Dead, Undead, or Somewhere in Between

by J. A. Saare

  “Three Jack and Cokes,” the one in the middle instructed when they made it to the bar, and I immediately dubbed him Abercrombie. The two stooges alongside him would be Fitch and Company. He slid a credit card onto the counter to start a tab, and I nodded, swiveling around to make the drinks. The sooner they picked a table and got away from my station, the better.

  I placed the drinks in front of them and reached for the card when Abercombie’s fingers encircled my wrist. “He didn’t want ice.” He hitched his chin toward Company beside him.

  Count to ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  “No problem.” I pulled my hand away and reached for one of the glasses.

  “Just make a new one. It was your mistake.”

  I shook my head, faking a smirk of regret, and reached for a glass. “Sorry, no can do.”

  He lashed out and caught my wrist again, squeezing firmly. Once, very bad. Twice, you’re treading on thin ice. A third time, please don’t find out.

  “Why not?” he snapped, demanding an explanation like he was talking to some heinous bitch who’d told him to fuck off when he’d invited her to the senior prom.

  The tone did it; I snatched my hand free. “It’s our policy. Otherwise, everyone would say they didn’t request ice when they did, or vice versa. It’s called staying in the green.”

  His fingers encircled my wrist again, and I saw red. My temper is like a hot haze, licking my veins from the inside. It starts out as a simmer, right below my sternum, and expands. As it grows and builds, I can’t think clearly. I discovered my incredibly short hair-trigger after my parents died and I enjoyed a few years inside the fabulosity that is the foster care system. It was something I had little control over.

  “If you don’t let go of my arm, I’m going to come over that bar,” I growled, voice raspy and deep, laced with animosity. “And you see that big ass black guy over there, the one that has the name tag bad mother fucker? His name is Cletus, and I’ll make sure I yell loud enough so he knows I need some assistance.”

  Abercrombie let go and didn’t stop me when I took the drink. I poured the contents into the sink, reached for a clean glass on the counter, and made a new Jack and Coke—without ice this time. He didn’t say a word when I put it down and took the visa, bestowing an eat shit and die look instead. The burning in my chest abated, allowing me to calm down as they walked to the floor to snag a table.

  “Well played,” the guy from the bar said, and I turned in time to see his lips curving over his glass of Goose. I’d forgotten he was there.

  “We aim to please. Quality entertainment, that’s the motto of the Black Panther.” I leaned against the backdrop and placed my left leg across the right, attempting to look at ease. Chasing off customers wasn’t part of the job.

  “Assholes like that give us all a bad name.” He slammed the rest of his glass back and cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t assume we’re all like that.”

  “I’m working in a bar where people come for visual stimulation courtesy of naked women on a stage,” I said with humor in my voice. “I don’t judge anything by what comes through those doors.”

  He lifted his glass into the air, indicating he wanted another, and I whipped around to make it.

  Two more shots of Goose, coming right up.

  When I dropped this one off, and he told me to keep the change, I paid out and stuck around. Most of the people at the tables were drinking bottles, which meant the servers were taking care of that end. My night was going to be slow as shit.

  “Does that kind of thing happen often?”

  I studied Mr. Grey Goose. He wasn’t our run of the mill T&A enthusiast. He handled his glass carefully, fingers draped along the top as if he were fondling fine crystal. His fingernails were clean and neatly trimmed. Obviously, he didn’t do manual labor for a living.

  Meeting his curious gaze, I answered, “It depends. The ones who travel in groups are the worst. Their confidence is bolstered by the combined levels of testosterone.”

  “You handle yourself well.” He made it a statement, nothing positive or negative, just the truth.

  “Tons of practice.” I shot him a self-depreciating smirk. You bet your ass I handle myself well. I learned the hard way. No one watches out for your interests better than you do. If you wait around for a white knight on his trusty steed, you’ll end up eating the television coming at your face.

