by Cd Hussey
And a little suspicious.
One of the sexy couples that had been dancing earlier approached them. The man was tall and slender, and his crushed velvet pants clung to marathon runner thighs. With perfect victory rolls crowning her blond waves, and wearing a sleet pencil skirt and fitted blouse, the woman looked like a 1940s pinup girl.
Julia felt completely underdressed here. Only Armand and the bartender matched her casual style.
Yet somehow she felt more comfortable in Luxure than she had at Pat O'Brien's, where she actually looked like she belonged.
Well, she might feel more comfortable if the other patrons would quit trying to stare her down.
"Armand, your services please?" the man said. His face was filled with a kind of lustful anticipation.
"Of course." With the grace of a dancer, Armand rose from the barstool. "Please excuse me, Julia."
"No problem." She watched after him as he turned and led the couple to a closed door, unlocked it, and then held it open while they slipped inside. When his hazel eyes caught her staring, she quickly looked away and he disappeared into the room.
Wow. That was weird. What could his services possibly be? It had to be drugs. Nothing else made sense.
Not that Julia really cared one way or the other. As far as she was concerned, it wasn't her responsibility, the government's, or anyone else's to decide what grown adults put into their bodies.
Although, it did make this place even more dangerous.
Still, she wasn't leaving just yet, even if it'd be prudent to do so. She was fascinated by this bar, the wine, the gorgeous people, the music, Armand...
Julia finished off the last of the rich wine. She'd have one more and then head back to the hotel. It wasn't too late yet, 10:30 or so. She just needed to get the attention of Mr. Muscles behind the bar.
He was talking quietly to another dark haired, pale skinned patron. After her summer tan wore off, Julia had a pretty fair complexion as well, but nothing like the people here. Only redheads and albinos were this pale and she didn't spot a redhead or albino one. It was very unnatural.
Opening her wallet, Julia hoped to get the bartender's attention without having to interrupt his conversation. It worked.
"Same wine?" he asked in a rough, guttural voice.
"Please."
As he filled her glass, he said, "You can put your money away. Armand's taking care of you." He didn't sound particularly pleased about it.
"Oh. Um, okay. Thanks." She put a couple dollars out for a tip.
Twisting the bottle as he tipped it back, he shoved the money back towards her. "Don't thank me. I'd charge you double."
That was a little more hostile than she expected. To hell with him. He wasn't the first burly guy to try to intimidate her. Construction sites were filled with super masculine guys that didn't like some chick telling them what to do.
"Thanks for your honesty," Julia told him with a smile.
Leaving the money on the bar, she grabbed her purse and moved to one of the empty leather chairs where she could watch the dance floor and the closed door where Armand had disappeared to at the same time.
After a few songs filled with aggressive guitar riffs and screaming vocalists, the music changed. Gregorian chants followed by soulful lyrics, a wailing violin, and pulsing drums replaced them. It was another song she recognized. Something obscure her sister had introduced her to. If she didn't already feel like a million eyes were watching her, she'd get up and dance. Instead, she closed her eyes and let the music seep through her, moving her torso in barely perceptible movements to the melody.
"You do know there's an empty dance floor in front of you. As it is, only the chair has the pleasure of watching you dance."
Armand was sitting in the empty chair next to her, a tiny smile on his full lips. Damn, that man was good at being quiet.
She'd like to blame it on the wine, but her cheeks were flushed and she knew she was blushing. Um, school girl again?
"This bar plays the best music," she admitted, like it was some excuse. Once again his expression was slightly perplexed. "I know, I know. I don't look the type."
"I try not to base my conclusions of a person on appearance alone," he told her.
"Oh, but you'd be right. It's my sister that keeps me interesting. If Clare wasn't forever breaking me out of my comfort zone I'd be completely boring, listening to Top 40 and wondering why I didn't like it."
"You're here though. And I don't think I see your sister."
She smiled. "I suppose so. But trust me, I'm still boring."
