by R. G. Nelson
* * *
After that I guess I’m over the hump on her drinking from me. It seems like the natural next step for our relationship–how else can I show her how much I trust her? How else can she prove herself to me? How else can we further be so connected so intimately for a few glorious moments? I let her sneak little sips more and more: when we shower together, when we’re in bed, when we’re bored watching TV …. Soon I begin to crave to do it in riskier situations–I need to intensify the thrill of it all.
7)
We head to a club, just us two. The others are off changing the world or burning stores down–whatever it is they like to do. The band here is pretty good; it draws a lot of the regulars plus a bunch of randoms. Needless to say, there are hipsters galore. The scarf I wear around my neck doesn’t even stand out, though I have to admit it gets a bit hot while dancing.
Vera’s in a slinky little dress that sparkles and boots that are the perfect combination of fashionable and badass. She sways with the music rhythmically like it’s a part of her. We dance, and it’s just me and Vera and the music. I pull her close with my free arm and take a deep swig from my beer in my other hand.
Suddenly, I have an idea. “You want to sneak a drink?” I ask.
Vera looks at me with slight confusion and says, “I shouldn’t. You know I’m not allowed in public.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” I counter.
“Adam, you never know who’s watching,” she says.
“No one can see us. We’re in the middle of a crowd and it’s dark.”
“It’s too risky.”
“Okay, okay,” I say. Disappointed, I look around. In the far corner, I see a red sign for the bathroom lit up in the darkness. Bingo. New idea. “I have a plan, let’s go,” I tell her. “Bathroom. No one will find out.”
“Adam…,” she starts.
“I want to do this for you.”
Touched, she starts to smile. There, that’s it. I can tell that I’ve won.
“Okay.” We head for the bathroom across the dance floor. When we reach the men’s room, I guide her inside before anyone can object. There is a line, but lucky for us someone is just emerging from a stall. I cut the line and rush with her into the recently vacated opening. Inside, Vera is staring at me expectantly. I pay off some complaining guy under the door and take a deep pull from my beer before handing it to Vera.
“Try not to spill,” I tell her.
“It’s not like it’s my first time,” she says with a smile. She quickly and quietly places the beer on a ledge above the toilet. I take off my scarf.
Suddenly, she’s on me. I feel the now familiar sensation of her fangs in me. I groan slightly through her hand from the pleasure-pain. I feel a tiny trickle of blood escaping her eager mouth, so I lean forward, hoping it will fall to the ground rather than run down and stain my shirt. Drip. Drip. She does spill. I think a small pool of blood is starting to form on the floor, but I can’t be sure because my eyes are starting to roll up into the back of my head and I collapse in her steel embrace.
* * *
I come to moments later, still propped up in Vera’s strong grip. She’s in the process of smearing her blood on my neck to seal the holes. I know they’ll mostly heal, but there might be some light internal bruising left. I manage to stand up and re-wrap the scarf around my neck. Vera is all smiles now. She giggles affectionately.
“You’re so bad,” she says.
In these moments, I know it’s all worth it–to see her like this, with me. She looks me over like a concerned mother and checks for stains or other tell-tale remnants from our encounter. Satisfied, she hands me back my beer and bends down to clean the floor.
“You spilled,” I tease. She looks up at me sheepishly.
We leave the bathroom holding hands. We get a few curious looks, but mostly I’m the envy of the men’s room line–no doubt they think I just got very, very lucky. And I guess I actually did.
We start to head back to the dance floor when I realize I need to replace my fluids with something besides beer. “I’m gonna head to the bar and get some water,” I tell Vera. “You wanna come or should I meet you back out there?”
Vera looks over at the packed bar. She shakes her head, “I think I’ll meet you on the dance floor.”
Fair enough. I hate waiting in bar lines. Especially as a guy–compared with the attention girls receive, you are treated like a second-class citizen by both male and female bartenders. It’s like they don’t realize that most times you are buying stuff for girls, too.
Tonight seems especially bad. I wait for several minutes with no luck attracting the attention of a bartender. I’ve just killed my current beer and am getting pretty annoyed; I’m even contemplating heading back to the bathroom to drink from the faucet when I feel a female presence against my elbow. I look over my shoulder: Holy crap, it’s Megan, as in stunning, unrequited high-school-crush Megan. What’s more, she is looking at me as if she came over to chat and not just order a drink.
“Need some help?” she asks. She easily catches the bartender’s eye and orders two beers. Figures.
“And a water,” I add, immediately embarrassed.
“A water, nice. Are you a lightweight?” she teases.
“It’s for my friend,” I lie instantly. I’m not sure why that came out the way it did, and I subconsciously look over to where Vera is dancing alone. Megan notices.
“Your … friend,” she says. “Would this be the one you were dancing with earlier?”
Wow, she noticed. Well, Vera has that effect on people. “Yeah,” I answer simply. I’m not sure what else to say, but I’m saved by the arrival of our drinks.
