuring out what fate has planned for her, Claire must also create a marketing campaign off-the-cuff for a Girl-centric guitar company, survive her first strip club visit, and fake being a violin virtuoso in front of thousands. She turns to Bette and her Vampy-friends for help, but trusting them with her life may not be the smartest decision she’s ever made.
Chapter 1
I knew that I was dreaming; stuck in an alternate reality that was both creepy and confining, like one of those freaky rubber body-suits. I also knew that I couldn’t wake from the dream on my own. That loss of control spooked me every time. When I was finally able to wake, I’d be breathing hard, soaking wet and pissed that it had happened again. For the next little while, I was trapped in a stark white room with no windows or doors. A single bare bulb hung over a glass table and cast hard, angular shadows against the bright walls, even though there was no other furniture in the room to impede the light. Logically, it didn’t make sense, but my dreams rarely do.
I thought myself alone, but that didn’t last long. Like sinister holograms, three figures flickered around the table, seated in newly-materialized chairs. A fourth chair appeared as they looked in my direction with blank faces. A woman and two men waited. And then I heard the loveliest voice inside my head.
“Finally, you’ve come,” she said. It was the woman speaking, but her lips had not moved, nor had her expression changed. They didn’t seem to see me. More like they felt my presence in the room with them.
I tried to focus on their faces, to see if I recognized them, but the dream wavered whenever I concentrated on the details. Experience had taught me not to push it or I’d just find myself starting over inside of a whole new nightmare.
I’d learned that lesson the hard way, my stubborn streak once trapping me in dream after dream after dream for more than twenty-four hours. My husband had been on the verge of calling an ambulance when I’d finally sat up and asked him what we were having for breakfast. That was back when he actually cared enough to worry about me.
“Sit,” a male voice said.
I considered the request. In my dreams I’d never tried to do something. Usually I was just an observer. With feet that felt too light, I joined the group at the table. Now for the moment of truth- if I tried to pull out the only empty chair, would I be able to? Or would my solid looking hand pass right through it?
I stretched out my hand and the chair slid back from the table with a loud scrape before I ever made contact.
Interesting. Had I moved it with my mind? There was no way to know. I touched the chair and it felt solid enough. I took a seat at the table (without falling) and focused on the others.
“We’ve been waiting a long time for someone like you,” the female said.
“What?” I responded, unsure if I’d spoken the words or merely thought them, not that it mattered.
The three mysterious figures nodded to each other, but did not speak.
“What do you mean someone like me?” I started to rise from my chair, fear settling in my gut when I realized that I could not stand. My limbs felt weighted down.
One of the men spoke after several long seconds. “You are very special, though you do not know it yet.”
I frowned. There was nothing special about me, that I was sure of. I was the most boringly-normal harried housewife this side of the Mississippi. And I had the empty bank account and apathetic husband to prove it.
“She does not believe,” the other, deeper male voice said.
“Well then, she will have to be shown the way.”
I was rendered mute by the conversation of the strangers. They were talking about me, but none of it made sense.
“Are you sure that she is the one?” asked one of the men.
“Yes, how can you be sure?” the other one said.
“I am sure. Her powers shine through, despite the neglect. Imagine how powerful she will be once she is trained,” the woman argued on my behalf.
Still, I had no idea what powers she was talking about. The only gifts I had were wooing customers and picking the wrong men. Oh, and I made a wicked grilled cheese—just ask my daughter.
“If you are sure, then.” One of the men nodded with approval. “It is in her blood, after all.”
Finding my voice, I started to demand answers. “Somebody needs to tell me...”
As I spoke the words though, my voice began to fade. The light above the table dimmed and the figures in front of me flickered once again. And then there was darkness.
Gradually the light returned. Bathed in a calming blue glow, I recognized it instantly. Soon everything would fade to a purplish-pink before bleaching out altogether. Then I would wake up.
***
Of course I’d overslept; the Claire Adams that everyone knew and (mostly) loved never managed to get anywhere on time. I couldn’t wake until my dreams were done with me. Weird, I know, but it had been that way since I could remember and I’d learned to live with it most of the time. But that didn’t mean I had to like it. Not one bit.
I’d rushed through the morning necessities, arriving at the convention center thirty minutes late, sporting damp hair and an empty stomach. The cabbie dumped me out at the base of the conference center’s expansive steps.
Great. There had to be a million of them and it was already near ninety degrees, despite being only ten in the morning. I slipped off my sling-back heels and hung my blazer over my messenger bag before heading inside. By the time I reached the large banner welcoming everyone to MUSI 2011, I was breaking a sweat and thankful that air-conditioned heaven was just a few steps away. I’d have to go the restroom and make myself look presentable first. There went another five minutes.
