I frowned and caught his arm. “No sneaky label business, Serv.” He had a habit of always trying to find ways to help Crooked Fang grow but because of the vampire factor, that wasn’t possible. Even if it did mean a record deal in the long run.
“Like I’d do anything without your okay, Xan.”
“Xan? Xan Marcelles?” Somehow Karla’d snuck up behind me. I turned in surprise and brushed my gaze over her ivory mounds barely packaged in black latex. She wore a choker littered with about ten little caskets dangling from it around her neck. Her eyes were gray, a little lighter than mine. They contrasted nicely with her deep violet hair, held up off her neck with black chopsticks topped with ceramic dias de los muertos sugar skulls poking out at perpendicular angles. Her eyes were lined in thick black, almond-shaped, like a cat.
“Yeah?”
She threw her hand out and I took it without much thought. She brought me close and I ducked to hear her, detecting a musky hint of patchouli scenting her skin under a light sheen of sweat.
“I’ve heard lots about your band. Love to have you play over at Lobos sometime. It’s good to finally meet the big man behind the bass. I might get a cramp looking up at you, but it’s worth the pain in the neck.”
Serv snorted and I elbowed him. “Thanks.”
She still had her hand in mine. I gave a quick squeeze before letting go and heard her pulse pick up slightly. A light blush colored her cheeks underneath the pale makeup. That’s how it was done. Make them want it. Almost every one of our kind had a sort of hypnotizing ability, or thrall, but it was more fun for me to talk to women the old-fashioned way and get to know them at least a little before chomping on their veins.
“I guess she already knows you then.” Serv smirked. “Well, Xan, this is Karla. She runs a bar thing called Lobos in Denver. She also runs an actors’ troupe. Tell him the name, Karla. It’s fucking awesome.”
She met my gaze and flashed a smile. “Zombie cheerleaders. We call them Frigid Bitches.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Really.”
Serv danced in place and reminded me of a small dog that needed to be let outside. “Isn’t that cool? And they can come out and perform during our show, that way we don’t need to audition an opening act.” His gaze was divided between Karla’s face and her chest. Either she was used to it or didn’t care, because she didn’t try to stop him.
“Sounds good.” I took the card Karla gave me and looked at it: three grinning blue girlie heads and the name of the troupe, along with email and phone number. I figured they’d be good for the customers. Nothing like blue, undead women in skimpy cheerleading costumes. Besides, they matched our band’s logo color. I nudged Serv. “Cool, then I’ll just let these cats on stage know we changed our mind.” I nodded at Karla. “Be seeing you.”
“Not if I see you first.”
I smiled just a little. “Feel free.”
* * * *
I’d hoped that Josh would pull out of in time for Halloween, but on the day of the big Monster Mash Crooked Fang Hallowganza, he was still dealing with the aftermath of a bitching case of good old-fashioned stomach flu. Left without a drummer for the night, I nearly canceled until Bea gave me a call and talked me into letting her fill in for him.
“I didn’t know you played drums.”
Her laughter filtered over the phone line. “I don’t. But I play keyboard pretty well. I used to play in the church group and sometimes Josh and I jam on weekends.”
“What are we going to do with a keyboard, Bea? I need Danzig, not Depeche Mode up in here.”
“We can play different songs. Like stuff that’s Halloweeny.”
I figured it’d probably sound like shit, but I didn’t have a drummer and plenty of people were expected to show up. There was no way we could cancel.
I sighed. “Fine, Bea. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do, don’t you worry, Fang.”
“Ugh, stop calling me that,” I said with a growl, sending her into another fit of giggles.
“I love razzing you, Xan. See you in a couple of hours. Save some whiskey for me,” she said then hung up.
Serv was over by the dartboards, tossing darts at the wall instead.
“Will you quit that? Charlie gets pissed at the holes you put in the wall.”
Serv shrugged but held the rest of the darts in his hand and sat on the edge of a pool table instead, which was another thing that set the owner off. “So, did you find a drummer?”
I lit a cigarette and ran a hand through my hair. “No. But I found an alternative.”
