Old Lovers, New Money

by Gabrielle Prevot

  Old Lovers, New Money

  By Gabrielle Prevot

  Copyright 2012 – Gabrielle Prevot

  AMAZON EDITION

  Published by: Gabrielle A. Prevot

  Copyright © 2012 by Gabrielle A. Prevot

  **Warning**

  All rights reserved under the international and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this work by be reproduced or transmitted in any form or any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organization, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  Image credit:123rf.com

  Old Lovers, New Money

  I got to the hotel, grabbed a shower, and tossed on an old rock band t-shirt. I was hungry, an eight hour flight tends to do that to a person, and I picked up the telephone and ordered room service even though I knew I wouldn’t eat it. It took almost an hour before there was a knock at the door. I answered it wearing nothing but a t-shirt that barely covered my ass. The bellboy’s eyes examined every inch of me while he rattled off the script that his job required. “Thank you ma’am, I believe you ordered a bottle of house wine, the crab cakes, and a house salad?”

  “Yes,” I said, waving him into the room, “you can just put it over there.”

  He moved past me doing his best to watch where he was going and check out my legs at the same time. I thought it was adorable and made sure to brush up against him as he passed, letting my nipple brush the side of his arm.

  His thoughts immediately went where you would expect them to go. I could hear them.

  Was that her nipple? Oh my God, I think that was her nipple. Fuck, she’s hot. Just push the cart, idiot, it was probably an accident. Fuck, she looks like a porn star. Where did she say to put this thing? Over here?

  He stopped the cart at the foot of the bed and turned on his heel. His eyes started at my feet and worked their way up my body quickly, doing his very best not to be too obvious but failing miserably.

  She’s about my age, he thought. God, I want to fuck her. He shifted on his heels and our eyes met.

  I smiled.

  “Is there anything else I can get for you, ma’am?” He asked.

  “Actually,” I said, grinning.

  ***

  When you are one hundred and seventy-three years old but you look twenty three or twenty four, you have a certain advantage over people. A stranger can only treat you the way they perceive you. It’s really not their fault. And until I choose to give myself away, it is impossible to tell who or what I am. To any human, I am a twenty three year old woman, a hundred and ten pounds, dark red hair, a nicely fit body, and a friendly face. To them, I may be in college or a waitress, I might be a bank teller, a dancer, single, or a host of other things – but they never guess what I truly am. It would be simple to change this. I could be threatening. I could be the monster that the books, the fairy tales, describe. But I choose not to; if anything, people often think they can take advantage of my ignorance, immaturity, and size, which is the way I usually prefer it.

  Mark had no intent to take advantage of me, but he did want me. I stood quietly in front of him and examined him. He was a swimmer. I knew, because I could smell the chlorine in his skin and his uniform jacket betrayed his physique. His shoulders were broad, his torso a perfect, lean V of toned muscles underneath the fabric; he was built to run smooth through the water. He kept his hair short; probably a requirement of his position, and his face was clean shaven. He had big, kind eyes, something I have always appreciated. They were on the edge of brown and almost green. Had I been younger, his eyes alone would have made me weak.

  God, I want you, I heard him think while he stared at me, waiting in the silence between us, trying not to look away from my eyes. I just want to take you apart.

  I could smell the sweat on his palms. I could hear his heart beating faster; see the little pulse of pressure in the veins along his neck and temple. I let the moment linger feeling the excitement of my own hunger, not the same kind of desire, but desire nonetheless.

  “Anything,” he said, looking down at his shoes, embarrassed. “Anything, just ask.”

  I can’t believe this. Fuck, think of something else. I hope she can’t see it! He shifted his hips and wiggled his waist a little.

  I looked down at the front of his pants and saw the slightest bulge in the fabric. He was getting hard just looking at me. I thought of the vein that runs along the top of a penis; the way it grows like a rope along the skin as it becomes erect, thumping with blood. I began to ache with hunger.

  “Actually,” I crossed my legs in front of me, arched my back a little pushing my tits against the thin t-shirt fabric, and put on a devilish smile. “I was wondering when you get off.”

  His eyebrows went up and his eyes grew wide. Oh my god, she wants to hook up.

  I did my best not to giggle at his thought. Hook up? What an odd expression.

  “I work the late shift tonight. I don’t get off until two.” The disappointment was obvious in his voice. It’s too fucking late. She’ll be asleep by then. Fuck, why couldn’t this have happened yesterday when I only worked until eight? What about tomorrow? Will she still be here? I could just do it, fuck this job and have one night of bliss with her.

  I stopped listening to his thoughts and started walking toward him. His heart rate started to speed up; I could hear it thumping inside his chest. I was tingling now, it was so close, and I wanted it so bad. I stopped myself close enough to feel the heat of his body. “Be here at two,” I whispered in his ear while I placed my hand on the bulge in the front of his pants and lightly squeezed. “Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “Yes. I’ll come straight here.”