  A commotion erupted from the tables, and I leaned past Mr. Grey Goose to see what the fuss was about. Abercrombie, Fitch, and Company had gotten the attention of Cletus, and he was demanding an audience.

  A knowing smile flickered across my face. I loved it when assholes got their due. I plopped my elbows onto the counter and settled my chin on my palms. All I needed was a bucket of popcorn and a lounge chair, and I’d be set.

  This was going to be good.

  Fitch raised his voice, but Abercrombie’s bellows drowned him out. Cletus stood in the middle, trying to diffuse the situation, standing a good three inches over Company, who was the tallest. Company started pointing his finger and jabbed Cletus in the chest. Too bad money couldn’t buy intelligence—he was playing with dynamite.

  I scanned the room for Butch, and a nervous pang settled in my gut when I didn’t see him. Lifting my chin from my palms, I glanced from side to side. Butch was nowhere on floor. That left one bouncer against three impaired men with bad attitudes.

  Mr. Grey Goose swiveled in his seat as I walked out of the bar, observing the chaos as well. The voices rose, Cletus’s deep baritone in the middle, and all hell broke loose.

  Company threw a punch and Cletus pumped back, his left palm deflecting the blow as his gargantuan right arm came back. He rotated at the hip, throwing his weight around, and clocked Company hardcore. The asshole crumbled, taking a nice dirt nap in the nastiness of our filth drenched carpets. Abercrombie and Fitch decided to use the chicken shit route of safety in numbers. Cletus took on Abercrombie just as Fitch moved behind them. I reacted without hesitation, running over the floor and coming directly behind.

  Cletus snagged his next meal ticket, locking Abercrombie’s arm at the elbow and forcing it behind his back. He fell onto the table in front of them in a loud crash of shattering glass against wood. Fitch started forward, fist clenched, drawing his arm back. I carefully judged the distance and threw my weight into the air, lifting my right foot and pushing off with my left, rotating my leg at the hip and locking my joints in place for optimum impact.

  The blow landed at the back of his kneecap, and Fitch staggered, yelling out as he turned. The first pass would just slow him down and leave one hell of a mark, but it served my purpose in buying time.

  Butch was back.

  Our pacifist bouncer was as tall as Cletus, but leaner. His brown shoulder length hair could be misconstrued as hippy, until you saw him out at night and he allowed it to flow freely.

  He flipped Fitch’s arm under, locking his elbow to hold him in place. “Thanks, Rhiannon,” he murmured apologetically, applied pressure, and moved the asshole along.

  “Anytime.”

  I returned to my place behind the bar, retrieved my bottle of water from beneath the counter, and took a long swallow. I opened my eyes just in time to observe Mr. Grey Goose gawking at me silently.

  “Tons of practice, you say?”

  I gave him my first true smile of the evening. “You have no idea.”

  Chapter Four

  Friday arrived before I was ready. Time always sucked like that, moving too fast when you need a few extra minutes to spare and too slow when you wished it would hurry the hell up. I came off the subway and hustled up the stairs, stopping short. I bit my tongue to hold in my gasp.

  The spirit was in bad shape.

  His eyeball was missing, the ravaged socket empty. Half the side of his face was gone, leaving behind muscle, shredded tissue and cartilage. His top lip was missing, displaying teeth that dangled from st
rands of gummy root.

  I looked down.

  His legs were all kinds of fucked up too. If he wasn’t a spirit, there was no way he’d be standing. One knee was bent backward, the foot extended beyond. The other was dangling off his hip, almost detached.

  Someone bumped me from behind and shocked me back to the living. I closed my eyes, shook my head, and took a cleansing breath. When I dared to glance back through the maze of people, I spotted him going down the stairs toward the subway. I forced myself to look away and walked down the crowded street to meet Disco.

  The Razor is an exclusive club, and without the proper hook-up’s, you’d never get past the doors. Unlike other places that openly advertised their presence with blaring neon lights and signs above the entrance, this one was very low key. It was located in the southern part of the neighborhood where the older buildings still stood, visible only if you were in the know.

