by Sotia Lazu
Cherry Stem
Vampire Cherry, Volume 1
Sotia Lazu
Published by Acelette Press, 2017.
Cherry Stem
SOTIA LAZU
This book is a work of fiction.
While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Sotia Lazu
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Acelette Press
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
For every woman who has a bit of Cherry in her
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Want more? | Cherry Blossom (Vampire Cherry Book 2) - Chapter One
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Into Greek gods?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For every woman who has a bit of Cherry in her
Prologue
MY MOM ALWAYS TOLD me not to play with my food. I try to keep that in mind.
She never told me not to let my food play with me, however, so I would let tall, dark, and handsome—with gray eyes, a brilliant smile, and killer cheekbones—flirt with me to his heart’s content. Then I’d let him take me to his place.
Then I’d feed.
By the time he woke up in the morning, he’d remember having great, anonymous sex and nothing else.
That was the plan, at least. That had always been the plan.
Until things changed.
Chapter One
I WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE my apartment, when there was a knock at my door. I opened it, and Dotty, one of the second-floor tenants, burst into the room.
We weren’t friends per se, but she’d occasionally pop by for some girl chat. I’d told her I worked nights and that I needed my beauty sleep, so she wouldn’t disturb me during the day, but she’d never before come by after nine in the evening.
“I need your help.” She gasped for breath as she turned to face me, running a hand through her short, spiky black hair.
At nearly six feet tall, on the heavy side, and with a square jaw, Dotty never seemed to need anybody’s help.
“What can I do?” I secretly hoped whatever it was could wait until my stomach was full. Her outfit somehow made me doubt my hopes would be justified; she looked ready to go out.
As did I, which I prayed she’d notice.
She bit her lip, then said, “The sitter was with Mark until now, but she had to go, and my date—ummm. I invited him upstairs for a drink, and he’s waiting in the car.” She blushed and sucked in a gulp of air, before blurting out the actual reason for her visit. “Can Mark stay here for an hour?” When she took in my short leather skirt and bustier that left little to the imagination, she pouted. “I guess not.” With a sigh, she turned for the door.
Even though she turned slowly enough that I knew she expected me to stop her, I felt bad. “Okay, but only for one hour,” I said to her back. I’d looked after him before, and he wasn’t horrible.
The words had barely left my mouth when she opened the door again and let Mark, her pudgy six-year-old son, inside. “I owe you big-time,” she told me over her shoulder, blew Mark a kiss, and rushed out before I could change my mind.
“Why aren’t you wearing pajamas?” the boy asked, tilting his head to the side. “Did you just come back, like Mommy?”
I swear he would have had a brilliant career with the Spanish Inquisition, had he been born back then. Since I always believed in treating children like adults, I opted for the truth. “Nope. I’m going out as soon as your mommy picks you up.”
“Why are you going out after dark?” His thin eyebrows were furrowed, the sharp expression looking out of place in the adorable roundness of his face.
“Why not?” I asked innocently. Ha. I beat him at his own game.
“My daddy says only bad people go out after dark.” He crossed his arms in front of his easily breakable chest and looked at me smugly.
I understood why his mother never asked her ex-husband to babysit. “Your mommy was out until now,” I said with a saccharine smile. “Is she bad?”
He apparently took offense, because he stomped his foot. “No.”
“Well, then, your daddy is wrong.” There. I’d had the last word. How would he beat that argument?
“But it was day when my mom went out.” Smug again.
I was tempted to try my brainwash gaze on him but thought better of it. Instead I said, “If you don’t talk again until your mom comes to get you, I’ll give you ten bucks.”
He squinted at me. “Twenty.”
I should have started lower, but it was too late for that now. “Fifteen, and you never tell her about our deal.” Hey, I said I’d looked after him a couple times; I never said I was good at it. I’d have to find another way around his questions next time, though. He was getting expensive.
Dotty wasn’t late to pick him up. She was disheveled and grinning like the Cheshire cat, but not late. I grabbed my keys, stuffed them in the front of my bustier, all but tossed Mark to her, and was out of there.
THE GRIDLOCK WAS ONE of my favorite bars, which meant I visited it only every couple of months. It wouldn’t do to be seen leaving with a different man every night, especially if said man didn’t remember me the following day.
Spacious and dimly lit, the Gridlock was decorated in black and shades of red. Drapes separated a few private stalls, and the upper floor housed the supersecret VIP area. Get your minds out of the gutter; the place wasn’t a sex club. The VIP area was only secret because celebrities often chose it to unwind when they needed to stay away from the public eye for a while—no orgies took place there as far as I was aware.
What added most to the bar’s appeal was its patrons—young professionals, not out to get wasted. Pretty people, who took care of themselves and looked and smelled good, relaxed on leather armchairs. A smorgasbord of dining possibilities, and the music was to my taste.