  I moved aside and he scurried out of the room adjusting his pants as he went.

  The door closed behind him and I locked it. I was still hungry. In the mini fridge, I had set two bags of O positive that I had picked up before I left. I slipped my fangs into them and drained both in under a minute. It wasn’t perfect but it knocked the edge off. I put the empty bags into a brown paper bag and crumpled it into the trash can.

  The little bedside clock read eight. I had two hours to get to the address on my cell phone. I walked to the window and looked out over the city. It was bigger than I remembered.

  Stuck almost in the center of the country, Kansas City had grown over the past ten years. There were a few more sky scrapers, a couple more bridges, and according to the magazine on the dresser, a new entertainment district that boasted a number of chain restaurants and bars designed for the early twenties crowd.

  I thought about rushing down there and checking it out; I could see the lights from my window and I knew the sidewalks would be crammed with people, but decided against it. Instead I walked to the bed and pulled the long, thin case out from under the dust ruffle and opened it.

  Inside were the tools of my trade, my gear and uniform. I pulled the t-shirt over my head and tossed it on the floor. The case was like an old friend and I ran my fingers along its edge feeling each dent and scrape she had picked up over the years of getting in and out of cars, trains, airplanes, closets, and coffins. She was sturdy but not perfect; each dent or scratch reminded me of a place I had been.


  ***

  The case had actually been a gift from a boyfriend who played in a band during the early nineties. He had stumbled on my old case when I had met him in Toronto for a three day music fest and he had visited my room. I had just arrived and it was still on the floor just inside the door. It was a stupid mistake, a falling domino that starts a chain reaction you can’t stop. For some reason Andrew had focused on it the moment he entered, I guess because he had never seen it before, and before I could stop him without hurting him, he had bent down and opened it.

  His hands sorted past the neatly laid out clothing and down into the equipment. He immediately understood what I did, how I made my way in the world. He ran his fingertips along each item. I didn’t listen to his thoughts. I didn’t want to know what he was thinking. I just wanted him to understand.

  “Babe,” he said without looking up, “why didn’t you tell me?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there watching him move his fingers along the steel.

  “Is it us or them?”

  The question hit me in the chest like a bullet. “Both,” I said. “It depends.”

  He looked up at me, his face a mask of confusion and regret.

  I could feel his disappointment; it was a palpable force that felt like two hands on either side of me squeezing, a bear hug but the kind meant to hurt you.

  “It depends?” His voice cracked. “I thought…” He stood and brushed his hair behind his ears. I could see tears welling in his eyes.

  “Does it matter?” I asked. “It has nothing to do with you and me. It’s my job. It’s what I do.”

  “You said you told me everything. You said you never…” his voice cracked again and he broke off.

  Everything inside of me was tumbling. It wasn’t often that I had fallen in love with someone. I made it a rule not to, but Andrew had somehow made it through. The first time I saw him tuning his guitar on stage before a show, standing up there with his sandy curls, his strong arms, and that perfect angst, I knew I wanted him. He looked up and smiled at me, and I threw the rule book away. There was just something about him. It was magnetic. I almost had to be with him which is saying something for a girl like me.

  We dated for a month or so before I told him my secret. He had been shaken at first. I remember he just sat there, staring at me sitting across from him. Then he smiled and said he wanted me to leave them out while we had sex. I loved him completely, everything about him, everything about us, everything we had become over the year we had been together. We just worked. We were that couple. Love at first sight.

  He traveled with the band and I traveled with work. But when neither of us had something, it was me and him, nesting, fucking, and watching late night television. He would eat frozen pizza and drink beer while I drank a couple bags I drained into a plastic mug. This was when we were happiest, when it was just us, together, away from screaming fans and my assignments.

  Standing there and looking into his tear-filled eyes, I wanted to reach out and grab him; pull him into my embrace and somehow make everything right again. I wanted to tear into his neck and drain him and then bring him back. I wanted to scream and destroy myself for making him feel the way he did. My chest ached.

  He shook his head and walked out of the room without a word. After the show, once I had made it back to the hotel, the case was lying on my bed. There was no note and I never heard from him again.

  ***

  My fingers flipped the two metal latches that held the case tight and then lifted the lid. The outfit was on top like always. I took a breath and began the ritual, reaching in and pulling out each piece individually.

  The black corset was first. I loosened the laces along the back and pulled it wide enough to fit over my head and shoulders before I started to slide each of the Kevlar ribs into their sheaths. I had adopted the top for two reasons. First, it had no sleeves and therefore didn’t restrict my movement. And Second, because it fit me like a glove. It and my breasts, almost spilling out of the top, drew the eye when I needed them to. They were a perfect distraction when the moment called for it. I laid it carefully on the bed and smoothed it out.

  The pants were skin tight black cloth with no shine. They were comfortable and allowed me to move as fast I needed to. I sat on the edge of the bed and unrolled each leg along my skin.

