Bite Somebody

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  Celia held all her gifts against her chest. Then she began to cry. Imogene looked like she was trapped in the middle of the desert at sunrise.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “I don’t know. I just…” She sniveled. “I just…I’ve never had a friend who wanted to help me before.” She sniveled some more before she dropped Imogene’s dress and shoes and wrapped her in a huge hug.

  Imogene felt like a tree in her arms—a boney, pale, pissed off tree. But she didn’t shove Celia away. She just said, “Emotions are gross.”

  Celia nodded and leaned over to pick up the blue dress and silver shoes.

  “Don’t fall apart on me, Merk.”

  Celia nodded again, and then followed Imogene to the car. She dropped her off outside the Sleeping Gull Apartments.

  “Are you going out tonight?” Celia asked.

  “Yeah, I’m gonna go bite somebody.” She took off her sunglasses and gave her a wink. “Here’s hoping you get laid tomorrow night.”

  Celia shuffled her feet. “Imogene…”

  She laughed like Butthead and shouted, “I’m out!” before throwing gravel up on her way to Beach Drive.

  Chapter Thirteen

  At Happy Gas, Omar wasn’t even annoyed Celia took the night off. He said she’d been looking kind of pale lately, anyway; maybe she needed the extra rest. Imogene would say she needed to get laid. On her word, she really did show up at Celia’s place at eight-thirty, on the dot. Celia woke early and had already showered, as had Ian. Through the thin walls, she sometimes heard him singing in the shower. Ian was completely tone deaf, but he had an affinity for Queen.

  When Imogene arrived, Celia pretended she hadn’t been leaning against her kitchen wall. Ian smelled different that night. The woodsy BO was covered by something clean but spicy—cologne. It wasn’t too much, not like women’s perfume that made Celia sick to her stomach. His smell was nice, and Imogene commented on it as soon as she stepped into Celia’s apartment.

  “Just when you think he can’t smell any better,” she said, with a huge makeup bag under one arm and a curling iron in the other.

  Celia sat on the couch, obsessively chomping on a stick of chewing gum.

  Imogene eyed her over the red rims of her sunglasses. “Have you fed yet?”

  “No.”

  “Feed, Merk. It’ll calm you down. You’re so nervous right now, you look radioactive.”

  Celia pulled an Imogene. She stood in the kitchen and chugged an entire bag of A-positive, which made Imogene slow clap behind her. The overabundance of blood in her system made Imogene’s applause sound like thunder claps. Celia’s sense of smell was on high alert, too. She moved beyond the fruity smell of Imogene, the salty smell of the sea, and even past the cologne to smell Ian’s skin, his blood. She heard the sound of his heart. Her fangs went boing.

  For the next hour, Imogene did horrible things that involved yanking on Celia’s head until her scalp burned, poking her nose with concealer, and accidentally gluing her eye shut in a mission to replace Celia’s red fringe with actual eyelashes. Then, the worst part was getting into the Dress of Death.

  With Imogene behind Celia, she told her to smoosh her breasts against her ribcage with the palms of her hands. Imogene then struggled to clasp the multiple corset teeth that fought to hide Celia’s pudgy belly while making her A-cups look somewhat respectable. Behind Celia, Imogene made sounds like someone being punched repeatedly. When she finally finished, Celia couldn’t breathe, but her posture was incredible. And hey! She felt like she actually had a waist!

  “Where are the shoes?”

  Celia grumbled.

  “Merk.”

  She gestured to where she’d hidden them under her bed. “I can’t walk in them.”

  “Did you practice?”

  Oh, she practiced—and broke two coffee mugs and the bottom half of her bathroom mirror.

  “Put. Them. On.” Imogene held the silver torture devices in her hands like gremlins that wanted to eat Celia’s soul.

  She squeezed her flat feet into the stupid shoes, and Imogene gave a low whistle. “You’re comin’ into focus, Merk.” She dragged her to the bathroom and made her look in the half-broken mirror.

  Oh. Well.