“Alternative? We need a drummer.” Serv cocked an eyebrow.
“Yeah. Bea apparently plays keys.”
“That’s not drums.”
“That’s what I told her, but she came up with the idea that we play Halloween tunes.”
“Without a drummer.”
“Yes, Serv. Without a drummer.”
* * * *
I played the vampire every night at Pale Rider, but especially Halloween, because it was on that night I could just let it all hang out. I bared my fangs and snapped at females, pretending to bite their necks. They’d squeal and swoon, and it was all in good fun. With the lights turned down low, the place looked awesome and provided shadows where I’d steal a real nip or two as I nuzzled their perfumed necks, which smelled like clove, jasmine or some other flowery-girlie stuff. It was like seasoning for the meal.
The doors were flung open and in stalked three blue-painted zombie girls, just as promised. I grinned. The cheerleading outfits were a throwback to ones I’d seen in a certain Nirvana music video–black with blue. Their hair was done up in pigtails. They shook their black pom-poms as they lined up in front of the stage and chanted Crooked Fang, Crooked Fang, Crooked Fang. The audience went nuts.
It was our cue to get up there with Bea, so Serv, Darrell, our lead guitarist, and I filed up the steps to take our places. Darrell strapped on his old tobacco-burst Gibson and belched loudly into the mic, keeping up with his Southern good-ol’-boy appearance. He was a barrel-chested motherfucker, with a goatee as long as his hair and braided with a lime-green rubber band. He looked like a young Hank Williams Jr. and could really rock out. When he opened with a mean riff, the crowd fell silent. I kicked in with a little thunder on Sasha, and Serv screamed into the mic. Bea did a little ditty on her keyboard, set up on the left behind me.
I rarely looked at the audience, partially because of all the dirty life thrashing around down there. It piqued my hunger, and I was busy with fretwork. No matter how many times I played, I still got a touch of stage fright when I went up there. But I kept an eye out for strange things–things associated with me being a vampire. Threats to my well-being.
During the second song, an old Screamin’ Jay Hawkins tune, I Put a Spell on You, Josh walked in with Scott, which was awesome. Scott was my best friend from my life before and the only one that knew what really happened to me, as in not being dead. We met in isolated places, if not Pale Rider. In the past two decades, his hair had gone from the color of a new penny to almost-gray. His six-foot frame changed from a lanky kid to a mature man. His face grew lines from experiences I couldn’t share, like parenthood, yet we were still close. He had said he didn’t know if he could make it, but his showing up made my night. I didn’t get to see him that often.
We finished the song then paused the show for a couple of minutes so Josh could get situated behind his drum kit. I crouched at the edge of the stage to greet Scott.
“Hey! Didn’t know either of you guys were going to make it.” We clasped hands briefly–in a manly gesture, of course.
Scott looked over his shoulder at the one of the Frigid Bitches then back up at me. “Zombie cheerleaders?”
“Hot, huh?”
He laughed. “Well, yeah. Just different.”
“We’re about to play again, but I’ll definitely catch up with you after.” He nodded and I stood, fiddled with tuning, and waited while everybody got se
ttled.
“We want to thank Karla from Lobos in Denver for sending out your sexy female entertainment tonight.” Serv pointed out to the audience while clutching the microphone in the other hand. “Say hello to the Frigid Bitches!” The audience cheered. Serv grinned, showing the points of his little fangs.
“On lead guitar, you got Darrell Brown all the way from Texas!”
Darrell shredded a hard, quick riff in response and raised his arms above his head with an unintelligible bark.
“Xan Marcelles on bass!” I smirked and made Sasha growl with some low chords.
“Josh Reddig, the sick motherfucker who decided to drag his ass in just for you kids!” Josh beat the shit out of his drums and showed off with a ten-second speed set, finishing with a crash cymbal.
I leaned into my mic. “And Serv is the bigmouthed asshole up front.” The crowd laughed and we jumped straight into our first number.
With Josh at the helm, we sounded a hell of a lot more like ourselves. Aside from an occasional glance, I kept my attention on playing. I felt their eyes on me, though. The onlookers called my name between songs. Their eagerness made it even easier to have my pick of the bunch for dinner later.
