Bite Somebody Else

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  Nicholas slowly took his hands away from Imogene. “Ralph, would you please give us a moment?”

  “Sure, doctor dude. Totally.”

  Once Ralph was safely back playing video games, Nicholas looked at Celia. “Babies don’t usually start kicking until at least sixteen weeks but probably, for you, since this is your first child, closer to twenty-five. That would be the equivalent of six months pregnant, but you’ve only been pregnant for a little over three. Therefore, your baby might be born within the next month and a half.”

  “Holy shit,” Ian said. He sat on the bed, and Celia, knowing the way to soothe him, played with his hair.

  “Agreed. It’s a good thing I’m nearby. We need to be ready for… well, anything.”

  Celia nodded in agreement.

  “How’s your appetite?”

  “Sort of ravenous,” she said.

  “No, shit.” Imogene snorted. “I’m out of A-positive all the fucking time because of you.”

  “Can you control the hunger?” Nicholas asked.

  “Yeah, and I mean, I have Ian.” She continued to rub his scalp.

  Nicholas studied Celia’s husband. “You’re not feeding on him too much, are you?”

  “No.” Celia shook her head. “Oh, he’s just stoned right now, and playing with his hair puts him into a kind of hypnotic state.”

  “It does,” Imogene agreed.

  “Well, stick to your usual diet. I don’t think you should increase your consumption with the baby’s growth.” He ran his hand over the back of his head even though not one auburn hair was out of place. “Look, I don’t really know how to say this, but I don’t want the baby growing stronger than you.”

  “You do think it’s going to go Alien on her ass.”

  “Imogene.” He nudged her in the hip with his elbow.

  “What?” Celia stopped playing with Ian’s hair.

  “It’s nothing,” Nicholas said. “I just don’t know what to expect with the birth, and we don’t want the child—”

  “Clawing out of your vagina.”

  Celia gasped, and Ian looked like he might hurl.

  Nicholas stood and dragged Imogene to the door. She almost fell over her own combat boots, and his grip on her upper arm hurt.

  “Ow,” she mewled.

  “What in God’s name are you trying to do?” he whispered.

  “You totally think it’s going to claw out of her vagina like a little gremlin.”

  “I. Don’t.” He over annunciated the T. “As a medical doctor, I simply err on the side of caution.”

  “Nicholas?” Celia’s voice sounded meek and far away.

  “Kindly go sit with the child in the living room.” He gave her a little shove and closed the bedroom door behind her.

  Ralph, again, stood up and beamed. He put his hands on his hips and looked like he was holding his breath, probably trying to make his pecs look bigger. “Video game?” he asked in a voice much deeper than his usual.

  “No.” She went to the kitchen for a bag of blood and sat on the counter, listening to the sound of zombies being shot.

  So maybe she was overreacting, maybe she wasn’t. They didn’t know what the hell was growing in Celia’s stomach—and at an alarming rate. Damn thing could tear its way out through her belly button. Even Nicholas couldn’t say that wasn’t a possibility. Still, she supposed, there was propriety, that word Lord Nicky liked to throw in her face.

  Ralph wandered into the kitchen and asked, “Are you drinking blood?”

  She lifted her sunglasses and said, “No.”

  “Okay.” He stutter-stepped away like her glamour trick had momentarily erased the brain cell labeled “Walk.” She glamoured the kid a lot—had to, with him hanging around Ian so much—but didn’t worry much about long-term effects since he was already an idiot.

  Imogene sighed. If she was going to be the creature’s godmother, she could be a little nicer about the whole thing. Nicholas would like that.

  Shit, since when do I care what Nicholas likes?

  She growled around a mouthful of B-negative.

  “Stupid magic-eyed, smell-good, suit-wearing gorgeous piece of British ass.”

  Imogene knew what she needed: she needed to get laid. Not Wharf. She needed fresh human blood and warm skin. She needed her blond beach boy, Paul—one of her usual blood donors—and she needed him now.

