Undead in the City

by Hera St. Aubyn

  Tempest watched the leather god for a couple more minutes, trying to guess what drink he’d ordered, but when Chaz returned to the booth, he was empty handed. Gorgeous Guy nodded at Chaz, who slinked away. The mystery man tilted his head back against the wall of the booth and closed his eyes. The movement appeared oddly vulnerable.

  The other musicians returning from their break surprised Tempest out of her daydream. She couldn’t believe she’d been standing there in the dark for the entire fifteen minutes. She hadn’t even gone for her usual shot of tequila. It was completely out of the ordinary for her to be so intrigued by a man. Usually she just picked one out during the course of the night, and collected him at the end. Not much pre-boink lust indulgence. Something about this guy was different. Arousing. Dangerous.

  Leon, the bass player, eased around her, plugged the PA back in, and clicked on the bar’s cheap stage lights. As the dim colors framed her, Tempest saw the man in the booth jerk his head in her direction, predatory eyes locked on hers.

  Chapter Two

  Malveaux’s enhanced sense of smell gave him trouble when he had to be in disgusting places like the bar he’d slipped into. Smoke, alcohol, and the stench of human emotions prompted him to wrinkle up his nose in distaste. Of all his expanded senses, he struggled most with his need to integrate the overload of aromatic stimuli in this garbage-infested, poverty-stricken area.

  He could argue with himself that spending time in this dump was better than being out in the blizzard, but he knew that really hadn’t been why he’d ducked in. Since he didn’t experience cold as humans did, being out in the winter onslaught merely caused him to be wet. An inconvenience, at worst. He’d long since stopped trying to make sense of why he didn’t choose to use his wide range of vampire abilities more often. At almost two hundred years old, the idea of transforming into fog or one of his many animal forms had lost a lot of its original appeal. He’d certainly utilize the skills if the reason was important enough, but if he could avoid it, he would. As odd as it was to admit, he always felt faintly creeped out after one of those episodes.

  No, if he were truthful with himself, sometimes he came to places such as this to have the illusion of being normal. Human. To indulge in memories of a time when he wasn’t the cursed abomination he was now. Forgetting, just for a moment, his dark reality. The place was familiar to him because it was a favorite meeting place for some of his lowlife associates, but he wasn’t expecting company tonight. Even vermin stayed indoors during a snowstorm.

  He chuckled quietly as he caught the bartender’s reaction to his arrival. His reputation was well known here, and he encouraged the mythos that had sprung up around him. The man -- Chaz, if he recalled correctly -- had frozen at the sight of him, and Malveaux half expected him to keel over from fear. He thought he probably shouldn’t have terrorized the fellow by mentioning an expected phone call, but sometimes he couldn’t resist acting out the worst of his vampire nature. Phone calls usually meant trouble was brewing, and making Chaz stay on the alert for the imaginary call would keep him out of Malveaux’s way. The bartender just thought his sullen customer was a hit man, which was true as far as it went. But if the skinny junky knew what was really sitting in his corner booth, he’d run screaming. Malveaux had considered drinking from the bartender in the past, just because he was convenient, but the guy was so strung out on heroin that his blood was useless.

  Breathing in the smell of smoke and liquor, Malveaux almost wished he could still drink his favorite whiskey. It was true that blood was a much more intoxicating substance, but old habits die hard.

  At least the place was empty tonight. Not so many emotions to sense or thoughts to intercept. Fewer heartbeats to pound like drums in his ears. He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes for a few seconds to savor the silence.

  The stillness was broken by a loud click, like the amplified flipping of a switch, and his eyes flew open. Soft color illuminated the interior twilight, and he swiveled his head in the direction of the noise. Standing on a shabby stage at the end of the room was a woman, a woman radiating sex and sensuality so powerfully he felt a painful tightening in his groin. He was pleased to realize that she’d been staring at him from the darkened stage, and curious about how she’d slipped under his usually sensitive radar. He tuned into her emotions and thoughts and smiled at the potent lust flowing toward him from the exquisite female.