“Thanks for the help,” I tell Megan as I pull out my wallet and pay quickly. “I wouldn’t have figured to see you here.”
“Why not? I love this band,” she says.
“Yeah, they're pretty great. They’re really taking off this year,” I say. I think this is the longest we’ve ever talked alone, ever, well, except for when she used to ask me stuff about homework, maybe. But as much as I wanted to believe otherwise in high school, that doesn’t count.
“I'm going to see them tomorrow at Village Bar. They're playing an exclusive set,” Megan says. “Actually, you should come. I know the bouncer. It's totally not a problem to get one more in.” She would know the bouncer: That’s the kind of world she lives in, the kind of people in her orbit. Not like me–except until now, maybe.
“Sounds awesome,” I tell her. And even though I know there is no chance of me ever dating a girl like Megan, something about the way she asked me makes me feel a little guilty. I glance over at Vera again; she seems to be dancing in her own little universe, ignoring the clusters of guys nearby trying to get her attention.
“But, I probably shouldn't. I'm kinda seeing someone,” I add.
Megan looks over at Vera. “Your friend?” she asks. I swear I see tinges of jealousy cross her features. “Whatever, it's just a concert. No biggy. There'll be a group of us, mostly just girls.” Her voice switches to a super girly excited tone. “But you should definitely come. It'll be fun.” At that last part, she touches my arm lightly. My heart skips several beats. I’m almost positive Megan is hitting on me. I’m sure it’s only because she saw me with Vera earlier, and I’m not the kind of guy to cheat on someone, but still–this is Megan. And it feels great. But it also makes me even more nervous around her, if that’s possible.
“Yeah, maybe,” is all I can think of to say. I don’t want to be too negative, but I can’t commit to something like that either until I know for sure whether it would be a date or just hanging out.
Megan writes her
number on a napkin and hands it to me. “Well, when you decide to join us, call me,” she says seductively.
Honestly, this is too weird. People always say when it rains, it pours, but this is crazy. Why is Megan giving me the time of day just now when I’ve started dating someone else? Without thinking, I blurt out my question.
“Megan, why the sudden interest? I crushed on you all high school.”
“Did you? I mean … I don’t know.” Megan looks shocked by my directness, but amused. “You've changed, I guess. Grown up,” she says. Then she smiles and adds, “Besides, I'm a girl. We don't have to be rational.”
“Right. I’m getting that,” I respond sarcastically.
“Good, you learn fast,” Megan says. “Eleven p.m. Tomorrow.”
She winks at me and walks away into the crowd. And just like that, I’m alone at the bar holding a beer and a water. I also have the phone number of my former dream girl in my pocket and my current dream girl waiting for me on the dance floor. I crush the water and put the glass back up on the bar. I take a few deep breaths to collect myself and then push my way to where Vera is dancing. When I finally reach her, she looks at me questioningly.
“What took you so long?” she asks.
I don’t know how to even begin to explain the exchange I just had, so I simply say, “Long line.” And then I pull her close to dance.
* * *
The next evening I find myself helping Vera hand out fliers for the Movement again. We stick to super young areas, the kind where even the plentiful graffiti is ironic and a stroll through a park will reward you with wafts of scents that are less than legal, even in winter. I really don’t mind working with her either. It kind of takes the edge off my nerves, knowing that I have a super-powered chick on my side. Plus, even though I didn’t really do anything bad last night, I still somehow feel sort of guilty. I’m not really sure why, maybe just because I feel that I shouldn’t care about what another girl thinks of me, but last night I definitely did.
Anyway, things go pretty smoothly, and by ten p.m. we are already wrapping up. We still have one box left, but Vera says we can call it early. She seems to be in a bit of a mood, but I’m not one to complain about being done sooner.
“Are you sure you didn't mind helping me tonight?” Vera asks for what feels like the millionth time.
“Again, why would I? It’s super cold and the Movement may not be my thing, but you know I like hanging with you.” I’ve been trying variations of this answer all night, but she doesn’t seem satisfied.
“Do I? I just thought you might have other places you’d rather be than stuck here handing out fliers with me all evening,” she says. She avoids eye contact as she says this and continues to fold the empty boxes as if nothing is wrong, but I can see from the tension in her body that something is up. She seems so vulnerable it would be sweet if it weren’t so unexpected.
“Ver-bear, what's wrong? You've been weird all day,” I finally ask. And then to add some levity, “Do vampire females get PMS, too?”
She is not amused. “No, we do not. But we are female enough that you should know better than to ask something like that. Sometimes, Adam ….” Her voice trails off as she shakes her head. I guess undead chicks are just as touchy about those jokes as live girls.
I shrug my shoulders and hold up my hands in submission. I definitely didn’t mean to throw fuel on this fire. She seems to have more to say, though, so I stay silent.
Finally, it spills out. “It’s ten p.m. already; I just thought, you know, you might have a concert to go to.”
“What? No,” I say. Woah, how did she know? “Were you spying on me?” I throw back at her. She never mentioned anything about it last night, so why’d she store all this inside for today? Am I supposed to read her mind and know what’s going on inside her head?
