by J. P. Uvalle
Coming to the realization we are no longer in the alley, she rips her lips from mine and nearly screams. “Oh my God, the view is spectacular.” She walks to the edge, taking in the skyline clashing with white and neon lights. Standing back, I enjoy the fact that I had made someone this happy. I feel joy—another emotion I rarely felt in the past. I smile, masking the destruction happening inside me. My veins continue to burn like hell. I feel the heat radiating up to my eyeballs. My vision is becoming hazy—all the lights are starting to blend together like paint on a canvas, around this luscious body that stands before me.
If I don't feed soon, I will turn into a pile of dust.
Turning back to me, she twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “I believe you caught me.” Her smile is devious. Sensual. And lust thrills in me, watching her tug at her bottom lip with her teeth. Strutting closer, I imagine her just in those red heels.
“Yes, now you’re completely at my mercy, to do with you what I will.” Without warning, I snatch her by the wrist and whip her around before she has a second to blink. And once again she's trembling. Hot and wet, the smell of her sweet arousal causes my fangs to erupt and my cock to harden.
“Yes, I've been a bad, bad girl, but please go easy on me, Lord Vladimir,” she pleads.
In response, I shove my nose into her hair to sniff the fruity fragrance lingering there. I crank her head to the side, exposing her neck to me. My eyes zoom to the vein pulsing under her tan skin, and annoyingly a sense of dread glooms over me like a sky full of nimbostratus clouds.
What if I can't stop? What if I kill her?
Now, I'm the one, who's nervous; however, my hunger wins the fight. Without further thought, my fangs plunge into the taunt epidermis of her skin as she whimpers feeling the sting from my kiss. Her knees buckle as I embrace her, steadying her while I suck the bitter taste of O negative blood from her vein. My least favorite, but beggars can't be choosers.
“Lord Vladimir!”
Hastily, I unlatch my jaw from her neck. I spin us both around to find Delia stomping her boot in anger with her nose scrunched and fists in a ball. “Still very much the rebel, I see.” She stomps over in her black boots, smacking them against the roof.
“What?” Looking down to Bernadette, I meet my horror. She's unconscious. “Fuck.”
What have I done?
Delia slaps me. “You filthy, blood-lusting whore! You’re lucky I found you when I did, or she'd be dead,” she growls. The sting from her slap seeps deep under my skin as I continue to blink at her. I'm starting to understand why the elders appointed her to me; the chick has balls. No one in their right mind would dare slap a heartless vampire like me or disobey a direct order. The elders must have known she'd be tough enough to keep me in line.
“What happened with blue eyes? Did you kill her?” she asks, inches away from my face. Her fiery eyes burn into mine.
Thinking of what to say, I swing Bernadette over my shoulder and get distracted when I see her apple-bottom ass so close to my face.
She snaps her fingers. “Focus, you perv.”
“No, I didn't kill her. I didn't even feed on her.”
My answer didn't seem to surprise her, as she knowingly smirked at me. “Oh, is the blood whore in love?” she teased, laughing.
I snort. “If you had bothered to brush up on your history, like your friend here...” I smack Bernadette’s ass for effect. “…You'd know, I don't do that lovey-dovey shit.”
“Uh huh, Mr. Badass Vladimir. Let's get her home and get back to the bar, before the brood gets suspicious.” She pivots and motions with her finger for me to follow.
“Don't bark orders at me. You work for me, remember that,” I growl.
“Exactly, everyone else was too scared to accept the position,” she giggles.
Walking up next to her, I playfully snap my teeth at her and then laugh.
Chapter Two
Trinity James
“WAS THE BLUR that just flew out of my window a vampire?” I question my thoughts as I come to a sitting position while rubbing my eyes. I blow out a breath as I throw my legs over the side of the bed, and stumble over to the window to look out. Even late at night, the city is in fast motion—bright lights flashing in every direction among the lively streets. Neither the fabulous scene nor cool night air tickling my skin simmers down the anger inside me. I resent the fact that vampires have free reign over this city at night—coming and going as they damn well please. When ten years ago, before the War of the Worlds (sadly, a war my father lost his life fighting in), a vampire had to be invited in. You would think by now they would have learned the art of knocking.