  His smile widened as he watched her strap on a shiny black electric guitar. She’d be a worthy sexual partner for the night -- or maybe for more than that. He shifted in his seat as the blood filled his cock again, pressing his flesh uncomfortably tight against the zipper of his leather pants. It was always such a pleasure when a perfect receptacle crossed his path so easily, like the spider and the fly. He knew he could simply send mental commands, and she’d do whatever he wanted. Sometimes he enjoyed the chase, the psychosexual foreplay that made his release even sweeter. Of course, he’d distract her so she wouldn’t notice the bite on her neck or the blood he was taking, but he was sometimes tempted to let his victims’ fear rush through him. That kind of orgasm was off the scale, and he wouldn’t kill her. Probably.

  Watching her gyrate on the stage, flailing her arm in a windmill motion as she plucked the strings of the guitar was highly arousing. Long hair flying, she commanded the stage like a wild woman, fronting the band with fierce charisma. Her slender, curvaceous body constantly moved in electric bliss as she kicked up stiletto-heeled boots to punctuate sporadic musical crescendos. Her voice was surprisingly alluring, sometimes husky, sometimes sweet. He found himself intrigued with her stage persona, imagining sucking on those ripe breasts while his cock slid in and out of her wet slit.

  He could see the sweat glistening on her chest and arms and appreciated the short tank top, molded to her skin by the moisture. She had a habit of lifting her guitar away from her body, and he amused himself by thinking the maneuver was to give him an enticing view of her bra-less promise.

  She seemed to be performing just for him; her eyes sought him at every opportunity.

  Malveaux signaled the bartender over to his booth again. Chaz approached, gaze lowered so he wouldn’t inadvertently make eye contact. The anxious bartender telegraphed his thoughts. He didn’t know why making contact with Malveaux’s cold blue eyes felt bad. He just knew it did.

  “How much longer does the band play tonight?” Malveaux asked.

  Chaz glanced up, eyes wide, focused on a point above Malveaux’s nose. “This is their last set. They play until 1:45, but if they’re bothering you, I can tell them to stop now.” The frightened bartender was shaking so badly the coins rattled in his baggy pants pockets.

  “No. I’m enjoying the music. I was just curious. Thanks.”

  Chaz sprinted away like he’d gotten a last-minute reprieve from the governor.

  Malveaux let a wicked grin take control of his lips as he absently rubbed the palm of his hand over his bulging erection. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been excited about fucking a particular person, but the beautiful dynamo on the stage had his full attention. His night had definitely taken a turn for the better. The only question now was whether he wanted to be the pursuer or the pursued. He got the impression the vixen definitely went after what she wanted. He’d wait and see what the lady had in mind.

  As the last notes of the band’s cover of Bonnie Raitt’s Slow Ride floated out through the speakers, Tempest stepped up to the microphone, preparing to give her standard end-of-the-night speech. As they had since he arrived, her eyes zeroed in on the man in the booth. She was imagining grabbing onto that long hair and riding him like a wild bronco. “We want to thank you for showing up in a blizzard and for being such a great audience. We hope you’ll come back and listen again the next time we’re here, but, unfortunately, it’s that time again. The end of the night. You don’t have to go home, but you do have to go. Drive carefully.”

  She smiled at him and wasn’t the least surprised to see
him smile back. She wondered if he’d picked up the sarcasm in her great audience statement. She hoped he wasn’t thick as a brick.

  The two remaining drunks at the bar had long ago surrendered the use of their bones and muscles, and were lost in a substance stupor, their faces mashed into the wood in front of them.

  Tempest lifted her guitar away from her body and leaned it against her amplifier. For just a few seconds, a flutter of nervousness erupted in her stomach, and she turned to make sure the man-candy was still in the booth. He was. She smiled as she wiped down her guitar and put it in its case.

  It was actually fun to find a man who turned her on. Sex was always good. Well, almost always. But it had been a while since she felt genuinely excited. She enjoyed it when it was more than just her pussy getting wet and hot. Her pussy was always wet and hot, apparently. And impatient. Impatient Pussy. Sounds like a porn film, she thought, or a great name for an all-woman band.