  Disco was outside, dressed in his Sunday best—black, black, and black. It was striking and lovely against his pale skin, glossy hair, and bright eyes. I took a deep breath and made my way to the front of the building, past a few people standing in line. He watched me approach, a curious expression on his face.

  “What?” I asked defensively. I knew this was coming but it didn’t make it any easier. That was one of many reasons I didn’t go on dates. It felt like high school all over. That self-conscious girl always resurfaced, no matter how much I tried to squelch her, and teenage angst was bad enough the first time around.

  Insecurities are a bitch.

  “You look different,” he chuckled, appreciative eyes roaming across my face and body.

  “Thanks for telling me I look like shit when I don’t wear makeup.”

  Ignoring my remark, he smiled and held out his arm. “Shall we?”

  Eyeing him suspiciously, I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow. The two bouncers—both in black shirts with the word RAZOR etched across the chest—didn’t ask for names. One unlinked the rope and the other opened the door. Disco ushered us past, and I tried to savor my one moment of feeling like a British royal attending a banquet or some other such idiocy. Inside, the walls were painted black, and two more doors we had to pass through for actual entrance into the place muffled the music.

  Disco slid out of his trench coat; the first time I’d ever seen him without it. His body was tall and lean, rugged muscles evident under the surface of his fitted sweater. His shoulders contorted and flexed as he handed the heavy clothing to the checker.

  “Miss,” the young blonde girl taking coats addressed me, and I looked from side to side. I finally got hip to the situation and pointed at my chest.

  “Me?”

  “Do you need to check anything?”

  I almost told her if I had something to check, I’d have said so. Everything on my person was something I felt was absolutely necessary to survive a first date.

  “Nope.”

  Disco laughed under his breath. He walked over, turned me around, and pointed at the top of the door. Directly above was a red light—a metal detector. I let out a deep breath, reached inside my pocket for my butterfly knife, and handed it over. The girl smiled and motioned for me to walk under the detector again.

  “Fuck,” I muttered and leaned down. Lifting my pants leg, I dug the jimmy club out of my shit kicker and glanced at Disco. He was shaking his head and chuckling.

  Ms. Coat Checker took the club and handed me a slip of paper, friendly smile gone. I got that a lot. Just because I’m on the lookout for an ass kicking doesn’t mean I’m actively seeking one out. It’s called covering all your bases.

  A man at the double doors opened Hells Gates, and Disco led the way. The sound was deafening, with speakers all around playing Nine Inch Nails. The bass vibrated, tingling my hair and skin.

  The walls were a deep blue, with lighting coming from sconces affixed above the booths. Tables were scattered around the central dance floor. Metal cages strategically placed along railing. Strobe lights rotated above mirrored windows lined in the corner of the ceiling, pulsating and creating variegated beams inside the smoky area. Unfortunately, my date wasn’t the only cold blooded, nocturnal creature. Several littered the dance floor and tables. They all seemed to notice me as I noticed them.

  Disco sat down in an empty booth, and I slid in across the table.

  A waitress appeared out of nowhere, and when I looked up, I knew why. She also sustained herself on a liquid diet.

  “You want something?”

  “Bottle of water,” I said. The place was overflowing with fanged critters, and I didn’t trust anyone not to spike my glass. I wanted something delivered to my table neat, sealed, and safe.

  Disco shook his head at the server and reached inside his pocket for his cigarettes as she walked away. He clicked his Zippo open, tilted his head to the side, and lit up. He closed the lighter with a flick of his palm and slapped the square piece of metal onto the table in front of us. Then, he reclined, watching me.

  “So,” I said sweetly, leaning forward and flashing an insincere smile, “what the fuck do you want?”

  “Have you always been so refined? Your attitude and that mouth.” He sucked air through his teeth and grimaced. “Do you kiss your Mother with it?”

  I answered like the smart ass he knew I was. “I did before she died. Of course, my mouth was clean back then. It took years of trial and error to blossom into the fine outstanding young woman you see before you today.”