"I doubt that." His eyes lifted and she followed his line of sight. The couple was just emerging from the locked room. The woman's perfect pin curls were slightly tousled, her pencil skirt a little askew. She wore the most satisfied expression, and her movements were smooth and languid. The man had the same, "I just had the best sex," or "I'm completely faded," expression and Julia would have written it off as either or both until she noticed two perfect puncture wounds on his neck. A teardrop of blood seeped from one and when the woman turned and saw it, she used a finger to wipe it off, and then very suggestively licked the blood from her finger. Catching Julia's startled gaze, the woman flashed a slightly blood-smeared grin at her and winked.
Holy. Shit.
Julia turned back to Armand, who was watching her carefully. She tried to play it off like what she'd seen was the most normal thing, to be as nonchalant as possible.
"Well, I wouldn't feel bad for judging people based on appearance from time to time," she said quickly. "I mean, I do think that people tend to dress to be judged. If they're able, of course. The guy wearing a football jersey usually wants you to know he likes football." She was talking way too fast, she could tell by the way the words seemed to blend together. Armand probably thought she was the biggest kook at this point, but Julia couldn't stop herself.
"But as long as we remember to use our brains and not just our eyes," she continued on in spite of her brain trying to will her mouth to stop moving, "and we recognize that there might be more than what's presented on the surface, we should forgive ourselves for judging 'a book by its cover' from time to time." She really needed to just shut up. This prattling nonsense was annoying.
"So what are you hoping people see when they look at you?"
Oh God, that was a loaded question. She shrugged. "I don't know. Um...I guess I just dress to blend in."
Leaning forward, he leveled his intense eyes on her. "Why is that?"
She couldn't hold his gaze and sipped her wine so she didn't have to. "It's easier?"
"Is it? Do people judge you correctly when they meet you?"
"No," she laughed. "Not at all."
"I'll ask again then. Why do you dress to blend in? Why not dress in a way that people could judge you appropriately?"
She didn't even pause to think. The words just flew out of her mouth. "Maybe I'm a coward and I'm scared of letting people see the true me. Or maybe I don't know enough about who I am to present it properly. Or maybe, I just don't want people to see below the 'every girl' surface." Somehow she'd moved from bar chair to therapist couch. She was usually more tight-lipped around people she'd just met.
He leaned even closer and her heart skipped a few beats. Triplets, her heart was suddenly beating in triplets. "I understand," he purred. "Sometimes it's frightening to let people see who we really are. It's easier to let them see what they will. The people who matter will take the effort to look a little harder."
His nearness was making her stomach do pirouettes. She'd never felt so nervous around a man, and her insides never did tricks just because one was barely inches from her. She bit her lip. "You hope so."
"Yes, you do." His eyes locked on hers for one long moment and she was hypnotized and unable to look away. Finally he leaned back, breaking the trance. "And that's why I try not to judge based on appearances alone," he added teasingly, flashing his bright white teeth at her in a gorgeous smile.
She l
aughed again. "Touché."
The door to the bar flung open and a disheveled woman stumbled in. Her red hair hung in limp, ratted waves around her face. Mascara ran down her colorless cheeks, and dark, deep circles pooled under her eyes. She looked like she might be drunk, overdosing on drugs, sick with the flu, or all three.
Armand swore under his breath and rose roughly to his feet. It was the first time Julia hadn't seen him move with perfect grace. "You aren't welcome here, Eve," he said as he approached her, his seductive growl now low and menacing. "You need to leave. Now."
"Armand no, please," she begged. "Just one more time. I need the release. I'm so...full. Please, I need to...give...just a little bit more."
"Absolutely not. You don't look like you have enough to give. How much blood have you donated already?"
Blood? Had he said blood?
"Not enough," Eve panted. She ran a pale hand over her tangled hair and across her chest. "Never enough."