  Celia looked…different. Imogene had styled her hair into a weird sort of sideways beehive on her head, but the red color really did go well with the blue dress. Her boobs even looked okay. All of Celia looked okay, really. Imogene had used some green eyeliner that made her green eyes pop. All her blemishes were covered in concealer. Plus, the shoes made her cankles into ankles. She thought she could have passed for attractive, even!

  “Are the boobs too much?” Celia panted since she couldn’t breathe.

  “No way.”

  “I feel like I might fall out.” She tried to push her boobs farther into the dress, but Imogene batted her hand away and pulled them to the top again. “Imogene!”

  “What? They’re just boobs. We all have them.” She pulled at Celia’s until they were, she said, “Just right.”

  That was just in time, too, because the scent of Ian arrived on Celia’s porch.

  “He’s here!” they both hiss-whispered, then giggled. Imogene giggling was just weird to Celia. She was way more comfortable when her friend would sneer and call her “Rain Man.” Imogene beat her to the door.

  Imogene’s original assessment of Ian’s date attire had been correct. He was in a suit—a navy blue number with thin silver pinstripes and a light blue shirt underneath, no tie. He didn’t seem like a tie kind of guy, Celia thought, considering he spent most days/nights barefoot. His black hair was wild and untamed, as usual. He smiled when he saw Celia and walked right past Imogene to give her a kiss on the cheek.

  “I’m afraid I’ll muss you,” he said, still smiling. “You’re like a twenty-first century Pretty Woman.”

  Squee!

  Imogene arrived between them. “All right, I want her home by two o’clock, or I’m calling the cops.” Celia quickly realized she wasn’t talking about her. Imogene handed her car keys to Ian.

  “Thank you, Imogene.”

  “And no sex in my car unless I’m invited.”

  “Okay,” he said and took Celia’s hand out into the night. The humidity from the day clung to the sidewalks, and she had to cling to Ian to keep up in her silver pumps. When they reached Imogene’s car, Ian opened the passenger door for her.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

  Ian held her hand on the center console as he drove. While she tried to breathe in Imogene’s corset dress, she watched the air toss his hair around, and he thankfully drove like a responsible adult.

  Celia was so glad Imogene had forced a bag of blood down her throat earlier. She felt in full control of her boing, even though Ian looked good enough to bite. They drove toward Lazaret, but he parked Imogene’s car by one of the nude statues in the center of St. Arthur’s Circle.

  Celia looked around as he circled the car to open her door. Shops and restaurants were everywhere, packed to the gills. Everyone wore Polo or Abercrombie in varied shades of pastel blue, pastel pink, pastel puke. She could see the doorway to Dr. Savage’s office down the block. Then, Ian pulled her to her feet by their connected hands.

  “Where are we going?” she asked again, pulling at the top of her dress to make sure her breasts didn’t pop out and yell, “Surprise!”

  Ian put his arm around her bare shoulders, and they walked together down the sidewalk. Instead of answering, he whistled the chorus of Queen’s “Somebody to Love.” Then, he kissed her forehead. “You look beautiful. Did I tell you that you look beautiful?”

  “No.”

  “Must have just been thinking it.” He pulled her tighter against his body, and…Ralph.

  They crossed through the circle, past Daiquiri Deck, where Imogene had dragged her the other night.

  “You know, I’ve only worn this suit twice.�
�

  “I’m surprised you even own a suit,” Celia said.

  “Weddings and funerals. A man should always be prepared.” He kissed her forehead again. She wanted to lick his Adam’s apple.

  “This is Imogene’s dress.”

  “I figured,” he said with a smirk.

  “Too much?”

  “I’ll protect your honor if I have to.”

  They walked down the sidewalk, inlaid with red brick, and then Ian dragged her to a stop. They stood in front of an overcrowded patio that led into a restaurant the color of dark wood. Celia could smell tomato sauce and wine.

  Ian leaned his mouth down to her ear. “Best martinis in town.”

  “You don’t drink martinis.”