  Paul was partying at Necto in downtown Lazaret, a club where Imogene was famous for dance moves and kissing perfect strangers. She tore away from Admiral Key in her shiny car and practically jumped curbs in a rush to get away from all the damn domesticity. Her life wasn’t supposed to be about babies and complications. She was Florida’s hottest blood dealer, damn it, and fucked if she wasn’t going to enjoy every minute. She parked behind the bar and gave her hair a good two or three tousles before rounding the corner to the entrance. There was a small line outside, not that it mattered; Imogene never waited in line. The bouncer waved her in.

  The club was hopping, as per usual, since it was the only real club in Lazaret—at least the only cool club that played good music and kept ingredients for her rum punches always on hand. She gave a few scattered hugs as she wove through the crowd and even one quick smooch on the cheek to a boy she’d never really talked to but always liked ogling. Flashing lights lit the dance floor in shades of magenta and green. Sweaty skin shined between clouds of smoke from the machine nestled in the corner.

  She didn’t need to glamour the bartender to get his attention. Her low cut black tee did that. Plus, he knew her, called her “Dancing Queen.” He gave her a rum punch and a shot of whiskey—Ian’s influence. She did the shot and turned to face the crowd, knowing Paul would find her sooner or later.

  Nicholas wasn’t the only hot guy in the world. He wasn’t even the hottest guy in Florida. He was just an old, crotchety vampire who expounded on being polite and proper. If his calculations about Celia’s baby were right, he’d be gone soon enough anyway, back to London and out of her house—free to bug other people with his old English manners.

  “Pfft,” she said into her drink.

  When the deejay started playing Depeche Mode, she assumed he’d noticed her entrance, because he played eighties jams just for her. She finished her drink and secured her sunglasses in the front of her bra before strutting to the dance floor, where she started to move. Imogene closed her eyes and let the synth vibrate her spine. She moved her hips, then her rib cage in slow circles. She lifted her hands to the sky and spun. She dipped, she twisted; she flipped her hair in a purple halo. Soon, boys approached and tried to keep up, although that never lasted long. No one could keep up with Imogene—except Nicholas.

  Fuck Nicholas.

  She felt familiar, rhythmically challenged hips against her ass and turned around to find Paul. She met him at a party about a year before and had actually used him to teach Celia how to glamour a human and get a blood fix without ending up married. He was blond and tan and shiny. He smelled like sunscreen and had that nice, lean surfer body like Ian. Oh, and he was dumb, so totally easy to glamour, which she did every time she took a nibble.

  He leaned down and kissed her, his hand on her ass. She reciprocated with a tongue in his mouth. His body was so warm, which made her realize how long it’d been since she’d slept with a human.

  “About damn time,” she muttered.

  He smiled his big, white teeth and kissed her again.

  When the song ended, they tripped to the bar, lips locked. He ordered her usual and got himself a PBR. “Where have you been?” he shouted over the music.

  “I’ve been bored.” She ran her hand over his chest.

  Then, she heard a familiar, annoying high-pitched giggle and stood on tiptoe to see over Paul’s shoulder. A tall blonde girl stood there in a dress the size of a banana peel and just about the same color. She tossed her hair and giggled some more.

  Imogene looked into Paul’s eyes and said, “Go find a girl to dance with but don’t go
home with her. You’re coming home with me.”

  Dazed, he said, “Okay,” and drooled before walking away, glamoured to high heaven.

  Imogene tapped the blonde girl on the shoulder.

  Vixen tossed her hair again and looked behind her, probably expecting another suitor. When she recognized Imogene, Vixen’s light eyes widened. Her lips pulled back in a wince, and she didn’t even try to hide her fangs.

  Imogene whacked her upside the head. “What the fuck are you doing here, Tits McGee?”

  She grabbed Imogene’s shoulder. “Oh my God, you can’t tell on me!”

  Imogene cringed and pushed her hands away. “Where’d you get that dress? Babies ‘R’ Us?”

  Vixen stomped one high-heeled foot, which would explain why she looked about seven feet tall. The ex-stripper was already tall. Add five-inch stilettos and she was Amazonian. “It’s designer, bitch.”