  “I’m sorry.” He looked down at the table, idly flicking the lid of his lighter opened and closed.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  I turned to monitor the action on the dance floor. The lights over head fought the cigarette-induced fog that enveloped the room. It was packed. Both alive and undead intermingled. Their bodies clenched, hips gyrating as they swayed with the music.

  A thought came to mind, and I asked, “Do you pick random people for your happy meals, or do you play with your food?”

  “It depends. Define play with your food.” Disco put out the cig in the nearby tray, and relaxed on his elbows. He seemed intrigued by my question, almost eager.

  “Play with your food. As in, do you fuck them beforehand, or just take them home and bleed them dry?”

  “Jesus!” His face crinkled in disgust, and he reached for another cigarette. The intrigue and eagerness evaporated, replaced with a strange look, as if I’d grown another head. “You have issues, do you know that?”

  I shrugged. I was always blunt. It wasn’t charming, but it was how I was wired.

  The waitress returned and placed my water in front of me. I reached into my pocket for a tip, but Disco shook his head and tossed a bill on the table. She thanked him and vanished between the pulsating bodies.

  “So, do you? Play with your food?” I was morbidly curious. Perhaps I had my own natural dark tendencies; it would explain a lot.

  “For your information,” Disco’s informed me coolly, with a hint of anger, “most of us only take from willing donors. If we’re in a sexually compromising position at the time, neither the biter nor the bitee will complain. It’s commonly referred to as give and take. So yes, we play with our food, but our food plays with us too. Satisfied?”

  Picturing what he described rendered me momentarily speechless. I opened the bottle of water and took a long guzzle. The liquid was cold and burned as it went down. I couldn’t force more than three solid swallows before I had to stop, lungs and esophagus ready to explode. A sudden anger formed, fueled by my embarrassment.

  I still had no clue what the fuck Disco wanted.

  “Can we skip past all the bullshit and get down to business? I know you didn’t bring me here to enjoy my suave conversational skills. What do you want, and where do I fit inside that box?” I lifted my fingers and drew an invisible square.

  There, it was out in the open, neatly packaged and clearly fucking illustrated.

  “We need your help.” He toyed with the Zippo again.<
br />
  Okay, that was step in the right direction. “With what?”

  “Several of our people have gone missing, and we don’t know where they went or why. It’s been weeks, and another two have vanished.” He met my eyes and said, “We hired professionals, but they can’t see our kind after they pass on to the other side. It all depends on the level of natural talent. You have that talent, and we want to know if you’ll help us.”

  “What makes you think I can see your undead asses the second time around? Isn’t the first time enough?” I so did not want to get involved with this. I didn’t enjoy seeing ghosts, and I didn’t go looking for them voluntarily.

  “This could benefit you, too.” His words were barely hospitable anymore, his annoyance evident. I wasn’t surprised. I had that effect on people.

  “You know what?” I started to slide out of the booth, ready to make my final farewell and curtain call. I saw dead people because I had to, not for recreational purposes. “I think I’ll pass. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

  His boot came up, crushing the empty space of booth to block my exit. His eyes were glowing, bright blue flickering along the iris. He was angry.

  No, strike that. He was pissed.

  I couldn’t stifle my instinctive reaction, pressing back into the worn plastic cushion, eyes wide and mouth shut.

  “Listen to me closely, Rhiannon.” His voice was deep and crisp. “You will help us. I’m not giving you the option. I never was. I was simply being polite.”

  I’d seen some pissed off people in my life. Truth be told, I’d been on the receiving end of some brutal rage myself. But what was burning in his eyes scared the dog shit out of me. My body started to shake and anger licked beneath my skin. I hated being at the mercy of someone else. It was everything I’d struggled to overcome in the last fifteen-years of my life, and was my absolute worst nightmare. Control was vital to my existence. Without it, I felt suffocated. But I didn’t want to die, even if I had an affinity for the dead, and Disco could kill me before I’d even know he’d cut my throat.