Bite Somebody Else

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  “We’re not even sleeping together, and you’re breaking up with me?”

  “I think it would be better if I wasn’t around you.”

  “Fine.” She stood and gestured wildly for their check. “Damn it, Nicky, you don’t make any goddamn sense!”

  Imogene left the restaurant without waiting for him to pay, but he caught up with her on the sidewalk a half block down. Rain fell in tiny drops around them and glowed in the streetlights. “Imogene—”

  “No!” She hit him in the chest with her tiny purse. “No! No! You threatened me last night. You ask me on a date tonight. Then, you go all smooth operator about how hot I am, followed by telling me you don’t want to be around me anymore.” She smacked him with her purse to punctuate every sentence. “I don’t do drama, Nicholas. I don’t do relationships. I don’t sit awake during the day, pining over what idiot men mean when they talk. So fine, get the fuck out of my house. Get the fuck out of my life.” She spun around and kept walking through the incoming storm. “Find your own way home!”

  Thanks to a sudden Florida deluge, the interior of her car was soaked when she got back to her house, as was Imogene. She cussed and spit and kicked a tire before hurling her gorgeous shoes into the bushes. She pushed wet hair, plastered to her forehead, behind her ears and went to unlock her side door… only to have it swing open.

  “What the literal fuck?” she said and stepped inside.

  The house was dark, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning. She sniffed but didn’t smell any human thieves—and what would they steal anyway, her art deco furniture? She slammed her purse down on the counter and stood in the silence. She listened to drops of water drip, drip from her elbows to the floor. She sniffed some more, and—what was that? Sweaty sock?

  She heard the squeak of a tennis shoe behind her. She spun, fangs out, and yeah, she smelled sweaty sock. It was one of the shady dudes she’d sold blood to the night before. Those two vamp boys hadn’t wanted a dealer; they’d been casing the joint. Now, this jerk with greasy hair and a fang-filled leer had her (yes, her) garden shears in his hand and planned to chop off her soaking wet head.

  Imogene bellowed a war cry and was about to do a flying leap at the guy’s throat when she felt two hands on her arms. His crony! She hissed and scraped his face with her nails.

  “Chop her head off!” the little twerp yelled.

  A long line of cool metal pressed into the side of her throat. Before she could kick anyone in the balls—and thankfully, before the garden shears went snip—a fourth member joined their party.

  “Get your hands off her.”

  She knew that voice, but how—

  Imogene watched as garden shears guy’s head twisted and popped off his body. A stream of blood arched like water from a lazy garden hose over his shoulder and onto her kitchen floor. She looked, but there was no one behind him. The greedy vampire was just really, really dead. She wondered, momentarily, if there was such a thing as spontaneous decapitation.

  Behind her, the crony shouted. She turned around just in time to see his head—and spine—disengage from the rest of him. She closed her eyes when a deluge of undead blood splashed over her already wet face and hair. The body slumped to the floor, and Nicholas stood there, face painted red.

  She gawked. “How did you get here?”

  “I ran.” He took a deep breath. “I’m faster than most vampires.” He looked down at the dead bodies at their feet. “Was that too much? Should I have just scared them?”

  “No.” She chuckled. “Oh, my God.” She wiped the robber’s blood from her lips.

  Nicholas put his hand on her arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Shit.” She stared at the corpses. Thunder shook the house.

  “I may have overreacted,” he whispered.

  “They were going to rob and murder me. If you want to tear their arms out of their dead sockets right now, I won’t stop you.” She touched his suit. “You’re soaked.” She sniffed. “And you don’t smell right.”

  Nicholas frowned. “These men reek of cheese.”

  “Sweaty socks.”

  “Precisely.”

  She reached up and wiped blood from his eyebrows before it dripped into his eyes.

  “Go shower,” he said. “I’ll clean this up.”

  “But—”

  “Just go, Imogene. I’ll take care of them.”