Nope.
Even if they had, they would always be savages, heartless beasts. Blood-sucking scum in my eyes.
I hate vampires!
All except for one...my best friend, Delia. I frown, slamming the window shut.
I never see her anymore!
Thanks to her newly acquired vampire transformation. Months ago, our aspirations had finally gotten in the way of our friendship and sent us in polar opposite directions. I'm a Columbia University film student aspiring to be a talent agent while Delia on the other hand, has a more eccentric career choice in mind.
Growing up, she never wanted to be a famous movie star or doctor like most girls. She wanted to be a vampire, Lady of the Brood to be exact. And in a way, she'd obtained her dream job. Word on the street is she was chosen by the elders’ council or some shit, to be a subservient (a fancy word meaning slave) for some historical hotshot vampire named Lord Vladimir.
Oh, please. What kind of name is Vladimir anyway?
After my mental rant about the vampire species I loathe, I decide to get my trusty little briefcase in order for my first day of internship tomorrow at Belladonna Talent Agency, in midtown: one of the top agencies in the modeling and acting biz. With one more academic year after this summer, I figured there was no time like the present to squeeze in some hands-on-experience. Elated, I race over to the navy blue business dress I had professionally pressed earlier today, seeking to make the best impression in every way possible. Running my hands over the smooth fabric, I appreciate the smooth texture between my fingers.
The door swings open and in strolls my bubbly sunshine of a roommate and, biggest competitor, Harper.
All's fair in the world of actors, models, and flashy lights.
“Trinity, you're awake! Thank goodness, I have so much to tell you,” she screeches from the top of her lungs.
It’s not normal for someone to be this fucking happy all the damn time!
Where do you keep your stash of happy pills so I can flush them down the toilet!
I swear my ears are bleeding from the acute sound of her voice.
I fake a smile. “Hey, Harper. How was your anniversary date with Leo?”
Harper and Leo said in the same sentence sounds like a title to a cheesy romance novel that I want to chuck out of the window in rage. It makes me sick how in love they still are—being high school sweethearts and all.
To be honest, I'm just bitter. I secretly wish I had what they have...real love. I thought I’d found real love once, until I found Fabine, the love of my life—fucking that whore, Bernadette in his dorm room when he was supposed to be in economics class. Walking in on her riding him like a saddle, four months ago, completely shattered my heart into the tiniest fucking pieces imaginable. To make matters worse, they didn't bother to stop when they acknowledged I was standing in the room with my mouth hung open, gawking at them in horror. Her words still haunt me to this day.
“Do you mind? I'm giving him his birthday present.”
Just like Bernadette had stolen my man and my heart, she'd also stolen my idea. I had shown up to his dorm unexpectedly, planning to surprise him by turning myself into a naked ice cream sundae. But unfortunately, he preferred her flavor instead...banana slut.
My eyes bulge
when Harper holds up her hand, inches away from my face, with her fingers splayed out. “He proposed.” She jumps up and down.
I drop my jaw, blinded by the shimmering princess-cut diamond practically swallowing her finger. The platinum double-band design fits her perfectly. I was jealous. Didn't I deserve to be loved this way? Didn't I deserve some sort of a fairy tale romance?
I swallow my bitterness. “Congratulations.” I hug her. “I'm so happy for you two. You guys were made for each other,” I murmur, letting go to look at her with a weak smile.
She smiles back. “Thank you,” her voice hovers above a whisper alluding to the pain swelling in the back of my eyes. Her joy soon fades along with the brightness in her emerald globes delicately hiding behind her blonde bangs. She looks to the ground. “I know this must be tough news to hear, especially after what you'd been through with Fabine. We always thought you two would be the ones...” She pauses to play with her engagement ring. “…I'm sorry they did that to you.”