  “I do when I’m being fancy.” He opened the door for her, and the place reminded Celia of restaurants in movies where rich men took their mistresses—all dark corners and service staff who talked to you while making eye contact with your shoes. A jazz quintet played quietly in the back near the kitchen.

  There was a reservation for Hasselback, and they were escorted to a shadowed booth that overlooked the patio and the streets of St. Arthur’s Circle outside. When the waiter asked if they wanted an appetizer, Ian playfully bit her neck and then ordered them each something called “The Green Fairy.”

  “What food do you miss the most?” he asked. He was leaned toward her in their little booth, his hand on her leg and his nose in her hair. When he spoke, his breath blew out in a warm cloud over her collarbone.

  “Pizza,” she whispered, eyes half-closed with the nearness of him—and the slight feeling of dizziness from the corset cutting off her oxygen supply. “What would you miss most? And don’t say kale smoothies.”

  He chuckled. “My mom’s ravioli.”

  “What are your parents like?”

  “Nosey. Overbearing. The most loving and supportive people you’ll ever meet.” He leaned back in the booth. “My mom was a flight attendant, so we got all these cheap fares when I was a kid. That’s how I got to surf all over the world. Dad’s an accountant who occasionally forgets to put on his pants.”

  “The absent-minded genius?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he just did a lot of drugs in the seventies.”

  The waiter returned with two chilled martini glasses filled with something green and ominous. When he left, Celia turned to Ian. “Tell me this isn’t kale.”

  “Taste it. You’ll love it.”

  She took a sip, and she felt like there were fireworks in her mouth. The drink didn’t burn; it just woke her up. The flavors were multi-layered. One moment, she walked through a rainy forest. The next, she was surrounded by Easter candy. That was when she realized why the flavor was familiar: it did remind her of Easter! Jellybeans. Black jellybeans—but black jellybeans soaked in a fresh rainstorm.

  “What is it?”

  “Absinthe. Mostly. Not sure what else.”

  “Don’t people, like, hallucinate on absinthe?”

  “Only in Amsterdam.”

  She glanced at him.

  “Don’t ask.” He grinned and finally, finally (yes!) kissed her on the mouth. “What about your parents? What were they like?”

  Celia shrugged. “I feel like they were people who only had a kid because all their friends were doing it—not because they actually wanted a kid. So when I was born, I was just another piece of furniture or a new seascape painting, not an actual person.”

  “That’s shitty.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like I was abused or locked in closets or fed dog meat, you know? I just had a lot of time to myself and read a lot.”

  “What did you read?”

  She took another sip of spicy fresh forest. “I loved Nancy Drew. I used to pretend I was a detective. I would steal some of my mom’s jewelry, and once she realized it was gone, I would pretend to follow the clues and find the missing piece.”

  Ian laughed.

  “I guess it was the only way to get her attention.”

  He ran his fingers over the skin on the back of her neck.

  “You’re lucky,” she said. “You had siblings.”

  “Ha. Well. Yeah, I guess. Years of wrestling matches and weird advice.”

  “Like what?”

  “You should never marry the woman who gives you the best blow job of your life.”

  “Huh.” She bit her lip and gave that some serious thought. “Seems counter-intuitive.”

  “My oldest brother Doug told me that. See what I mean? Weird advice.”

  They were silent for a second as the band played “Beyond the Sea.” Then, she asked, “Doesn’t it weird you out that I drink blood to live?”

  He pouted his bottom lip and seemed to consider it. “It’s just as weird as vegans.”

  “I think it’s a little bit weirder,” she said.

  “Nothing’s weirder than giving up cheese,” he said between sips of green.

  He said it with such dedication, she couldn’t question him.

  “Let’s dance.” He slid out from the booth and held his hand toward her.

  “I don’t dance.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Please don’t make me ask the drunk guy.”

  She looked behind him, and indeed, there was a lonely drunk guy who danced to his own beat in the middle of other couples doing their best to slow dance without distraction.

  “Ian, I really don’t dance.”

  “You can stand on my shoes. I’ll carry you.” He half-smiled; she loved his smile wrinkles.