  She knew it was easy to get rid of vampire corpses—just lay ‘em on the beach and wait for sunrise. True, she didn’t particularly want to clean up body parts (she’d done enough of that in May), but she felt bad making Nicholas do it. She lingered halfway up the steps, but he waved her away in the dark.

  It took forever to get all the blood out of her hair, but once she’d finally managed to not smell like sweaty sock, she pulled on an oversized men’s white collared shirt and tall, purple socks before heading back downstairs.

  To her amazement, the kitchen was spotless and bright. There was zero evidence of vampire beheading, and the storm outside had quieted to a dull, rainy roar. Nicholas sat on her couch, showered clean in his cozy pajamas. He opened his eyes when she walked into the room as though he’d been dozing.

  “Shit, man, do old ass vampires have magic cleaning powers?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  Imogene bit the inside of her lip and slowly slid over to the couch in her socks. She straddled his lap as she had the evening before, and he leaned forward and pressed his face between her breasts. His arms wrapped around her waist, so Imogene leaned the side of her face on top of his head and hugged back.

  She sniffed. “You haven’t fed.”

  “Not hungry.” His voice was muffled against the front of her shirt.

  “But, you—”

  “I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

  “Pretend what?”

  His fingertips dug into her hips as he leaned forward and rolled, tossing Imogene onto her back on the couch with an audible “hunh.” She was prepared to be pissed, but then he laid down on top of her, pressed his hips against hers, and… oh, sweet Jesus!

  He attacked her lips with the fervor he seemingly reserved for tearing the heads off vampires. Imogene reciprocated in kind, shoving her tongue in his mouth and doing her best to not pull his hair out by the roots. Her loins were in desperate need of a fire truck or Nicholas’s fingers, which made her buck off the couch and shout, “God save the Queen!”

  He chuckled, but no, she was not okay with their lips being apart. She grabbed his face and kept kissing. He tasted as good as he smelled when he was fully fed: like a fresh herb garden sprinkled with sugar. She wrapped one leg around behind his ass and pulled him closer until he made a deep, delicious noise that made her follicles burn. She ceased the tonsil hockey long enough to drag his t-shirt up over his head so she could finally, finally claw at that stunning pale skin.

  She chirped when he tore her shirt open, buttons be damned. The fact that their pelvises were veritably glued together made it hard to get his pajama bottoms off, so she rolled them sideways—but may have underestimated her own strength because they flew off the couch and broke her coffee table.

  “I didn’t like it anyway,” she muttered, amid pieces of broken glass and wood.

  Wearing nothing but her purple socks, they made love all over her living room until the thunder didn’t shake the house—they did.

  Together, they rested, legs tangled together, twisted in a blanket. Imogene doubted she’d ever catch her breath. She’d spend the rest of her immortal life panting, and she didn’t give a single shit.

  “That was…” she panted.

  “Yes.”

  She had her hand buried in his auburn hair. “I don’t wanna be dramatic,” she huffed, “but I think that was the best fuck I’ve ever had.”

  “Agreed,” Nicholas said.

  She rolled over and perched on top of him, right below his ribs. “I will never get enough of your mouth.” She bent down and kissed him until he
smiled against her lips.

  “So long as we’re alone in this house, I forbid you to wear clothes.”

  She tilted her head. “Back at ya, then.” She folded her upper body so she could fit her head under his chin and rested across his chest.

  “Never figured you for clingy, Imogene.” He covered her bare back with his hands.

  “This isn’t clingy.” She scoffed. “This is sex coma.”

  He sat up slowly, holding her in place, and stood with her curled up in his arms. His strength didn’t surprise her anymore, not after watching him tear the heads off two vampires with his bare hands. She rested against him as he carried her upstairs and to her bedroom. He pulled back the covers with one hand, still holding her with the other, and set her down with her head on a pillow.

  “You can sleep here. If you want,” she said.

  Nicholas didn’t make a sound, so she opened her eyes.

  “Do you want me to sleep here?” he asked.

  “If you want,” she repeated, and they stared at each other.

