Kiss Me, I'm Undead

by Tasha L Driver

  “What’s wrong with him? How come I never saw you before now?”

  His long arms gripped the top edge of the doorway and he leaned in closer, hovering over me, and causing the knife to break his skin. A single drop of blood formed and fell, caressing his abs on the way down to his... Jesus! I blinked rapidly to snap myself out of it.

  His gaze intensified, the dark brown of his eyes brightening and becoming a color somewhere between hazel and “cat.”

  “I live in Germany. He fell ill. My parents couldn’t make it. Now...Are you going to put down the knife? If not, pretend you know what you’re doing with that thing and stab me already.”

  It was clear to me that he was being a dick, but it also felt as though he’d given me a silent command to choose one option or the other. I got the funny feeling he would have preferred the latter, which was ridiculous. My arm fell the slightest bit. As it did, he took that chance to seize me by it. He spun me until my back was to his chest, and he pinned me to him with unmovable arms. His thumb pressed into my right wrist until the pressure and pain made me drop the knife to the floor.

  The position we were in was oddly familiar. Like we’d done this dance before. His breath on my ear. The way his hold on me was part attack and part embrace. And when he next spoke, his voice—the accent and timbre—almost broke me.

  “You don’t value your life at all, do you, sweet girl? You walk the streets late at night with your silly shoes click-clacking on the pavement like Morse code beckoning all the monsters to come take a bite. You think an old man is being harmed, so you run upstairs in your underwear to save him.”

  Oh shit! I couldn’t believe I’d put on shoes but forgotten pants. Lace panties were what you’d want to be wearing while wrapped in the arms of a man, but those were not sweet nothings he whispered in my ear.

  “You’re a very honorable woman, but stupid. Take better care of yourself. Now, I’d like to finish my workout, darling. Run along now. Go back to your apartment. Go to sleep. Mind your own business in the future.” He released me only to pat me on my ass in dismissal.

  I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t bear to look at him. I felt a strong sense of duty mixed with embarrassment as I walked down the stairs dazed. I knew how long he watched my every step because I could feel his gaze burning into my back. The feeling disappeared the minute I reached my still open door, and I heard an annoyed grunt before he slammed his shut.

  As I locked my door behind me, a series of thoughts ran through my head: Did I really just let some guy scold me like a two-year-old? Is he who he says he is? And how can I get my knife back? It was my favorite.

  Still Hungry...

  I wish I could say that I went right back to sleep. I totally felt like I needed it. But, unfortunately, Hammerdick, or whatever his name was, spent a solid four hours working out upstairs. After hour number two of his circuit training—seriously, I even heard the rhythmic thumping of a jump rope on the floorboards—I gave up wishing I had earplugs and just listened.

  And imagined.

  I imagined delicious man-sweat dripping down that insane torso of his. I imagined that dark muss of hair clinging to his forehead. I imagined those sweats. Those glorious sweatpants that hung so low on his hips that his vee would be forever imprinted on my fucking corneas, and my only regret was that the sonofabitch never turned around and gave me a glimpse of that ass. By hour number three, I said, “Fuck it,” pulled out my Prissy Pink Pussy Penetrator™, and went to town, or downtown...whatever.

  Best orgasm of my life.

  Sometime around sunrise, I’d come, and he’d taken a break. Maybe he’d even gone to sleep. Funny how he and his grandfather kept similar hours. Of course, I guess it made perfect sense. If my neighbor’s entire family was in Germany, he probably chose to stay synced to that time zone. I had no clue how far ahead of Chicago Germany was, but that had to be it. And Freddie probably had an annoying case of jet lag. I would have felt bad about being so accusatory, but he acted like a dick, too.

  The important thing was that I was able to roll over and get a few hours of blessed sleep. When I woke mid-morning-ish, I realized it was Thursday. Fucking brilliant. Between getting out of work yesterday and Gina’s Thursday theme night, I’d scored myself two straight off days to recover from my stupidity-fueled accident. This was definitely the first time that I didn’t mind not being allowed to work on the busiest night of the week.