  This guy looked like someone she might want to enjoy for a while. Even if the gorgeous stranger turned out to be stupid rather than the strong, silent type, as long as he had a big, warm cock, they’d have a memorable evening. She turned and glanced at him again. He was still staring at her. She could almost feel the heat of his laser-like gaze on her ass. He had amazing eyes. She couldn’t wait to see them up close. She hoped he wasn’t one of those violent assholes. Some of the pretty boys were. But she had her favorite knife tucked inside her boot, so she wasn’t particularly worried about fighting off an attack. Shit. How fucked was it to have to think about stuff like that? Welcome to my world, she thought.

  She turned to Stan, “Hey, did you call the roadies?”

  “Yeah, on the last break. They’ll be here in a minute.”

  She’d enticed a couple of Stan’s old high school buddies to do the equipment set-ups, tear-downs and loading. They were actually groupies more than roadies who eagerly invested sweat equity in exchange for vague promises of future sexual favors. She’d put in her years of lifting the heavy crap, and was now happy to solicit guys to do the physical-strength thing and relieve her of that duty. She was a kick-ass feminist, but no fool. Why lift and carry if she didn’t have to? She’d have to amend her list of the things men were good for: sex, making music, and heavy lifting. Did that make her a female chauvinist?

  Getting out of the way of Rob, the rhythm guitar player, as he moved his stack of amplifiers, she picked up her guitar case and stepped down onto the dance floor. She balanced her instrument case against the cigarette machine and turned toward the lust object in the booth.

  “Hey, Tempest! Where ya goin’?” Stan yelled.

  She glanced back over her shoulder. He was standing near the edge of the stage, pounding out a rhythm on his thighs with his drum sticks. He did that when he was nervous. He glared at her, and then at the booth inhabitant, and frowned. “I thought we had plans for tonight?”

  “Plans change, my man. Catch you next time.”

  A hurt expression passed over his face before he turned away and began removing his cymbals from their stands. She had a quick twinge of something that might have been guilt, but easily stuffed the feeling down deep in the unwanted-emotion morgue she’d created in childhood. She’d learned that attachments equaled disaster and disappointment. Stan knew her well enough to know she was a sexual free agent. Yes, they were old friends and often sex partners, but that didn’t give him any say about what she did. She didn’t have to explain herself to anyone.

  She brought her eyes back to the night’s target and pulled out all the stops in the sensual walk department. She noticed he’d sat there for the last hour without drinking anything. That usually meant one of two things: either he was doing the twelve-step trip and might be one of those self-righteous sober drunks, or he preferred drugs. She didn’t care as long as his preferences didn’t get in the way of her orgasms.

  He sat in the booth, relaxed, slouched down, hands folded in his lap. Now that she was closer, she could see his T-shirt was blue. So were his eyes. Sky blue, framed with long, dark lashes. She wondered for a few seconds if he might have had cosmetic surgery. Nobody’s face was that perfect, and men were lining up to go under the knife in the name of vanity as fast as women these days.

  She stood near the end of the booth and held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Tempest.” Cocking her head, she gave him a dazzling, come-hither smile.

  He sat up and took her offered hand, rubbing his thumb against her palm in a feather-light motion. His hand was surprisingly cool. “Hello, Tempest. I’m Malveaux. Please join me.”

  His voice was like rich chocolate wrapped in thick velvet. It flowed over her body and into her ears like auditory silk. She just knew he’d give great phone sex. Her pussy twitched, and moisture pooled between her legs. Her nipples hardened and poked defiantly through the thin fabric of her pink tank top. She thought she might come just from listening to him talk. She’d certainly had sex with enough musicians just because they had great voices.

  She sat next to him in the booth, and noted a flicker of surprise cross his face before he brought his expression back under control. She wondered if he’d assumed she’d sit across from him. But what was the point of wasting time? She was a woman on a mission, and why beat around the bush?

  “Malveaux? That’s an unusual name. Is that your first name or last?” He’d pronounced it like a French word, but she didn’t detect any accent other than generic American. She had a sudden desire to run her fingers up and down the well-toned arm nearest her and indulged herself.

  He glanced slowly down at her fingers on his arm, and then met her eyes and smiled. “It’s my only.”