She swayed unsteadily on her feet and Armand grabbed onto her arm to help stabilize her. "Eve," he said, gentler this time. "You are sick and you need help. If you don't replenish your body and get some rest -"
He wasn't able to finish the sentence. Eve's eyes rolled back in her head and her knees buckled. Armand swiftly moved to catch her, effortlessly scooping her crumpled form into his arms. As he turned to the quiet onlookers in the dark bar, Julia saw him mouth the word, "Fuck."
"Do you see this girl?" he said out loud. His handsome features were clouded with anger and he suddenly looked very dangerous, scary dangerous. "Stay away from her. If I discover that anyone here has taken from her, I will find you. Just because some Donors are ready to be Victims doesn't mean you make them your victim." He turned and said something to the bartender and then disappeared with Eve in his arms through the velvet curtains behind the bar.
Okay, that was creepy.
As much as she wanted to bolt like a spooked horse, Julia calmly finished her wine. No one else in the bar seemed disturbed and she didn't want to be the only one freaking out.
Especially since she could feel the bartender's red eyes boring into her and it was obvious he neither trusted nor liked her. His feelings were misplaced. Whatever crazy shit was going on here, her memories of it could stay in the bar.
Before making her escape, Julia carried her empty wine glass to the bar. "Thanks for the drinks," she said to the scowling bartender as she set the glass down. Resisting all temptation to run screaming from the room, Julia left La Luxure, half expecting someone to stop her.
No one did, and she was soon on the dark, damp, quiet streets of New Orleans.
Julia decided to take Bourbon back to her hotel. The debauchery was suddenly more inviting than the quiet isolation of any of her other options.
Chapter Four
Wearily, Armand pulled his 1977 Jaguar XJ12 though the automatic gate and into his narrow drive. This business with Eve was exhausting. Not only because of the danger women like her posed to the Community, but dealing with the endless drama of eager Victims took its toll.
He was always surprised how many there were. They seemed to come in waves, their numbers surging with every popular vampire movie or book that swept the nation.
It was frustrating but less surprising knowing how many in the Community were happy to fulfill the "victim" fantasies. It would be easier if he could just look the other way, to let those with a death wish realize it, to simply quit interfering. But turning a blind eye to the depravity was akin to asking him to stop breathing. The guilt alone would kill him.
Besides, the primary reason Armand had even opened Luxure was to provide a safe blood source for those who needed it, and a safe outlet for those that desired to donate it. When he'd first been introduced to the Sang Community in LA, still reeling from the death of his parents and rebelling against years of being stifled in a Debutante society, he'd found a kinship with the LA Community he'd never experienced within traditional society. But barely a year and a half-dozen tattoos after moving to California, he began to understand how twisted the Community could be. When a close friend died after a night of heavy drug use and indiscriminant blood sharing at one of the frequent blood parties, he knew there had to be a better way.
Luxure was born shortly after that.
Instead of heading back to the bar, he considered retiring to the privacy of his living room and disappearing into a mind-numbing movie. But remembering what he'd left behind when he'd taken Eve to the hospital made him skip the narrow steps to his 2nd story apartment and slip into the back door of Luxure instead.
Julia.
What a breath of fresh air she'd been, so different than the women he encountered on a daily basis. He loved the Community, it was a part of him and he belonged to it, but there were a lot of fucked up people associated with it. It was nice to meet someone normal for a change.
But not too normal.
Scanning the dark room, he was disappointed when she wasn't there. He glanced at Slade, his bartender for over 10 years. "Did Julia leave?"
Slade gave him an icy look. "Not long after you."
"I see."
The big man set the glass he was rinsing out on the bar with a thud. "It's a bad idea," he growled.
"What is?"
"Little Miss Vanilla."
"Julia." Armand corrected.
"Whatever. It's a bad idea."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Give it up, man. I saw the way you were looking at her. I haven't seen you look at a woman that way in years."
"I suppose I don't see the problem."
"She's dangerous," Slade said.
"Hardly."