  He moved first. He lifted the covers and slid underneath. He shifted closer so their noses were touching and put one hand on her waist.

  “Sleep?”

  She bit her lip and nodded. “Sleep.”

  Later, when her alarm went off at nine, she woke to find her nose pressed against Nicholas’s neck, her arms and legs wrapped around him as if he might disappear if she let go.

  Chapter Ten

  “Then he tore their heads off with his bare hands!” Imogene made a twisting gesture above her frozen drink at the Daiquiri Deck.

  Celia gawked, her green eyes the size of Lake Okeechobee. “You can do that?”

  “I can’t, but Nicholas can. Remember how strong Danny was? He wasn’t even half as old as Nicholas. Nicholas could probably throw a car.” She stirred her quickly thawing red beverage mix of frozen fruit and rum.

  Celia sipped pink lemonade. “Then what happened?”

  “He cleaned the bodies up. They turned to ash on the beach this morning. He’s talking to Dr. Savage about it now, and he’s gonna get me a security system.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Right?”

  Celia smirked. “How was the sex?”

  Imogene wrinkled her nose. “How do you know we had sex?”

  “Because you smell like basil. Did you even shower after?”

  “Yes. But then we had sex again right before I came here, so I didn’t have time.” She pursed her lips together in a duck face. “Wench.”

  “Slut.” Celia smiled. “So spill.”

  “A lady never tells.”

  “You’re not a lady.”

  Imogene slurped on her drink. “I know, but this feels… private.”

  “Oh, really?” Now, Celia grinned.

  “What?”

  “You like him.”

  “I like his dick.”

  “No, you like him, like him.”

  “Merk, shut your face.” She flipped her sunglasses down from her hair and onto the tip of her nose. On the street below, gray hairs in pastel clothing carried shopping bags and ice cream cones across a crowded St. Arthur’s crosswalk. “Did I tell you he introduced me to blood smoothies? He puts blood and ice cubes and a dollop of liquor in the blender—I prefer Goldschläger—and voila. It’s fucking delicious.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “You should see him in his pajamas. I know he’s, like, three-hundred-and-fifty years old, but when he’s in a t-shirt, he looks like some high school kid I’m defiling.” She chewed her lips and hoped she could defile him again soon. “When he laughs, he laughs, like with his whole body. It’s kind of annoying but in a really attractive way.”

  “Mm.”

  Imogene looked at her friend, who watched her with a sort of bemused glow.

  “What’s the matter with you? Baby stealing all your brain cells?”

  “You’re obsessing,” Celia said.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re obsessing over little things he does.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m just telling you about him.”

  Celia folded her hands on the top of her baby belly. “You told Ian you knew he was in love with me because he always talked about the cute things I did.” She raised her red eyebrows.

  Imogene flinched. “I’m not in love with Nicholas. We just slept together.”

  “You just told me how cute he looks in his pajamas.”

  “He’s not cute. He’s hot. We’re just fucking. And that’s it.” She looked away and down to the street where a herd of college-aged guys walked past. She thought about catcalling but didn’t.

  Then, Celia whistled, and they both broke down in giggles.

  Dr. Savage knew a local vampire-run security company, which Nicholas hired immediately following the blood bath (and ensuing sex session) of a few nights before. As hulking man beasts—wearing t-shirts that nostalgically said, “Take a bite outta crime”—worked on the house, Imogene and Nicholas sat curled up on the couch, bodies touching from shoulder to thigh.

  Imogene held her iPhone in-hand, and they each wore one earbud, listening.

  “Not the artist,” she said. “I want the song title.” She pushed Play.

  Nicholas focused for two seconds before blurting, “Easy. ‘Crimson and Clover.’ Covered by Joan Jett but originally performed by Tommy James and the Shondells.”

  She scrunched up her face. “Who?”

  “My turn.” He unplugged the headphones from her iPhone and into his own. “Group and song title, please.”

  She listened. “The Smiths. ‘How Soon is Now.’ Gimme a fucking challenge at least.” She nudged him in the side with her elbow.