Stepping into the stark glass and concrete building I was blasted by processed air. My silk camisole clung to my chest. I sucked in a cool breath and stiffened my spine as the static hum of the crowd turned to murmurs about my disheveled state. I reached around to my messenger strap, like it was too heavy to carry with one shoulder alone. Really though, I was trying to cover my chest and those embarrassing little points that I couldn’t control.
I’m a logical person and I have enough common sense to know that not everyone was thinking about my nipples. Really. But sometimes I get a thought, a niggling little voice in my head and for a moment I believe whatever it says. Until the logical-me smacks the fanciful-me upside the head.
I located the nearest set of bathrooms on the map kiosk and headed there, careful to avoid eye contact with anyone. I had to win over vendors later and I didn’t need my first impression to be that of a harried, sweaty woman with perky boobs.
Thankfully, the bathroom was empty and I used the privacy to wet a few paper towels and cool myself off before heading into a stall. Once there, I slipped off my moist top and put the jacket back on so that I could take the damp shirt to a hand-dryer without giving anyone a peep show.
Crossing in front of the long mirrored glass toward the dryers, I glanced at myself in the mirror. I had buttoned up the jacket, but it was not meant to be worn alone. The top edge of my red lace demi-bra could be seen and I had so much cleavage spill
ing out that I might as well be wearing a corset. I hurried across the room, hoping the bathroom would remain empty since I was looking all hooker-ish.
While I dried my top under the blower I gave myself a mental pep-talk for the job that I needed to accomplish over the next few hours. My boss sent me to the convention to woo prospective clients. What we offered wasn’t unique to the industry, so our selling point had to be friendly, prompt customer service. When you went with us, you became part of the family.
I was very good at my job. Sometimes those little voices in my head actually whispered something useful, even if vague. Add to that my ability to interpret body language and tone of voice, and I was very adept at reading people.
Still though, it’s easier to sound more confident if I look the part. My style was conservative, but with an edge. My black suit had an above-the knee skirt and a form fitting jacket that was top-stitched around the hems with thick ivory thread and the red square button below the bust. Shiny black heels. No jewelry and styled hair.
As the dryer worked its magic on my top, a woman entered the room and crossed to the marbled vanity alcove past the more utilitarian sinks. She was tall, lean and moving so gracefully I couldn’t help but stare. Her flowing hair looked almost black against her porcelain skin.
She wore a vintage-inspired wrap dress— the kind that hugged the body in all the right places, but flared at the hip giving the dress a little swing before stopping above the knee. The dress itself was ivory, with overlapping, large black rings. The woman also wore cherry-red stilettos. So she had a little bit of an edge too.
She turned to face me and I gulped. Curiosity flashed briefly over her face, but then it was replaced by something that resembled amusement. She probably thought I was a hooker, standing there with my boobs falling out.
Just doing my laundry. Don’t mind me.
Finally, she nodded an acknowledgment of sorts and resumed touching up her lipstick. I watched as she pouted and expertly applied a deep ruby shade to her perfect lips. Then she leaned forward to check her makeup and hair. I realized I was staring and felt more awkward than ever, so I scurried back to a stall to redress myself.
Why hadn’t I said anything?
I should have at least muttered a polite hello, offered up a smile, or used my ability to blink. But I hadn’t been able to speak, move, or look away. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but I was drawn to her.
Even as I redressed, my mind kept replaying the way she walked, the pout of her lips as she puckered in front of the mirror, the delicate curve of her neck as it disappeared under the mass of hair as she’d leaned forward.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say that I was attracted to her. But that was silly. It was strange that my brain went there with the mystery woman, though.
Maybe the attraction could be explained differently? Maybe it was like my little voices, a way for my mind to understand that the woman was important somehow and that I needed her for something. The hair on the back of my neck prickled, like someone had brushed a finger across it. This day was just getting better and better.
When I finally exited the stall, she was gone and I felt a little deflated. I washed my hands quickly and used a little of the water to calm my heat-frizzed hair. It was dark and straight only because I use a flat-iron religiously.
I could stall no longer. It was time to earn my company tons of new customers. Go get ’em girl, I told myself in the mirror before heading out.
Chapter 2
The main floor of the convention was a swarm of activity. From above, poised at the top of the stairs, I could see hundreds, if not thousands, of people, all ping-ponging between the neat little rows of vendor boxes that stretched across the main floor. From simple display racks to elaborately constructed booths, I was looking down at five-hundred-plus potential customers.
My heart hammered as I considered the possibilities. Where to start? I could practically feel the collective pulse of the room as I scanned it again. It was controlled chaos and I loved every minute of it.