  Thursday night was the “Stepper’s Set”. When I asked about it, Gina went on a long ramble about how stepping in Chicago is some traditional couple’s dance, a mandatory rite of passage in the Black community, and not the high-energy stomps and claps that Black fraternities are famous for. According to her, every Black child learns to “step” from parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins at basement parties and cookouts. She made Frank give her a spin on the dance floor to demonstrate. The minute I told Gina the dance looked like Country-Western Swing, she scowled and banned my whiteness from the bar for every Thursday night until the end of time.

  I was going to enjoy my time off, and that enjoyment was going to start with a hot bath. After sauntering in the bathroom, closing the plug in the tub and starting the tap, I decided to take another peek at my neck bruise. Yep. Still there. Still ugly as fuck. Though, green and yellow had appeared and began to overtake the black and blue.

  I reached under the sink to grab the generic dish soap or, as I liked to call it, bubble bath. After pouring in enough to get a good foam going, I replaced the bottle and started brushing my teeth. Six seconds later, I spit out a mouthful of Crest and gawked at myself. Coming out of my left temple was the most impossible shit ever. Three. Fucking. Gray. Hairs. It couldn’t be happening. I was in my freaking twenties. I was not prepared to deal with this for at least fifteen more years. Whyyyyyy?

  After yanking out all three, I dropped down into the bathtub. It was not nearly as relaxing as I wanted it to be.

  After my bath, I was feeling hungry. This hunger was worse than before. That bastard called “Stomach” was making things pretty miserable for a piss-poor waitress. Even though I'd picked up oatmeal and ramen at the supermercado the day before, I had no desire for anything but meat, yet again. My possibly-premenstrual cravings were more expensive than any other could be, but I had yet to produce even a single spot. Maybe I have anemia instead. That would make more sense. I made a mental note to google that shit. Who knows? A symptom of anemia might be graying hair. If that were the case, I could stop worrying about the aging process.

  Luckily, I splurged on one extra steak. I'd fire that one up, consult Dr. Google, and start on a new erotic romance I've been dying to read. My better mind told me that, after last night, anything erotic was a bad idea, but I'd always been a glutton for punishment.

  I’d finished the last steak, and then plopped on my creaky old couch with a warm blanket to read for hours. I started with an erotic romance, but, all too quickly, my mind started straying to thoughts of the PPPP™ and wishing I was on my knees in front of Freddie calling him “master”. Whoa, where had that come from? Instead of torturing myself with unbidden thoughts, I switched to the suspense novel I’d been wanting to read for forever but had made the mistake of watching the movie first. I hated the actor portraying a main character, and the book stayed on my to-be-read list for over a year. The book ended up being much better and got my mind off all the unusualness invading my life so suddenly.

  By late afternoon, I was hungry again and, since I had no steaks left, I had to settle for the ramen. Just my luck, a stomach bug had decided to settle in on top of everything else because I was puking before I could even finish the container of salty noodles. I could have sworn that ramen was good for the flu, but not this time. An hour later, my stomach was rumbling again. That time, I tried oatmeal. No way that oatmeal would upset a stomach. Except it did. I upchucked that right into the toilet, too. I only knew one thing, and that was that I wasn’t suffering through the night with “Stomach” acting like a
toddler with a tiara.

  I mentally fought with myself about what I was going to do about food. I was throwing up like I had the stomach flu, but I had no fever. And I’d never been hungry with the flu before. In fact, food had always been the last thing on my mind. But I wanted something, and that something was yet another steak. That something was also something I couldn’t afford. It could have even given me food poisoning. Yes, that could be why I was yawning in technicolor. But, good lord, I still wanted that shit.

  Jillesa Is #ThatBitch

  The buzzer to my door momentarily distracted my bipolar digestive organ. I clumsily made my way from the bathroom to the front door, hit the buzzer to unlock the security door, undid the chain and deadbolt, and slowly opened the door, somehow expecting Freddie to be on the other side. Maybe he didn’t have his grandfather’s keys. But as the door was pushed the rest of the way open from the other side by a whirlwind of dark brown skin with a perfectly coiled ‘fro, I realized I had no such luck.