Since we had drums again, the set list was pretty much open. Serv pulled all the stops, with a version of This is Halloween, while I threw in vox on Type O Negative’s Hallow’s Eve. We’d take fast songs, slow them down, or speed up slow ballads. That’s what made us a little different, I guess. We gave songs the Crooked Fang treatment. All the while, the heat built and the fantastic scent of blood and perfume tormented me. It tickled my monster side under the chin and gave a pheromonic come-hither accompanied by the sound of a hundred beating hearts that echoed in my ears when the music died. But I had to tune it out and focus on playing bass. If I wasn’t on stage, I’d usually fidget instead. The vampire part of me was very much like a caged wild animal, deceptively under control and ignored until it lashed out in random irrational impatience.
It wasn’t easy to play for an audience, but it was what I loved to do. To make music. The cover band made a great compromise to what a band should try to do, and that was progress, find a label, get stinking rich and become ridiculously famous. I held the reins on that part, and since we were in a tiny town, the excuse of the band was intended to be a hobby worked. A paid one, sure, but it wasn’t going to go anywhere else.
When the show was finished, I wiped down my bass, laid it in its case and closed the latches. I took my time because they were waiting for me. What I hesitated to call “fans.” Always wanting to meet and speak to me. I needed the space to bring my stupid vamp impulses down a notch so I could make it through the next part, and that was finding the bar, my jacket then the stairs to the roof where customers couldn’t follow.
One of the zombie cheerleaders stood at the edge of the stage, her arms folded over the peeling duct tape and dusty wood. Her makeup was running a little from dancing. She favored me with a skull-faced smile. “Nice playing.”
I sat the bass case over by the rest of the equipment to be picked up later. “Thanks.”
“So, what are you doing now?”
I waved a hand in Scott’s direction. “I have a friend from out of town, going to hang out with him and chill.”
“I’m Sabrina.”
“Ah.”
Wisps of her blonde hair waved around her head, having escaped her twin ponytails. She had fake eyelashes. I couldn’t tell what color her eyes were. Her looks didn’t matter. I couldn’t feed on staff anyways. Too risky.
“You’re Xan, right?”
“Yup.” I jumped off stage to stand beside her. Scott waved at me from his table. I forced a smile, gritted my teeth and waited for her to get the gushing out of her system. I didn’t want to be rude.
“How long have you been playing that thing? I just love the bass guitar.” She laid a hand on my arm and even though she was warm and probably soft, I resisted the urge to jerk it away. I wasn’t too hot about people touching me uninvited. They always did, as if to reinforce I was real. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cigarettes and lighter. She wrinkled her nose but her grin never faded. I sighed and lit up.
“A long time,” I said after a pause. My mood wavered between polite and tearing out a throat. The latter was a bad one. I tried to never let it get that far, but the need for blood did funny things to my mind. I crossed my arms over my chest and shifted my weight back and forth, wanting the conversation to be over.
“Hey, did you want me to get you a drink?” Scott had come up behind us.
Sabrina eyeballed him and shifted her gaze back to me.
“I’ll go with you, actually,” I said to Scott and looked at her. “Sabrina was it?” I shook her hand. “Good to meet you.”
Scott and I left Sabrina standing there and walked over to the bar together where Charlie was tending.
“Good show.” Scott smiled conspiratorially and leaned in. “I think she’s into you.”
I snorted and reached for my glass. Scott shook his head and laughed.
“Thanks for coming out.” I looked over at him, but he was watching something else.
“Hey, check those two out.” He nodded just ahead of us.
A big Mexican dude was over his limit. Typical prison fodder, no matter what color he was. Hair trimmed close. Tattooed knuckles. Gold chain. Wifebeater tank top. Baggy jeans. Was it a costume? I couldn’t tell. He loomed over what looked to be his girlfriend, a little thing in opera gloves and a body-hugging black dress with a long slit up the side to reveal fishnet stockings. She also had the most vibrant blue hair I’d ever seen. She shook her head adamantly, tears streaming over heavy makeup. When he raised his voice, I set my half-empty glass on the bar.