Yes, they. Bernadette and I were friends once, we all were: Harper, Delia, Bernadette, and me. Not anymore, she's dead to us now. We hate her with the greatest passion a person can possibly feel.
I pretend not to care and shrug. “Ancient history.” I walk over to our purple love seat to sit, as she follows me and lazily plops down next to me. I turn to her with my arm on the back of the couch and tuck my feet underneath me. “So, how did he pop the question?”
She clears her throat. “Well, after eating dinner at Samba, we took a carriage ride through Central Park when the carriage suddenly stopped...”
I shift slightly in anticipation, waiting for her to drop the bomb.
“…Members of a gospel choir appeared and sang a song he wrote just for me. He joined in, of course, and at the end of the song he got down on one knee...” She pulls her hand to her chest as if she is reliving the magical moment all over again. She squeals, “Oh, Trinity, it was so romantic!”
I wipe the tear from my eye. “That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard anyone do, really. You’re so lucky, Harper.”
She starts to tear up too, and I lean in to hug her once more.
“And, don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I'm okay with being single for a while.”
“Okay,” she whispers in my ear, squeezing me tighter. “Thanks for being such a good sport, even though I know you’re hurting deep down.” She lets go to look at me with her eyes coated in a swirl of pity.
“Ah, what are best friends for,” I say, waving my hand in the air. I stand up and move toward the kitchen to break out the bottle of champagne we've been saving for an occasion like this. I search through the cabinets and find two wine glasses, pop the cork, and pour. Picking them up, I make my way back to the couch and hand her the glass. She graciously accepts with a nod and a smirk. I lower my rear end onto the coffee table in front of her.
She leans forward to clink her glass against mine. “To new beginnings and hot, single sex.” She giggles, making me almost spit the champagne out of my mouth.
“What?” Sex is the last thing on my mind. Fabine and Bernadette had ruined the idea of sex forever.
“Come on, Trinity, you know you’re in need of a good fuck.”
“Harper!” I say, with my eyes big, stunned by her choice of language. Harper rarely uses profanities.
I point my finger. “I believe you need to rethink this whole marriage proposal to Leo. He's got you cussing like a sailor.”
She's always been our miss goody-two-shoes. The one who got good grades and never stayed out past curfew. The one who didn't drink until she turned 21, and drove the speed limit religiously. Our road trip to California last year took twice as long because Delia and I made the mistake of letting Harper drive the entire way.
Never again!
Hopefully she doesn't plan on getting married in a church, otherwise, Delia won't be able to attend.
I miss her.
She rolls her eyes, laughing. “The f-word never killed nobody,” she says innocently, taking a sip.
Not amused, I change the subject. “So, when and where do you plan on getting married?” I swallow the rest of the champagne down in one large gulp.
“A church,” she says with a serious face.
“Seriously, Harper?” I frown.
“Fuck no,” she says, pushing a hand into my shoulder while laughing.
“Ha, you got jokes.” I stand up to playfully snatch the empty glass from her hand to refill it.
Giggling, she removes her red-bottom heels, stands up, and finds a seat at our small round dining table. “We were thinking of the Central Park Boathouse in June, in the evening, of course, so our vamp vixen can come. Maybe, she'll bring her handsome Lord, named Vladimir as her guest. I'm dying to meet him.” She's behaving like a star-struck groupie, and he's not even in the room.
I wonder if that blur was him.
I snort and roll my eyes. “I don't understand what's so fucking special about this Lord Vladimir,” I mock his name. “He's just a vampire.”
She shoots up from her seat with lust exuberant in her eyes and leans her bare back against the counter, arms crossed. “No, he is the vampire. Didn't you take vampire history your sophomore year of college? He's a legend.” She furrows her eyebrows, studying me as if I just turned into a fucking alien right before her very eyes.
Only because I couldn't dodge the class any longer.
It’s one of the so-called 'rules' hammered into our human brains by the government.
Such bullshit!