  “You have the sharpest elbows. They’re like weapons.”

  Imogene scrolled through her music, trying to find a stumper. She skipped around until she found a playlist of Ian’s that he’d furtively added to her collection in an effort to “expand her musical horizons.” She smiled. “If you can name this group, I’ll kiss you.”

  “You won’t kiss me otherwise?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sure, that’ll stick.”

  She ignored him… even though he was right. Almost every second they were alone, they were glued together at the mouth. The only oxygen she’d had recently had been from his throat. She started the music and leaned her head against the couch.

  Together, they listened to the slow, creeping bass beat and undercurrent of strings. He sighed. “Oh… shit, I know this.” She watched him nibble his bottom lip with a fang he possibly didn’t even know was out. “Damn it,” he muttered.

  “Is it possible I know something you don’t?”

  “No. Wait.” He squished his eyes shut, and then let out a relieved breath of air. “Portishead.”

  “Fuck.” She smacked his thigh but welcomed his kiss. She thought it was amazing that someone who’d been dead for so long could feel so warm. She pushed at his shoulders. “One more! I will get you!” She looked back to her iPhone as he kissed the side of her neck. “Ah-ha!” Imogene picked a song, and as soon as it started playing, Nicholas winced.

  “Sweet Lord, what the hell is this?”

  She snorted. “You tell me.”

  “No, it’s horrible. God, no.” He pulled the earbud from his head.

  “Ha!” She pointed. “‘A Whole New World’ from Aladdin. Gotcha!”

  He leaned back against the couch. “Why would you want to listen to something so awful? Why?”

  “It’s a joke I play on Ian. If he hears that song, it stays in his head for days, and he wanders around singing what he thinks are the right words but aren’t because he’s never listened to the song enough to actually know the lyrics. He just walks around talking about ‘a brand new world,’ and, I’m sorry, but it’s hilarious.” She considered. “Actually, I’m not sorry. It’s just hilarious.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed the side of her head, which usually would have made her squirm but somehow felt
right when Nicholas did it. “You are so evil,” he said with a tone of devoted awe.

  “It’s a battle. He sings ‘Bicycle Race’ by Queen when he wants to annoy me.”

  Nicholas winced. “Not one of Freddie’s best moments.”

  A throat cleared behind them, and there stood one of the massive undead security guys hired to make Imogene’s house a fortress. He seemed to be the boss man, from what Imogene could tell, named Vlad—although she doubted that was his real name.

  Nicholas kissed her once more on the head and stood.

  “I think we’re all set,” Vlad said. “I need to walk you through the protocols.”

  “Mm’kay.” Imogene hopped up and over the back of the couch. She followed the big guy to her front door and noticed he smelled like ketchup. Lord knew why. Maybe, like Nicholas, he mixed additives to his blood. Maybe he missed French fries.

  Vlad pointed to a lit up panel on her wall. “Whenever you want to turn on the system, you enter a four-digit code of your choosing. If you’re staying in, you’re safe. If you’re leaving, you have thirty seconds to get out before the house goes into lock down. When you come back home, you put in the same code to shut the system down. So what do you want as your code?”

  She smirked and punched in 9-5-4-6. She glanced back at Nicholas behind her, and he shook his head, smiling. Of course he would recognize Freddie Mercury’s birthday.

  “Exterior security measures are based on vampire intruders,” Vlad continued. He stood straight and spoke in monotone, which made her suspect the guy had once served in the military—somewhere, some decade. “If anyone tries to jimmy the doors, they’ll get a powerful electric shock that will knock him or her unconscious. Same goes for the windows.” He pointed a big, hairy paw back to the panel on her wall. “Any questions?”

  “Yeah.” She turned to Nicholas. “Why do I need all this?”

  “Because I want you to be safe.”

  “I can kick some ass. Plus, do you not remember tearing two stinky dudes apart with your bare hands?”

  Nicholas gave a fleeting glance to Vlad before putting his hands on her shoulders. “I can’t be here all the time.”