  Jillesa Jordan, my coworker who’d left me stranded after work the other night, stood there with her fists on her wide, shapely hips impossibly clad in vinyl leggings and looked me up and down. “Bitch, what the fuck happened to you the other night, why didn’t you come into work yesterday—I had to run that floor by myself—and why the hell do you look like utter shit?”

  I blinked. Several times. Where do I start? “Um, hello to you too, oh lovely and caring friend of mine.”

  Jill relaxed her stance. “Sorry. You really do look like shit. Let’s sit. I have a little bit of time before I have to be at work.”

  “And you stopped in to check on me?” I was never sure if she really cared. I wanted to consider her a friend, but we were more like frenemies. I was a narc-magnet and she was most definitely on the narcissist spectrum.

  After she sat on my couch, with some care and maneuvering, she grabbed my hand and pulled me down with her. “Of course, I did. It’s not like you to call off work. I knew it had to be bad. I tried to pry the deets out of Frank, but he just shrugged and said, ‘Heroin,’ which made no sense whatsoever.” Yep, that sounded like Frank alright. “To be honest, though, now that I’m looking at you, heroin might make sense.”

  “Not. Even. Trust me.” I practically growled at her. She should know by now, drugs weren’t my thing. She may not know why drugs weren’t my thing, but she should have known that they weren’t.

  “Okay, girl. I get it.” She smiled in a way that proved it was still on the table in her mind. “So, tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t really know.” That was the truth, but I could tell she wouldn’t accept that by the look on her face. “I woke up like this.”

  Jill slapped her hand across her thigh and fell backward cackling. It took three whole minutes for her to stop and catch her breath before she righted herself and could look me in the eye again. “Whatever, Beyoncé.” How can a person roll their eyes that hard? “Now, tell me what’s going on for real.”

  “That’s just it, Jill. I’m serious. I don’t remember walking home that night at all. I woke up with this huge bruise on my neck feeling like hell warmed over and not being able to keep down most food. I’m tired all the time, and I’m craving steak.”

  She cocked her head. “So...you’re on your period?”

  “No! That’s just it. It’s too early for that. Plus, it doesn’t explain the other weird stuff.”

  “There’s more weirdness than that? Seems like you hit the lotto on weirdness already.”

  I gave her my very best “duh” look, and she gave me a cocked eyebrow which said “you’re the one with issues” right back. That’s when I’d had enough. She wasn’t checking on me out of concern. She was looking for something to gossip about. And I was not going to give her any more “deets”. Not about my cravings. Not about Freddie. Not about anything she could spread around work to make me look like a nutjob or, god forbid, compromise my cover.

  I stared at her for a moment, looking for some glimmer of a true friend. When I didn’t see one, I stood up quickly and headed for the door. “Jill, I don’t want to talk about it, and there’s no reason for you to be late on my account.” She walked toward me as I held it open for her.

  “Alright then, call me if you need a ride tomorrow.” For a split second, I saw...something. “It’s not like you have anyone else around to give you one.” What I saw? It was a dash of pity swirled in a bowl of vexation. Nothing I needed or wanted in my life. She walked out and I shut the door behind her, neither of us bothering to say goodbye.

  Don't Trust a Dude that Runs Through the Ghetto at Night.

  I wanted to crawl back into my bed and sleep off that sickly feeling of loneliness. Too bad my asshole stomach had other ideas. Luckily, he’d waited until Jill left before giving me a growl so loud that the rumble reminded me of an L.A. earthquake—not that I wanted to be reminded of that place. Disgusted, annoyed and despondent, I made a final decision. I was going to dip into my money can and borrow some of the cash I’d been saving to get my car fixed. Not the best decision, but I was never known for those anyway.

  I threw on some skinny jeans and a black turtleneck to cover my bruise. I was in too much of a hurry to put on any makeup. In the kitchen, I grabbed twenty bucks out of the can and felt a twinge of shame, but a sudden abdominal cramp overruled the feeling and I grabbed my shopping bag as I headed out the door.