  “I didn’t know we used adult words anymore. What would Dr. Savage say? Hmm.” Imogene crossed her arms and turned away.

  Vixen followed her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please.”

  “Tell me you’re at least not killing people again. Remember what happens to vampires who kill people?”

  “Yeah, I remember. That wasn’t me. That was Danny. I didn’t know what I was doin.’ I was out of control. You know that. You know how it is.”

  “No, I don’t know how it is. I’ve never killed anyone. Except midget blood dealer Steve, but we all know he totally had that coming.” She still had the garden shears that’d decapitated the little prick. They leaned next to her pilfered Virgin Mary statue as a sort of altar.

  “I’m not killing people.” Vixen bit her plump, over-painted pink bottom lip. “It’s just… I get so bored. And the clothes.” She stuck her tongue out. “You’ve seen the way she dresses me.”

  “Like a blind Amish person.”

  Vixen reached out to touch Imogene again, but Imogene glared before that could happen. “Let me buy you a drink.”

  “My drinks are free here.”

  “Well, let me get you a drink. I’m really glad to see you, for real. Dr. Savage is okay, and Celia’s nice, but I feel like you and me, we’re kinda similar.”

  Imogene chortled.

  “No, I’m serious. We’re both wild. We like to dress up. We love men. Lots of men. Right?”

  “Yes, those would literally be the only things we have in common.”

  “What about that Nicholas, huh? Bet he’d be a lot of fun in the sack.”

  “Doubtful. He’d be too busy saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’”

  Vixen smiled.

  “I didn’t even think you liked me,” Imogene said, reaching for a fresh rum punch.

  Vixen gave the top of her yellow dress a little tug since it looked like her tits were about to fall out and nail Imogene in the face. “You’re kind of scary, so when we first met, I overcompensated. Plus, I was drinking too much blood, so I was madder than a wet hen.”

  The completely out of place Southern colloquialism reminded Imogene of something. “Danny picked you up in New Orleans, right? Why don’t you just blow this pop stand and go back?”

  “No, I like it here.” The bartender handed Vixen a tall flute of champagne. “And Dr. Savage is all right. She means well. She just doesn’t get it.”

  “Get what?”

  Vixen shrugged her little shoulders. “That people don’t change. Not really. I’m not murdering people, right? But I’m still me.”

  Imogene nodded. “You’re still a slut.”

  “Right.” She seemed relieved to be understood. “She has me reading all these self help books about finding the meaning of life. All I wanna do is fuck pretty boys and… Well, that’s really all I wanna do, ya know?”

  Imogene wrinkled her nose. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “You can’t tell me Dr. Savage doesn’t love killing. I know she was bad when she first got turned, just like me, but she’s still a vampire hunter now, and I think she likes it.”

  “She does seem pretty into it.”

  “Whenever her and Dean get back from a hunters convention, they have sex for, like, three days straight. I swear, killing bad vampires turns her on—just like killing humans used to, back in the day. She might go on and on about aromatherapy and Bubba and shit—”

  “It’s Buddha actually.”

  “But deep down she’s still just that bloodthirsty newbie vamp.” Vixen downed her glass of champagne. “It’s like we’re born a certain way, and we shouldn’t have to change just because someone wants us to.”

  “Wow,” Imogene said.

  “What?”

  “You’re not quite as dumb as I thought you were.”

  Vixen’s eyes glowed bright. “Aw, thanks.” She nodded toward the dance floor. “Who’s that blond beefcake anyway?”

  Imogene glanced at Paul who moved like one of the dancers in Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video. “Oh, one of my usuals. I’ve been drinking from him for about a year.”

  “See, I need one of those, but it’s so tough around Dr. Savage.”

  “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I guess you could come out with me. Sometime.” She rolled her eyes.

  “What?” Vixen grabbed her upper arm in a claw-like vice. “You mean it?”

  Imogene shook her arm loose. “Yeah, just tell her I’m showing you eighties movies or something. She can’t be anti-John Hughes. Or maybe she is. I don’t know.”

