Please log in to recommend or discuss...
Night smothers the city as rain glides down the shoulders of my scuffed leather jacket. A gift from someone who won’t need it anymore. I sniff the air, gaze shifting to the stale dumpster in the rear of the alley. A rat stands upright, head at a tilt. It hisses and scurries off. I fight the urge to hiss back.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Probably Hannah Grace, tapping her foot by the big rig, checking her phone every five minutes like some overbearing mother. I take it most older siblings are like that, when no mother figure is around. I flip open the phone.
I close the phone with a sigh.
When will she realize we’re no longer slaves to time? What are we but nonchalant shadows in a world overrun with hurry?
My phone lights up, buzzes in my hand.
I stare at the text, thumbs hovering over the keys. I’d hold my breath if I had breath to hold, so instead I flip the phone shut.
My boots splash puddles as I make for downtown. The skyline blossoming with electric light in the night. I smile at the slow-burning embers in this sea of steel and concrete. The city’s vibrance insulting the natural order, just like me. The cars parked along the street never cease to amaze me. How the molds surrounding familiar logos shift and reaffirm themselves. Like us, in a world that’s changed so much in the last two hundred years. This world is new; it never sleeps.
I hear them before I see them, a line of them, standing in their Sunday best to do the devil’s work. A brute in a pinstripe suit, clipboard in hand, looms over the entrance to the chaos within. The deep pulse of the thumping bass reverberates from within the three-story club. White brick walls accented in broad black slants spiral down to the pavement, an attempt to be hip. Do humans say hip anymore?
I fall in line behind a pair of girls, blonde and brunette, wearing short dresses that cling to the curves of their haunches. The whirring headlights of passing traffic whiz by, kicking up mist when a car veers close to the curb.
“I can’t wait to get inside,” the brunette says, her fingers stretching the fabric of her dress
over her thighs. “It’s so cold out here.”
The teeth above my teeth quiver, and my tongue glides over them as they descend in anticipation.
Pairs are harder, but more rewarding.
The blonde reaches into her hardly-qualifying-as-a-bag and removes an orange prescription bottle.
“Here, babe,” she says, plucking a pill from the container, extending it to the brunette with painted nails. “This will warm you up.”
“Sarah!” the brunette says, head whipping around as she recoils from the drug. “With all these people, are you insane?”
They laugh and slide the pills beneath their tongues. I doubt they know they’ve saved themselves. Blood tastes different when the host is under the influence. Alcohol is rampant, so you get used to it, but anything more tastes foul.
Their eyes meet mine.
“Want some, honey?” the blonde says, giggling, blue irises surrounding pinpoint pupils.
The drug taking effect.
She extends the bottle, the brunette smirks beside her.
I check my burner.
11:25 p.m.
Flipping it shut, I look her in the eye, my gaze an invitation she can’t resist.
Hook.
Traffic stills as I home in on her, and her breathing slows.
Line.
Her pupils enlarge.
Sinker.
“Are you sure you want to let me ahead of you? I mean, you’ve been waiting so long.”
Her mouth falls limp, eyes fully dilated now. She says, “Of course, yeah. . . go ahead.”
“Sarah, what the hell? We’ve been freezing here an hour.” The brunette glares at me. “Look, bitch, we—”
Her mouth melts with my gaze, pupils dilating like the blonde’s.
I smile, say, “Walk into the street.”
She trembles, straightens. “Oh. . . sure, sure. . .”
She steps to the curb, clutching her bag, the red-yellow lines of downtown traffic in bloom.
Hannah Grace’s words echo in my mind.
Don’t make a scene. . .
I take her wrist, she jolts.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “Thanks for letting me ahead of you.”
I nudge by them, continuing the Simon Says dance. Manipulating my way through the hoard of suits, dresses, and flamboyant scents these humans lather themselves in, my nostrils burning.
“What do you mean you’re at capacity?” a young man in a sports jacket says, hair gel dripping to his collar, hands on his hips.
The bouncer, a tall dark glass of seriously, don’t fuck with me, towers a full head over the man, or rather, boy.
“I mean what I mean,” the bouncer says. The boy rears to say something else, but the giant points to the street.
“Beat it.”
The boy does so.
The giant glances at his clipboard and then to me. He sighs, and I know why.
I look young, about two weeks into twenty-one. So being carded is in the cards for me until the sun explodes or the drinking age is lowered. My money’s on the sun.
“I’m gonna need some ID, miss.” His eyes graze mine, too quick to capture.
I hand him a crumpled coupon from the inner pocket of my leather jacket.
“Ma’am, this isn’t—”
“I was raised by two
left-handed hags.”
He looks at me, brow raised, and his expression goes slack, pupils dilating like those of the girls before. He’s no moron though, and his mind pulls away. My eyes widen, and it’s then the mental hooks extend, burrowing deep into his psyche.
“How, old. . . are you. . . ?”
“Old enough, big guy. You’re a credit to your species.”
“Okay. . . enjoy your evening.” He extends the coupon back to me.
“Keep it,” I say, and he nods, opening the metallic door. I pass through, fingertips massaging my throbbing temples. Once you have their eyes, they’re malleable, susceptible to influence.
The bass rattles my bones. The room is dark, though I can’t remember true dark. Piles of people sway to the music, stamping their feet, grinding beneath the rays of green and yellow strobe lights. There’s a sexual energy here, and the air swells with alcohol and sweat.
My mind wanders to the jazz clubs of the 1930s, now that was music. ...