  She allowed herself to be pulled from the booth. Once standing, she realized the corset was dangerously close to falling off. She gave it a hefty tug upward and prepared to hold her breath to keep her costume intact. Then, her tall, incredibly gorgeous, oddball boyfriend led her to the floor.

  “Put one hand here…”

  She shook her head, grinning like a fool. “I know where to put my hands.”

  “So you do know how to dance.”

  She huffed at him.

  Ian was about as good a dancer as he was singer. Beat and tempo were sort of like suggestions, but with his chin against the side of her forehead, stylistic points didn’t matter.

  “I’m going to spin you,” he whispered.

  “Oh, shit.”

  She giggled as he did his best to look totally smooth. Of course, the illusion was ruined when the corset top flipped down, and her breasts were openly exposed to the entire dance floor—including the drunk guy who pointed and shouted, “Boobies!”

  Ian wrapped her in a hug, and she felt the scratchy material of his suit against her nipples.

  “Did that just happen?” she asked.

  “Definite mermaid sighting.”

  “What do we do?”

  He laughed against her beehive.

  “Ian!”

  “We waltz to the bathroom.”

  “I don’t know how to—”

  He didn’t literally mean waltzing. He just held tight to her until her feet barely touched the floor and carried her away from gawkers. The bathroom was right near the entrance, down a dark hallway, which was ideal considering Ian didn’t just let her take care of things on her own. No, he followed her into the single stall bathroom and locked the door behind them.

  He glanced away long enough for her to pull the corset back up and shove her boobs down deep into the fabric in the hopes of avoiding another mermaid appearance. When she turned around, though, he put his hands on her hips and lifted her onto the bathroom counter. Luckily, it was a nice bathroom—not the kind you’d see in gas stations in horror movies, right before people get disemboweled. No, this bathroom had granite countertops, real fabric hand towels, and smelled like rose petals.

  As usual, Celia was overwhelmed by Ian’s mouth. How on earth does he know to kiss my collarbone like that? How does he know about my sensitive earlobes? And who knew it felt so good to have your hair tugged?

  Imogene was going to be pissed about the beehive, but soon, ringlets
of red fell down around them both. Ian tangled his fingers in Celia’s hair. His other hand was on her lower back, bringing her closer. He stood between her legs, but he wasn’t close enough. She needed him closer. She wrapped her legs around his waist, tightly, and he made a sound she’d never heard him make before: a low, guttural “nuh” that made her fangs go boing!

  She wanted to bite him, right there, in a public restroom at an expensive restaurant. She reached for the collar of his shirt, and he pressed himself against her.

  Oh…

  Something felt different about Ian’s body pressed against hers. Then, she realized.

  Fire down below!

  He made the “nuh” sound again, right against her throat, and he licked and sucked at her skin until she saw stars circling her head like in old school Looney Tunes.

  “Ian.” She clawed at his back. “I need…”

  He pulled back, huffing and puffing, smiling. “You need?” He crushed their mouths together, and Celia mimicked his “nuh” sound, because she was no longer capable of navigating the English language.

  There was a knock on the door, which made Ian pull away. Celia covered her mouth, considering her fangs were along for their date now, too.

  “Just a second,” he said. His voice sounded deeper than usual, which sent shivers through the base of her stomach. “We should probably get out of here.”

  She nodded and thought, Ralph, Ralph, Ralph, until her fangs went away, which was shocking, considering the way Ian looked—all ruffled and red-faced. She noticed his pants looked really tight all of a sudden. He lifted her off the bathroom counter and smiled.

  “You are so hot,” he said.

  She pushed her newly freed red hair from her face. “Nobody’s ever told me that.”

  He took her hand and led her back to their table. First, they had to pass a scandalized-looking older woman at the bathroom door. Of course, Ian winked at her, which made her go the shade of a plum. He paid their tab and, hands still connected, guided her back to the sidewalks of St. Arthur’s.

  “What next?”

  She watched his bright eyes take in the still crowded streets. “Honestly, I’d love to take you home and get you in my bed, but as this is your first date ever, I’d better make it good.”