“Bitch! I told you not to tell me what to do!” He was swaying in place, and the blue-haired girl looked like she was just trying to get him to slow down a little. He pushed her away from him and she fell back against other customers before landing on her back. Everything around us stopped, save for the jukebox, which carried on playing The Doors’ Light My Fire in mechanical ignorance.
I turned to Scott. “Be right back.”
I walked over to her and offered her a hand to help her up, getting a gratuitous flash of leg along with everyone else. She wasn’t much over twenty, if that. She had a cute face that begged to be caressed and kissed. How could that dude push her? He was already at the bar, arguing with Charlie, wanting another beer.
“You okay?” She weighed next to nothing.
She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a sleeve, sniffling softly. “Yeah.”
“Okay. I’m going to take care of your boy,” I said without waiting for an answer and walked over to the bar. I clamped a hand on her boyfriend’s shoulder and spun him around to face me. He had to crane his neck like most people do to look me in the eye. “There a problem here man?”
He shrugged my hand off. “Mind your own fucking business ese.”
His girlfriend looked away. She acted like she wanted to be anywhere but standing there at that moment.
Sabrina pushed past me to get up in Arturo’s face, a finger held an inch away from his nose. “You leave her alone, Arturo!”
“Get the fuck off me, bitch!” Arturo slapped her hand and gave her a shove. The crowd tightened a circle around us, jeering at improper treatment of females. He was that kind of worthless piece of shit. The type that was exposed near closing time. And the one I was gladly going to throw out. If it were up to me, he’d be staring down an assault charge besides.
“I think you need to chill out.” I put my hand against Arturo’s chest.
His heart pounded against my fingers hard. His lip quivered and he stank of Budweiser, lime and Cool Water cologne. He glared at me and spat on the floor, narrowly missing his own white Adidas. “I said mind your own business man. Go play your fucking guitar.”
I grabbed him around his neck, and pulled him to my chest in a headlock. “It’s a bass.”
Darrell came up to my side. “Want me to take care of this asshole?”
I tightened my grip on Arturo and shook my head. “Go get Charlie. He’s at the bar. I’m taking this dickhead outside to cool off.”
I rushed us toward the exit, him flailing and clawing my back, but paid him no mind. When we burst outside, I dragged him down the stairs and flung him into the parking lot. He rolled and ended up on his ass, propped up on an elbow with murder in his eyes.
Charlie came out behind us and waved his arms in a shooing motion. “Get gone out of here! Nobody want trouble like you.”
“Fuck you, old man.”
I made to jump over the railing but Charlie clamped his hand on my wrist to catch me, his skin stark black in high contrast with my long-since-faded tan.
“Leave him alone, boy.” Charlie gave me a warning look and glared at Arturo, who was getting to his feet. I steeled myself for another attack, but he just dusted himself off, gave us both his middle fingers and walked toward the parked cars. Sabrina and her sister met us at the door as we turned to go back inside.
“What happened?” The blue-haired girl looked around me, presumably for her ejected boyfriend.
“He can’t come around here no more,” Charlie said and opened the door, releasing a swell of jukebox music as he stepped inside. The door shut, killing the roar to a gentle bassing thump and the three of us regarded each other.
“Xan, this is my sister, Tabitha. She dates assholes and chumps. Tabby, Xan. He plays bass, is cute, and just rescued your ass from said chump. You two have fun. I have a half hour left to entertain these fucks.” Sabrina turned and went back inside, leaving me and Tabby alone.
Now that I was close to her and not fending off jackasses, I got a good look at her. She was really damned cute, with a perky nose and gorgeous blue eyes that matched her hair, which just brushed the underside of her jaw line. Her nose was pierced, and she sucked her lip as she stared at me. I tore my gaze away to look out into the parking lot as I watched for Arturo to come back. That dress gave a generous view of her collarbone and cleavage. I closed my eyes briefly and mentally keyed myself down a notch. Yeah, I was getting there. I could smell her perfume–light, almost like baby powder–and hear her pulse slow as she calmed down too.
Crooked Fang Page 2