“Yes, a class I almost failed because I was bored out of my vampire-ever-hating-mind.”
She snickers softly, lifts her glass to her mouth and consumes the bubbly liquid in one gulp. Setting the glass down, she turns to me with a knowing smirk I find odd.
“Vampires aren't so bad.” She pats me on the shoulder. “We should get some sleep—we have a big day tomorrow.” She smiles and waltzes over to her bed, humming a harmonious tune. Her humming is the reason she was given the nickname Harper. No one calls her Abigail these days, except for me at times—when I'm really pissed at her.
AT SEVEN A.M., our alarm clock sounds, jolting both of us from a dead sleep. Reaching over, I hit the red button and shuffle my way out of the covers. Sitting up at the edge of our beds, we smirk at each other, each sizing up our competition across the room. Seeing her loose, curly hairstyle from last night still intact, I make a mad dash to the bathroom before she can, and lock the door.
On the other side, I hear her heavy footsteps approach, and the knob turns slightly. “Trinity, unlock the fucking door.” She groans loudly, pounding her fists against the wood. I let out a devious laugh. “This isn't funny, open the damn door.”
I allow a few more seconds of torture to pass, and then slowly but surely, I open the door, still laughing.
“You bitch,” she says, shoving me aside to open the medicine cabinet. She takes out her toothpaste, toothbrush and goes about brushing her teeth, glaring at me.
“Fuck. Damn. Bitch. What other words is that man teaching you?” I laugh while turning the knob to start the shower. I let the warm water run over my hand before closing the shower curtain to trap the build-up of steam.
She spits the blue foam of toothpaste into the sink. “I'll gladly share them with you if you choose to pull another stunt like that in the future.”
Getting an idea in my head, I reach behind the shower curtain and pretend to spray her with the showerhead.
“You wouldn't.” Squinting, she holds her hand up to shield her face. Hearing the sound of the shower head detach, she darts out of the bathroom, covering her long hair while calling me every curse word in the book. Proud of myself for tricking her, I lock her out of the bathroom once again, snickering to myself.
Got ya, sucka!
PROMPTLY AT NINE a.m., we leave the comfort of our dorm room at University Hall on the NYU campus—housing off
ered by our internship program for the next eight weeks. I was reluctant to leave my digs at Columbia at first, until the opportunity to share a dorm room with Harper came up. The program even provides transport to and from the agency, which is a godsend in the city. You rarely find fashionistas like us, not wearing heels. Keep your head, heels, and standards high, is the quote we live by.
On Third Avenue, we step out of the shuttle and strut over to stand in the middle of the busy sidewalk, hand in hand with our briefcases in the other. Together, our wide eyes scale up the thirty-four rows of windows belonging to the prestige lipstick-shaped building made of granite and steel. Unable to contain the excitement overflowing inside of our bodies—draped in sophistication—we do a little happy dance: similar to a secret handshake, squealing like school girls.
She turns to me, beaming the brightest smile. I can't help but admire the way her gorgeous strawberry-blonde hair is pulled up into a beautifully hand-sculpted fishtail bun, revealing her flawless, sun-kissed skin and bright eyes. She looks classic: a black and apricot short-sleeve pencil dress with a square-collared neckline and Donna Karan black pumps. I find myself feeling grateful for being able to share this experience with someone I really care about. Someone, I consider to be like a sister to me.
With all feelings put aside, I mentally gear myself into war mode. “May the best intern win!” I let go of her hand to shoot her a challenging glance. An entry-level job offer as an assistant is waiting at the end of the finish line, and little does she know, the job has my name all over it.
“Good luck to you, Trinity. You’re gonna need it,” she teases.
We continue to taunt each other playfully as we walk into the building.
Inside the elegant and wide-open lobby, we meet up with a small group of eager and well-fashioned interns by the oval help desk. We patiently wait, part of the crowd, dabbling in small talk. Straight away, I notice a lady—who could pass as Cruella Deville’s younger sister—step off the elevator with a clipboard in hand and heads in our direction.