As was the bartender, but he was off limits.
Heads turned as I entered, but I maintained my cool. The outfit I’d chosen was at odds with the surroundings, but by the time I left home, I was in a hurry, and the club I initially had in mind was too far away. I might have gone through the trouble of finding another place that suited my attire, but a phone call earlier that evening had jarred me—always, always change your cell number after breaking up with someone, or they can bug you for years.
I looked cheap for the place, but it was too late to do something about it. Holding my head high and keeping from swishing my butt more than necessary, I made my way inside and pretended not to no
tice the glares a group of businesswomen in their thirties with impeccable hair, threw my way. I was there for a reason.
I moved toward the bar with deliberately slow steps. Gaze not lingering on a face for more than a split second, I tried not to broadcast that I was looking for someone to fulfill my needs for the night.
I spotted the perfect guy within twenty-five seconds of scanning the room. I’d never seen him around before. Believe me, I’d remember if I had. A head taller than everybody else, and with shoulders as wide as my bed, he leaned casually against the bar, holding a bottle of beer. Even at a distance, I could see his eyes were the same charcoal gray as his shirt, and fringed with long, dark eyelashes. And his gaze was locked on me.
The first phase of the plan was complete—the prey had seen me and was attracted.
Phase Two consisted of me feigning disinterest until he made a move. If I took the first step, he might deem me too easy, and as I’d discovered in the past, that wasn’t always enough of an ego booster to make a man take me home. Although, if I played my cards right, it might be more than enough to make him follow me into the ladies’ room.
With the rent deadline approaching, I needed money tonight almost as much as I needed blood, so a quick hit wasn’t an option.
Oh, the blood thing reminded me there’s something I should have said earlier.
My name is Cherry, and I’m a vampire.
Sadly, since L. A. wasn’t brimming with job openings for an aspiring porn star turned vampire, I often found myself in need of cash. When that happened, I looked for someone to serve as more of a sponsor, rather than a blood donor. For the day, not indefinitely.
I’d been in a couple of adult movies; I wasn’t a sex-worker. Most of the guys I fed on got nothing other than the promise of sex. If I was into them, I might do them as I fed, but I never did it because I thought I had to. Letting someone cover my expenses in the long run would change that dynamic.
As would falling in love with someone. A breathing someone, with a pulse and an expiration date.
It would screw things up majorly, which was why I never slept with the same human more than once since I became part of the living dead. The living dead. It sounds so very ominous, but some of us are nice.
And... I’m digressing.
One of the coolest vampire powers is mind control, which some swear is the best way to a healthy relationship. Personally, I prefer not having to wipe my lover’s brain clean every so often. A steady, living boyfriend from whom I’d have to hide my true nature was therefore out of the question.
As for dating a vampire? No thanks. Too many relationship issues. The way I see it, knowing you’ll be around for a very long time can make you extremely picky as to whom you want by your side.
Also, male vampires are patronizing, controlling assholes with superiority complexes.
And they cheat.
I admit to only knowing one of them that well, so call it an educated guess.
I approached the side of the bar farthest from the guy and ordered a Bloody Mary. Silly private jokes like that give me a weird sense of accomplishment. I know; I need therapy.
Drink in hand, I tapped my foot to the rhythm of the music and observed the crowd dancing—slowly swaying, to be more precise—while I mentally counted the seconds it would take for him to approach me. When he hadn’t moved any closer after a whole minute, I turned and gave him the squint.
The squint is a leftover from my short days as a catalog model, before I decided on a major career change and made my first of two adult films. To achieve it, you narrow your eyes enough to make your gaze look focused and promising. Overdo it, and you look myopic. Combine it with a slight pout, and you have guys eating out of your hand.
Or flashing you a smile, as was the case now.
His smile was dazzling. Straight, white teeth—I’m a vampire; we pay attention to teeth—and a lower lip that begged me to nibble on it. And oh those cheekbones...
I clenched my jaw and made a show of turning away. You want me, buddy? You have to come and get me.
He didn’t, but a fifty-something man with alcohol-laced breath and red-rimmed eyes appeared out of nowhere and cornered me against the bar. Just my luck. There was one person in the establishment who hadn’t bathed for a couple of weeks, and of course he decided to make a pass at me.
“Can I buy you a drink, honey?” His words were slurred, and he stood too close for comfort.
I could have ripped his head off his shoulders within seconds, but I don’t generally like violence. Placing a hand on his shoulder, to keep him at arm’s length, I indicated my glass. “No, thanks. I’m set.” I smiled, allowing a bit of fang to show. He couldn’t possibly have enough credibility to expose us.