"You can't just bring outsiders in here. A lot of shit went down tonight. I'm sure some of it freaked Miss Vanilla out. You don't want her blabbing her mouth."
"This isn't a private club, it's a public bar," Armand reminded him. "There are no outsiders."
"Well you know my feelings on that." Slade had been arguing to make La Luxure a private club for years. Armand saw his logic, but he didn't want to ostracize newcomers to the Community, or Donors (as long as they weren't Victims) for that matter. It was important to keep out the undesirables, but with Slade and he tending the bar every night, it usually wasn't a problem.
"I think you're making too much of this," Armand told him. "With Victims like Eve passing out from blood loss, Julia should be the least of your concern."
Slade snorted and roughly started washing another glass. He barely made two swipes with the rag before tossing the glass back into the soapy water. "What the fuck do you see in her anyway?"
Armand sighed. It wasn't necessary to explain himself, but Slade was not only one of his closest friends, he was arguably the most tenacious. It wasn't like the big man was going to let it go anytime soon. "She's attractive?"
"Not half as pretty as most the sexpots that usually throw themselves at you."
Armand shrugged. "I don't know. There was something about her."
"Yeah, she actually shops at the mall."
"It was more than that, asshole." How did he explain to Slade how refreshing it was to talk to someone outside of their sordid little Community? "She was smart, funny..." He struggled to find the right words. "And she smelled different. Clean." Unfortunately, the ones he chose came out sounding like a bunch of bad clichés. Armand usually chose his words carefully. Even if there was less of a necessity to put on a show with Slade, he didn't like sounding like a badly scripted romantic comedy.
"So, what? You think you can turn her? Bring her over to the dark side?"
Now it was Armand's turn to be angry. "It's nothing like that. Look, it's not like I'm going to stalk her while she's in New Orleans. She's only here for a week, so there's a good chance I'll never see her again." Slade's grin at the statement only added to Armand's irritation. "But I would like to," he continued. "If she's comes back in here, I expect you to be nice."
"Whatever, boss."
Armand
glanced around the bar. At the moment it was practically empty, but there'd be another surge at midnight. "I'm going for a walk," he told the other man. "Call me if anything comes up."
"Sure."
He needed to clear his head and a walk along the river had a way of calming his thoughts.
Slade was right about Julia in one context. It had been a long time since Armand had been interested in a woman. Oh, he fucked enough of them, but that was the extent of his interaction with the fairer sex. And he certainly hadn't felt half the connection with any of them during those scattered encounters between the sheets that he had with Julia in the 15 minutes he'd talked to her.
He needed to see her again. It'd be easy enough to find her, but it would be better if she came to him.
* * *
Eve woke up just as Armand was pulling his Jag into the circle drive at Tulane's emergency room. Her lids were heavy, so she didn't bother to open them. The swaying of the car was like a gentle lullaby, and she wanted to protest when it suddenly jerked to a stop. It felt so good to rest.
The car door opened and strong arms lifted her out of the plush seat. The spicy scent that filled her nostrils told her the arms belonged to Armand. Sexy, unobtainable Armand. It was a shame he wouldn't help her, but he was obviously too good to drink off her. As far as she knew, few were good enough for him.
If only he would. She was so...full.
The whoosh of automatic doors hissed in her ears, followed by beeps, hums, coughing, and the low murmur of many people talking.
Armand set her down in a hard chair. "This woman needs blood." She heard him tell someone.
"What happened to her?"
"I'm just the courier," he said.
"Wait, sir. What's her name? What's your name?" Faintly, Eve heard the whoosh of the automatic doors again and she knew Armand had left. It was just as well; she was getting the hell out of here as soon as she could.
A cool hand patted her arm. "Miss? Miss, can you hear me?"
With great effort, Eve opened her eyes. As she'd suspected, that fucker had brought her to a hospital. "Yeah, I can hear you." She glanced at the plump woman starring down at her. "Help me up, please."