“Spying? You practically took her number right in front of me!”
Okay, so now I know vampire super-hearing works well even in a ridiculously crowded club with very loud music playing. Even so, I didn’t really do anything wrong–flirting a bit isn’t illegal, is it?
“You always flirt in front of me,” I point out. There’s no way she can deny this one.
“Adam, don’t try that. That's my job and you know it. This is different: You were into her.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off with the half breath I just sucked in to gather a precious second still trapped in my chest. “Don't lie. I could tell last night. You know I can. I heard your heartbeats speed up,” she says with disgust.
Wow, having a girlfriend with preternatural abilities just went from being super-awesome to a super-downer. I’m not quite sure what to say to her, because I did enjoy my chat with Megan last night. But afterwards, I never really even considered going to the concert and certainly wouldn’t trade Vera for Megan even if I had the choice. I have to explain this.
“Vera, it's not like that. It's just … a stupid thing left over from high school–”
She interrupts as is so often her style. “So you do like her. I knew it. So I'm what–your second choice? Your back-up girl?”
What was it Megan said again last night? About girls not being rational?
“Ver-bear, you know that's not true. That’s not what I was trying to say. What I meant was, I'm here with you … now,” I say as genuinely as I can manage. And then for emphasis I close the distance between us, grab her by her hips, and tell her, “I chose you.” That has to seal the deal. Still, to be sure, I add, “I choose you.” I lean in to kiss her ….
And am met by air. She is leaning back. This is not good.
“You chose me? Well, gee, thanks. Really appreciate it,” she says in a voice dripping sarcasm. Her expression is as icy as the wintry night air around us. “I didn’t mean to put you in such a difficult spot to figure out your heart’s desire. Tell you what–you have an hour still. Why don't you see if you can catch–Megan, was it? You know, spend some time with Megan and see if maybe you wouldn’t prefer being with her?”
I’m shocked. She really took it badly that Megan affected me last night. It’s kinda unfair, though, because in no other relationship would one person have that kind of insight into the other’s emotions. This is the stuff that is maybe best left unknown, to avoid hurt feelings and things being blown out of proportion. I can see Vera is waiting for a response, and I realize that I’m taking too long to give her one.
“Ver-bear …,” I start.
“Uh, don’t try that again. Do I look like I want you to sweet talk me more?!” she shouts angrily. “Never mind, you just don’t get it.” She kicks over the remaining partially filled box and storms off. Movement pamphlets scatter in the brisk breeze and blow down the street.
I stand there for a few moments watching her go, quite bewildered. I try to replay the conversation back in my head to see where it could have gone differently. Honestly, the only conclusion I reach is that maybe she just needs time to cool off, and then maybe she’ll be more willing to listen to my explanation. She did mention once that all her emotions were heightened as a vampire; I’ve just never seen the bad side before.
In the meantime, I start fumbling around on the ground with almost numb fingers to gather up the loose fliers, but many of them have blown quite a ways away. I pretend to do this for a few seconds or minutes, I don’t know which, and then slink down next to the box. My eyes are tearing up, but I can’t tell if it’s from the disagreement or the stinging winter breeze. This is our first major fight. It really doesn’t feel nice. Not at all. Part of me keeps worrying that she’ll do something stupid like go after Megan, but I try to dismiss that from my mind as something Vera would never do. I guess I’m more worried that she’ll try to get “even”
with me somehow–the thought of all those Movement guys fawning all over her makes my stomach knot up.
“This belong to you?” an unknown voice asks calmly.
I look up into the disheveled face of a man who is definitely down on his luck right now. He is holding out one of the fliers that I guess the wind carried off. I hope he isn’t some bum who feels cheated by the system and wants to join the Movement–I’m really not in the mood to proselytize right now.
“Yeah, thanks. Sorry. They fell out the box,” I say. I stand up to take the pamphlet and then begin to finish packing up the box so I can cut out of here quickly. No point in waiting around in the cold if Vera isn’t coming back for me.
“I've been looking for you Movement guys for a while,” the man says.
“Yeah, well, you found them,” I say distractedly. A few seconds too late, I register the sinister edge to his tone. I look up. The man has an old, rusty revolver pointed at me. And just when I thought my night had reached the lowest possible point ….
“You took my son from me. Seventeen years old. Doctors said he'd never wake up,” he asserts. With each heavily punctuated sentence his agitation grows noticeably. “We had to turn the machines off. Do you know what that’s like to have to do to your own son? And all because he tried to stop you from destroying our store.”
“Hey, take it easy. I wasn't there, really,” I say. I assume he means the Shatterday Bash back in the summer, but honestly it could have been any week. Movement kids are always running around causing trouble these days. Beating people up and looting a store would be par for the course for some. Still, either way, I wasn’t a part of it.
“But you're one of them, right? You just said so. So you're just as guilty,” he says accusingly. His lip is quivering with vehemence.