The drunk stumbled back, hands held up in the universal giving-up sign, at the same time the yummy male specimen made his way to us. Yummy’s face fell. Aha. Hero complex.
“I was coming to save you,” he said, “but I see you handled him yourself.” His voice complemented the rest of him. Deep, masculine—the voice you’d want whispering dirty things in your ear.
The ball was in my court. “Maybe you should stick around, in case I can’t handle the next one.” I smiled. No fangs.
His grin gave me a better look at his pearly whites. Yup, still flawless. “I’m Alex. Alex Marsden.”
“Cherry.” No last name for me. There was no reason.
Up close, he looked even better. I figured he was in his late twenties, thirty tops, and worked out. His fingers, which I got a good look at when he raised his beer to his mouth, were long, and I couldn’t help but imagine how his big hands would feel on me.
“So, what do you do?”
His question threw me. People didn’t usually care what I did when I was dressed in leather and thigh-high boots. I wondered how he’d react if I said I was a lawyer.
I took a sip from my overpriced, alcohol-laced tomato juice. “Used to model. I’m between jobs now.” Had been for a long time, since my maker hadn’t bothered to ask about my future plans before turning me. At first I’d been really pissed off to wake up dead while at the peak of my career.
Meh. I may as well be truthful. I hadn’t been at the peak, rather at the beginning. I’d filmed two highly erotic movies as an extra and had just been given the starring role in a third one. And the main reason I’d been pissed off for the better part of six years was that I’d been turned before getting the lipo and boob job I’d planned on pampering myself with for my twenty-fourth birthday. Now I was doomed to go through eternity without the flat belly and double-D breasts Dr. King had promised me.
Alex nodded and looked me up and down. “You look familiar, and I don’t follow fashion. Have we met before?” To his credit, his gaze didn’t pause anywhere but on my face during his perusal.
Classic pickup line, although he might have seen me before. I couldn’t really ask him if he liked porn, so I shook my head. “What do you do?”
“I’m a cop. Detective.” He shrugged like he was saying nothing special.
A detective. This could be bad. These guys have good memories as a rule, and he might have seen my missing-person report. Still, I wouldn’t panic. I’d gone from blonde to redhead for Knotting Cherry Stem—hell, I’d changed my name for it—and had bangs now and forever. No, he wouldn’t recognize me.
And no, I’m not telling you my real name.
“Sounds exciting,” I drawled, all wide-eyed. “You should tell me more.” To stress how interested I was, I ran the tips of my fingers down his bicep. Nice and firm. Yum squared.
As if he didn’t notice, he began saying something about my eyes. Most guys would be all over the chance to touch me back, but not him. I could see he was the type to really take his time with a woman, and it intrigued me. Would he take his time with everything?
I cut him off, pointing to the speaker booming overhead. “It’s too loud in here. Maybe we should go someplace quiet?”
He arched his left eyebrow but put h
is palm on the small of my back. The touch gave me goose bumps, and that’s a real feat when talking about a dead girl. “My place is quiet.” Ah, he got the hint. Smart man.
As soon as I left my drink on the bar, he caught the bartender’s eye and paid for us both. I didn’t offer to cover my half, but I made a mental note to thank him properly once we were alone.
“Do you have a car?” he asked as I let him lead me to the exit. “You can follow me in it, or I can drive you back here...” His voice drifted off. What would he say? What could he say? Later? After? His sentence was better left unfinished.
“No car. I took a cab.” Not all vampires can fly, but only because some can’t fathom lifting off the earth and therefore won’t focus their will enough to achieve it. I can. I’d flown to the bar, but I couldn’t tell him that.
“Are you okay with taking my car? Riding with strangers, and all?” He was so thoughtful, and I had to try not to swoon until he added, “We could go to your place, if you’d feel more comfortable.”
No no no no no. No. Bad enough that I was still going through with my plan though he was a policeman—but he was so hot, who could blame me? Bringing him to my apartment would take risky to a whole new level.
“I wanna see how a cop lives.” A bat of my heavily made-up eyelashes, and the deal was closed.
THE DRIVE TO ALEX’S place was long enough to get me wondering if he was some psycho killer, looking for a place to have his wicked way with me. If that was the case, he was so in for a surprise that I felt bad for him. Although the possibility of that being his agenda made me feel less bad for what my agenda was, which in itself was weird.
I’ve never felt shame or guilt for feeding off unsuspecting victims. Never ever. It’s not like I do them any harm. Nothing like the harm that was done to me, anyway.
I’d met my maker at a party.
His name was Willoughby, and he’d been gorgeous and polite. Nothing like the grabby crowd my agent usually brought me into contact with. When he’d suggested driving me home, I’d been all up for it. Maybe the mention of a limo had added to the appeal.