  Knee high black boots, sturdy, flat, and uncommonly comfortable were next. I laced them tight all the way to the top before pulling the corset over my head. I was halfway through adjusting my breasts into the cups when there was a knock at the door. My hand reached into the case and instinctually wrapped around the grip of a pistol.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “The car you ordered is waiting outside, ma’am.” The voice was muffled by the heavy door and I let the pistol go.

  “Great, fine, thank you.” I pulled the laces tight along my lower back and stepped over to the mirror to make sure everything was straight before tying the knot. I always felt like I looked like a comic book hero in the outfit; a character that would be splashed across the cover with skin tight clothes, two blazing pistols, and ridiculous breasts. I grinned at my reflection. Why is there never a reflection in the books? I thought pulling everything into place and adjusting the ribs in the corset until they laid straight and flat. Where did they get the idea that our bodies don’t reflect light?

  I slipped the two pistol holsters onto the back of the belt and clipped it around my hips. Both pistols were in their little cutouts at the bottom of the case, snug in the foam so they wouldn’t move around. I locked and loaded them and then holstered them along my lower back.

  The three blades came next; a six inch blade inside the left boot sheath, an eight inch Italian steel blade strapped to my thigh, and a four inch blade along my forearm.

  I loaded two extra clips into the empty pouches along my waist, checked the rest of the belts compartments, and then slipped the black leather jacket I had owned for fifty years over everything. I checked the mirror again, making sure that nothing was visible. People tend to be uncomfortable when they see a fully-armed girl walking around.

  “Must gonna be a good night!” The driver said when I slipped into the back seat of taxi. “Dressed like that girl, you’re gonna break a few hearts tonight.”

  I laughed and gave him an address that was ten blocks from where I was supposed to meet my clients.

  “Yes, ma’am, I know right where that is at,” he put the car in gear and we started through the heart of the city. “Got some big plans?” He asked, looking in the rearview mirror after a couple minutes.

  “Actually, yes,” I said watching him watch me; watching his eyes trace the curve of my neck and then slip across the milky flesh of each breast. I didn’t listen to his thoughts; I had a feeling I knew what most of the peripheral ones were, and instead, just turned and watched the buildings and cars out the window.

  “Alright, alright, so you ain’t a talkative one,” he said.

  “No, it’s fine,” I said, “I’m a dancer.”

  “A dancer?” The driver screwed up his face. “Where at?”

  “I’m new here. I have a friend that lives where we are going. She’s driving us to the club.”

  He shook his head and I could tell he wasn’t buying it. I leaned forward in my seat and looked into the mirror, into the reflection of his eyes. “I’m a dancer,” I said softly, “the hottest fucking dancer you’ve ever seen. Your fucking cock is getting hard just imagining what I look like when I am spinning around a brass pole. You have nothing else to say.”

  He nodded and then looked back at the road, quiet for the remainder of the drive.

  It wasn’t something that I liked to do, taking over someone’s mind; but it was a necessary tool in my line of work. It took years to learn how to do it properly. It’s not as easy as the stories make it seem. You have to know where to go once you’re in there, and then you have to know just how much pressure is required to overpower someone’s will
. The mind is as delicate and powerful as a laser; a blow to the head can scramble it, but it remembers every license plate, every face, and every number in your lifetime.

  We drove over the 12th Street Bridge an old towering connection that runs over the factories and warehouses built in the eighteen hundreds and the turn of the century. I knew the area well. I remembered the clip-clopping of the horses as they cut along the brick streets a hundred years before. I remembered looking for a meal among the dockworkers and factory men, the one’s that would not be missed by many when they turned up in the river face down with their throats torn away and their bodies drained of blood. Those were the first years after I was turned, brought here from the east coast by my maker to learn “how to be a proper vampire” he had said.

  The place was dark now, mostly abandoned once the sun had slipped the horizon. Only a few lights illuminated the thousands of windows below us. The Bottoms, I thought as the car turned down one dark street and then another. They’re serious about privacy. The driver stopped along a curb and then looked in the rearview.

  “We’re here, ma’am,” he said.

  I stepped out of the car and handed two one hundred bills through the passenger window. “Keep the change, and forget you ever saw me,” I said, looking him in the eyes. He nodded and then turned the car back into the street.

  The taxi pulled away and left me standing on the deserted sidewalk. It was a hot, late summer evening and the city, having absorbed the sun for the entire day, seemed to exhale the heat in waves. There were only a few, sporadic streetlights on the corners and no lights from the windows which made the buildings little more than hulking shadows, empty boxes made of brick and mortar that towered above me. I recognized the street, it was impossible to forget walking down it so many years before. I started toward the meeting place, and remembered the lessons from over a hundred years ago. You must learn to see in the dark. You must learn to blend into the shadows. You must learn to be silent, to kill quickly, and disappear. I could almost feel his voice in my ear.