While I strolled casually by each vendor, I noticed the ones where I got more than a cursory glance. In particular, I made a mental list of who to come back to and who to skip for the first day. The ones that looked my way for an extra beat, the ones that offered an easy smile or better yet, waved me over, would be the easiest nuts to crack. I would hit them first, close the deals quickly then move on to prime the top-choice vendors for a bigger push tomorrow.
I’d made the whole circuit of vendors in less than forty-five minutes. My feet were killing me, but I’d have to apologize to them later. Back at the beginning of my loop, I quickly scanned and plotted my first few targets. I took in a deep cleansing breath, in through my mouth and out through my nose, willing myself to be confident and charming.
Striding to the first vendor, I placed an easy, welcoming smile on my face and identified the best candidate of the bunch. I quickly eliminated the young guy with the messy brown hair. No way was he old enough to wield any power within the company. Also not an option was the woman talking to a group of leather clad-musicians. Too pretty, too female— and I didn’t mean that in a sexiest way. It’s just that whenever I was near attractive women, my confidence waned. I see the ways in which they are better than me and I lose my edge. It was like comparing apples to apples, and I always came away as the one with the fat worm sticking out of my side.
Finally, I located the guy I would chat-up for the good of my company. He was middle-aged, but not in a sports car, jail-bait sort of way. He exuded confidence and authority without appearing bored or jaded.
“Hi, I’m Claire.” I said as I offered my hand to my chosen target.
He took my hand into his, firm but not too clingy.
“Claire,” he smiled, “I’m Stan. Can I show you around our booth?”
“Sure, lead the way.” I said, with a simple smile. I listened while he talked shop, extruding the virtues of his company.
He was the Senior VP in charge of Sales and when I heard that, I knew I had chosen wisely. At the end of his tour and talk, I smiled and waited a few moments to speak. I’d learned that a well-placed pause in conversation could do wonders to tilt things in my favor.
“Well, Stan.” I started, “You guys have a great little company here. Great product, friendly staff...” I made it a point to make eye contact at that moment for extra emphasis, then continued, “Solid branding. And you’ve managed to do well enough without any real marketing to speak of.”
Stan looked a little taken aback about that last bit, like he wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a well-placed dig. I didn’t give him much time to contemplate which way I’d meant it.
I drew a stark white business card from my pocket and held it out to him. The card held just my name in a trendy black font on the front and a web address on the back, which was coded to match customized proposals that were already online. As he took the card, I maintained eye-contact and smiled.
“If you want to be a serious player in the industry, have a look at the proposal I’ve compiled— the web address is on the back— and give me a call.” I half-turned while walking away, as if I really hated to be leaving, flashed a smile and moved on to my next target.
God, I was good at my job. Sometime, I felt too successful at it—a tad shady. But I wasn’t out conning people. My company treated its clients well and had fabulous ethics. We didn’t scam anyone or inflate pricing. So it wasn’t the company making me feel grimy. It was me, ashamed of my used-car salesman talents. Determined not to depress myself thinking about it further, I focused on the job I needed to do.
By mid-afternoon I had completed my rounds of the first-selected vendors, so I decided to relax for a few minutes. From Indie record labels hyping new talent to the makers of instruments and accessories for musicians, every aspect of the music industry was covered. I’d even passed by a few authors promoting their tell-all biographies of legends, flocked by a throng of underfed promotional models.
I forgot all about the exquisite hand crafted guitars in front of me as I watched her laugh delicately and place a hand on the taller man’s arm. It was just a quick touch, but I felt my pulse pick up as if she’d touch me instead. I rubbed my arm without thinking.
What the hell was going on with me today?
“Excuse me, Miss. Can I help you with something?” a voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
A kindly older man with calloused hands stood to my left and gestured to the rack of displayed guitars. “Care to see one up close, I could get it down for you,” he offered with an affable smile.
Torn between taking my eyes off the enchanting woman, and being angry with myself for losing focus yet again, I decided to channel my energy back into business. I hadn’t planned on pursuing another client for a little while longer, but I hadn’t planned on being waylaid by a strange woman in red high-heels either.
“Sure, I’d love to see that mahogany one with the abalone inlay, if you don’t mind.” I said.
For the next few minutes I focused all my attention on the little man with his finely crafted guitars. He was a master and I made a mental note to add special terms to his proposal. I saw it as doing a little charity work, so to speak—a good deed to counteract all of the generic winning-over of clients. Pitch delivered, I handed the man my card, noted the code and special-terms on my phone’s list, and wandered away from the booth.
One glance in the direction that I’d last seen the mysterious woman told me that she was gone. I was a little relieved and a lot disappointed, which just made me irritated with myself.
I checked my phone and noticed that I had a voice-mail from home. My daughter, Quinn, had left me a slew of “I miss you Mommy’s” and “When are you coming home’s” and I’m sure in her 8-year old mind I must have dropped off the face of the earth. Once again, I felt bad for having a job.