  “Oh, my God, that would be so cool!”

  “Gimme your number.” Imogene pulled her phone from her back pocket and tapped in the digits Vixen spit out. “Great. But you gotta chill the enthusiasm. Gives me a headache.” She pulled her sunglasses from her bra and secured them on her face. “Right now, I need sex and a hot meal.” She pointed up at Vixen. “Don’t kill anyone.”

  The big-booby blonde held up her hand like making a vow. “Promise.”

  Imogene dragged Paul off the dance floor and told him to “wake up.” No longer glamoured, he wrapped his arm around her waist, and they sauntered to the exit. They made it back to her condo on Barkentine Beach in record time, and all the while, Paul kept up with her breakneck speed in his own car.

  The house was quiet when they arrived, but she knew Nicholas was in his room. She could smell him. She decided to have the loudest, wildest sex possible without actually breaking Paul into little pieces. They successfully tore clothes in an effort to get naked and did, indeed, have sex that rammed her headboard into the wall and knocked the lamp off her bedside table with a satisfying crack.

  After round two, Imogene lay panting on her back, filled with blood and satisfaction. Paul sighed and ran his hand down the side of her ribs. “You are the best lay.”

  She had on nothing but sunglasses. “Mmm.”

  She rolled away from him, a physical manifestation of a director shouting, “Scene!” In the morning, Paul would probably wonder how he’d managed to cut himself—again—this time on the outside of his right hip. He stood up, naked, his pert little bottom snow white compared to the rest of his tan body. He reached for his boxers.

  “Have you ever thought about us dating?”

  “No,” she said and caught a strong and sudden whiff of Nicholas outside her door.

  He knocked.

  Imogene dragged a blanket up over herself and said, “What?”

  “I’m trying to work,” he said through the door.

  “Who’s that?” Paul asked.

  “Then work,” Imogene shouted.

  “I would if not for the strange animal noises resonating from your bedroom.”

  She blew a raspberry.

  “No, really, who is that?” Paul said, this time moving for the door. She didn’t stop him from opening it, his bare ass staring back at her while Nicholas got a full view of Captain Winkie.

  Nicholas shielded his face with one hand. “Mary, mother of…”

  “She’s downstairs.” Imogene chuckled.

 
; Nicholas winced. “Are you finished?”

  “Yeah, Paul’s just leaving.”

  “I’m Paul,” he said and reached out his hand.

  Nicholas took a step back. “I am not shaking your hand.” He turned and disappeared down the hall.

  “Imogene, who’s that guy?”

  “No one,” she said and glamoured Paul to forget about the whole thing. It was easier than actually having a conversation.

  Chapter Eight

  She woke to the sound of… What the fuck? Toto? Yes, Toto, pumped through her house-wide surround sound speakers, screwed into the ceiling right above her bed. While Toto continued singing about rain in Africa, Imogene rolled around in her cocoon-like sheets until she fell out of bed with a thud. She grabbed the nearest piece of clothing, an oversized Rainbow Brite t-shirt Celia bought her as a joke, and stumbled from the room, hands to her head. She rushed down the steps to her living room, where the stereo was located, and turned the music off with a victorious “ya-ha!”

  Then, the blender screamed at her.

  Nicholas stood at her kitchen island in a gray t-shirt, pajama pants, and robe, his auburn hair in points. He smiled and shouted, “Morning!”

  She dropped her hands from her ears. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

  He turned the blender up higher and watched as what was clearly blood spun around in viscous waves. Imogene stomped forward and unplugged the blender.

  “Hey,” he said. “I was making smoothies.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Maybe 7:30, eight.”

  “I don’t get up until nine.”

  He pulled the cord from her hand and plugged the blender back in. “And I don’t like listening to you having sex all night with strange men.” He pushed the start button, which made Imogene’s eyes shake in her head.

  “So this is revenge?” she shouted.

  “Revenge, best served cold!”

  “What are you, five?”

  “Nineteen. Remember?” He focused on his smoothie. “That ought to do it.” He drank right from the pitcher.

  “What the hell are you drinking?”