  After locking both locks from the outside, I turned too quickly and found myself yet again nose-to-pec with Hammerdick. He was hot—heat-hot and hot-hot—and sweaty, and he smelled oddly delicious.

  “Uh...sorry,” I stammered like an idiot. As I stepped back, I noticed he was shirtless again, panting a bit, and looked like he’d just taken a run. In this neighborhood? The sun had gone down, and I doubt he knew the right streets to stay on around here. I was about to warn him to be careful when I realized that he was an asshole who thought he was tough shit anyway. After the way he treated me the previous night, I should be wishing that he’d get hurt instead of worried about him. In fact, I steeled myself for another round with him. I assumed he was going to admonish me for not looking where I was going.

  But he didn’t. When I stepped back and prepared my resting bitch face to counteract whatever he was going to say, I saw him smiling instead.

  “Hey. Kayla, it’s my fault. I was going to end my run with a sprint up the stairs, and you came out unexpectedly. I’m very sorry. You’re not hurt, are you?”

  Talk about the unexpected. He was apologizing. And smiling. And that smile was megawatt-style, like on toothpaste commercials. And the way he said my name was like...Wait. What? “How do you know my name? It’s not like you gave me a chance to tell you it last night.”

  His smile got impossibly bigger. “You didn’t give me much chance to ask; you were too busy playing neighborhood watch.”

  “That didn’t answer my question.”

  “I asked my grandfather about you. He told me your name. He also told me you were a little spitfire, and I should watch out for you.”

  I huffed. “Spitfire? I am not a trouble maker.” What did the old man know anyway? I’d never had a conversation with him.

  “No, darling, you misunderstand. He said you have a tendency to get yourself in trouble, and I need to keep an eye on you...” He paused and eyed me alright. He eyed me up and down. “...for your safety. Have you eaten by the way? You look starved. You should know that eating is very important for you now.”

  “I’m fine, thank you very much.”

  He smiled again, completely unaffected by my attempt at cold indifference. This time it was more of a cocky grin. “Well, I’m right upstairs. I’ll be here for a while. If you need anything, absolutely anything, just knock.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t count on it.” I moved around him to exit the front entrance and heard him chuckle and start to jog up the stairs. Then it hit me. “Hey, Freddie!”

  “Yes?” He pivoted gracefully on the stairs and jogged halfway b
ack down with a look of expectance on his face that would have made me swoon if I were a lesser female.

  “My knife.”

  He looked confused. “Come again?”

  I’d love to. “I dropped my chef’s knife when you grabbed me last night. It’s kinda special, as in I spent way more than I should have on it because it’s an EverSharp. I need it back.”

  “Huh? I don’t remember seeing it, darling. But I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

  Yeah, I was never going to see that thing again.

  I'm No Gringa! Okay, I Am, but Still...

  Supermercado Mas Grande was the Mexican answer to the Walmart they wouldn’t build in my southside Chicago neighborhood. It was as big in size as the retail giant and boasted international foods you couldn’t find anywhere else. From Mandarin to Polish, Ethiopian to Indian. The entire store represented the diversity of the city, and people came from the suburbs to shop there. In addition to the groceries, there was a Mexican panaderìa with the freshest baked breads and cakes and a heladerìa that had ice cream in flavors like horchata and roasted corn, the latter of which sounds disgusting, but was actually a deliciously sweet, buttery version of vanilla.

  The clothing and jewelry carried in the store was all handmade by locals of every culture. I would spend an hour admiring the colorful Indian saris and wondering if I could pull one off without looking like I was appropriating. Probably not. There were also hand-painted knick-knacks, a dentist that accepted state insurance, and a taqueria where I would splurge on tamales. But that wasn’t where I was headed.

  All the way at the back of the supermercado was the biggest butcher shop and deli I’d ever seen. The counter itself was over one hundred feet and included every edible meat known to man. I stayed away from some of the more game-type meats like rabbit, venison, and mutton. Things that adorable shouldn’t be eaten. And I never went near the seafood area because there were too many frightening options like octopus, squid, and random sea creatures that still had their heads attached. No thank you. I do not like my food looking at me.