  She studied his face and felt even more certain that he’d special-ordered it. Eyes exactly the right distance apart, framed by sculpted eyebrows. Cheekbones just definite enough and a strong chin with the merest hint of an indentation. Great lips. The man even had dimples when he smiled. He’d either paid for it, or his genetics were awesome. He definitely qualified as a pretty boy, but there was something old and tired about his eyes. His past must have had some rough edges. There had to be more to this guy than just his god-like appearance. She could only imagine how much he’d spent at the dentist to get that Hollywood smile. Who was this guy?

  There was no question in her mind that the two of them would fuck. And soon. Since she figured she’d only spend one night with him, and the time was ticking away, she decided to ratchet up the negotiations.

  Shifting her body toward him, she brushed a clump of his long, dark hair from his cheek lightly with her fingernail. “Forgive me for resorting to a boring cliché, but your place or mine?” She slid her hand up his leather-clad thigh and found his erection. She squeezed gently. “If this isn’t inside me very soon, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

  He laughed and covered her hand with his, encouraging the impromptu massage. “I love a woman who knows what she wants. I’d suggest my place, but it’s some distance from here and, quite frankly, I don’t want to wait that long. How about yours?”

  She started to say she thought that was a terrific idea, when she remembered the message her roommate, Lauren, had left on their answering machine, reminding Tempest she’d be back from her vacation in Hawaii that night. Lauren would no doubt be having catch-up sex with her boyfriend all over their apartment. Normally, Tempest wouldn’t be shy about adding more bodies to the mix but for some reason she didn’t feel like sharing her new discovery. She wanted to keep this guy all to herself.

  “Damn!” She moved her hand off his bulge without thinking. “My roommate’s coming home tonight, and she’ll be at the apartment with her boyfriend, so that won’t work.” She glanced at the partially steam-covered window near the front of the bar, which provided clear evidence that the blizzard was still kicking the shit out of the city. “And as much as I want to jump your luscious bones, I’m not willing to do it in the backseat of a freezing car. Maybe. . .”

  He leaned in and kissed her, swallowing the rest
of her words. His tongue slid artfully into her mouth, exploring slowly, and she offered hers in return. Deepening the kiss, she lost all sense of how long they’d had their lips pressed together or if anyone else was still in the room. Her mind distantly registered that he wore an appealingly sensual, subtly earthy fragrance. The man’s mouth should have been a registered weapon because it destroyed her ability to do anything beyond the basics. Her brain moved and left no forwarding address. She melted into his soft, warm mouth and moaned. Pulling away, he said, “Let’s get a room.”

  She smiled wide, savored the taste of him on her lips, and slid out of the booth. “I’ll get my things.”

  Chapter Three

  Malveaux couldn’t believe his luck. He watched the sweet, round ass of the lovely musician sway as she retreated across the dance floor and smiled. Never in his wildest, vampire wet dreams would he have imagined that such a perfect sex goddess would cross his path on such a terrible night. Especially not in a shit can bar like this one. His dick throbbed in gleeful anticipation, and his fangs became so excited they tried to crash the party before he forced them to retract back into his gums. No horror movie props yet; it wouldn’t do to scare off the prey before his objectives were met. He appreciated for a moment how convenient it was that nobody believed in vampires. Nobody, that is, except for some of the mob guys who were used to monsters of all kinds. After all, in this part of town, human monsters were reflected in every mirror. Blood-drinking fiends were only a problem if they cut into the mob’s action.

  But he didn’t want to think about work. He wanted to enjoy the way Tempest’s full tits jiggled when she moved, and the way her tight jeans drew his gaze to the erotic space between her legs. He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined how she would taste; both her pussy and her blood. It was probably dangerous for him to be so distracted, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so aroused. He wasn’t much of a believer in things like “fate” or “destiny,” but he had to admit there seemed to be method to the madness in his meeting Tempest, just when he’d needed to find the right offspring. He wasn’t sure if she’d be appropriate, but he was certainly going to have one helluva good time finding out. One simply didn’t look a gift twat in the mouth, or something to that effect, he thought, chuckling.