The story is set in Louisiana, and all the Bon Temps characters are as they are in the books. Sookie is dating Bill, and Rene has just been sent to prison. Eric, however, is human.
As you know all the characters are the property of Charlaine Harris, although I believe she sold them to Alan Ball. One or two TB characters may creep in.
Sunday
Eric Northman winced in pain as the shutters to his bedroom were flung open and sunlight flooded in. His head was throbbing even before his father began to yell at him, throwing a copy of the 'Shreveport Times' onto the bed.
It was open at the gossip page, which was graced by a photo of Eric, looking very much the worse for wear. He was stumbling out of a bar, one arm round a willowy brunette and the other hand grasping the breast of a very well-endowed blonde.
"Remind me again which contract we're going after at the moment?" Godfrey Northman addressed his son as if he were speaking to a young and rather stupid child. At that moment it was a pretty accurate description of how he felt about him.
Eric scowled in response but said nothing; he knew exactly what was coming as his father continued.
"The new Fellowship of the Sun complex outside Monroe is the biggest construction project in Northern Louisiana this year. If Northman Construction doesn't win it, I'll have to lay off at least twenty guys. How many times do I have to remind you that the contract has a moral turpitude clause. Once again you seem determined to ruin everything."
"At least the girls were both human," Eric retorted with a smirk.
"I will see you in my office in ten minutes." Godfrey turned and walked purposefully out of the room, making sure to slam the door hard behind him.
'Fucking killjoy' Eric thought, groaning again as he moved his head. There was no doubt he'd overdone the champagne last night. The gram of coke he'd shared with the two women hadn't helped either. He struggled to remember their names. He should at least remember the blonde, she'd given him the finest blow-job he'd had for a month, right there in the VIP booth of Shreveport's most upscale nightclub.
If only his Dad wasn't so mean, he would have his own apartment and he could have taken them both back there to continue the fun. As it was the pittance his Dad allocated him for his job with Northman Construction just about covered his designer suits, hectic social life, and running the vintage Corvette that was his pride and joy. Running an apartment as well was out of the question, not unless he got a big promotion. There wasn't much chance of that any time soon, Godfrey Northman never tired of reminding anyone who would listen how he had built the business from nothing and he was determined that his son should work his way up, just as he had.
Work was a rather loose term for what how Eric spent his days. Sure he showed up in the office, and put in six or seven hours; provided you counted his midday break. He pushed a few papers around, entertained clients, and turned up on site from time to time to joke with the guys.
He hated it, well most of it. Entertaining the clients could be fun, particularly when they brought their wives with them. A bit of surreptitious flirting with the silicone-breasted blondes they seemed to favor was always entertaining. Schmoozing was one of his talents and that normally helped him to stay just on the right side of his father.
This time though he had a horrible feeling that he had gone too far and that even his silver tongue wouldn't be able to talk him out of this situation. He recognized the look of grim determination on Godfrey Northman's face as he entered his study. He'd seen it before and it always meant trouble for him. He tried his hardest to look contrite as he waited for his father to speak.
"I think it's about time you found out what life is like in the real world. I've arranged a new job for you, and a place to live. I'm suspending your allowance. You can live on what you earn for a change."
Eric tried and failed to suppress a smirk. He'd wanted his own place, and now he was going to get it. How hard would it be to stick to a budget? True he had been more of a champagne than a beer guy since he'd left college. Apart from that though he only needed gas for his Corvette and a few lines of coke each weekend. His gym membership was paid up for the year, and there was a limit to how many new clothes he could wear.
He pondered briefly what the new job might be. It only took a moment for his father to wipe the smile off his face.
"The Renard parish road crew are a man down since one of their guys was arrested for murder recently. Bud Dearborn, the sheriff there, is an old friend of mine and he's fixed it for you to get the job."
Eric stared at him uncomprendingly. Renard Parish was right up in the north of the state, no more than a few no-account towns full of inbreeds, or so he'd heard. He didn't like the sound of working on the road crew either. It was only one step up from a chain gang. If any of his friends found out about this, his reputation would be shot.
"I'll take your car keys please. You can have Isabel's old Hyundai."
Eric couldn't disguise his outrage. "No way am I driving that old wreck." His stepmother drove a ten-year-old hatchback for her charity work in downtown Shreveport. Her sleek BMW coupe would attract far too much attention, but the old yellow car was perfectly anonymous even in the roughest of neighborhoods.
"You will do as I tell you, if you want any chance of keeping your job with my company." That was typical Godfrey Norman, his son thought bitterly, never missing an opportunity to put him in his place.
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. He knew from experience that there was no chance of his father backing down. He would have to play along, at least for a while. His head still hurt too much to try to think of a way out of it.
"Fine, whatever you say, it's not a big deal," Eric forced a nonchalant expression and sauntered out of the room.
He took his time packing a bag, choosing his oldest jeans and t-shirts. There would certainly be no point in wasting designer clothes on a town which most likely counted Wal-Mart as the height of sophistication. On second thoughts he added a couple of well-cut pairs of jeans and some silk boxers, just in case. Uncomplicated sex with some country girl would suit him just fine. He'd heard that what they lacked in sophistication, they made up for in enthusiasm.
It was a good thing that Luna Garcia, their Latino housekeeper, had always had a soft spot for him. She kept him supplied with freshly squeezed orange juice and coffee as he sorted his things and reflected on the unfairness of this turn of events. Like all of his friends, he lived life to the full. 'Work hard; play hard' was their motto, with emphasis on the 'play'. It was what they expected, what was due to them. Their families were all rich, and if their fathers could afford a new trophy wife every five or six years, they could hardly begrudge their sons the best things in life.
It wasn't as if he was the only one of his friends to appear regularly in the gossip column of the local paper. To be honest he sometimes regarded it as a public service: without them to write about the local media would probably go out of business. Apart from an occasional film shoot in the area there wasn't a lot else to grab the readers' attention.
One hour and three strong coffees later, he could no longer put off the inevitable. He gave Luna a quick hug, but didn't bother going through to say goodbye to his Dad or Stepmom. He winced, more with embarrassment than pain, as he maneuvered himself awkwardly into the Hyundai. He just hoped that he could get out of the city without being seen. As soon as he reached the city limits he put his foot hard on the gas and drove the Hyundai so hard it started to shake.
He was still reflecting on the shitty hand he'd been dealt as he pulled off Highway 70 into the little town of Bon Temps. All his worst fears were confirmed. It was low rise and low rent. A small parade of shops lined the main street. Several were boarded up, but an old-fashioned coffee shop was open, and a bit further along a beauty parlor, and a women's dress shop. On the opposite side was the town Police station and Courtroom.
He'd been given an address, which turned out to be on one of the side streets. He pulled up outside, stopping in front of an old pick-up truck. As he checked it out in his rear-view mirror, he saw a small, wiry guy emerge and begin to walk towards him. He took a couple of moments to appraise him, before extricating himself from his own car.
The stranger stuck out a hand in greeting as he approached, "Hi, I'm Sam Merlotte," He was smaller than Eric, but muscular and wiry, his hair blond with a hint of red. "You must be Eric Northman. I'm your new landlord."
Eric nodded a brief acknowledgement, then followed as Sam led the way up the steps to the porch, swung open the insect screen, and unlocked the front door.
The duplex smelled musty, as if it hadn't been occupied for a few months. The air of neglect was overlaid with a strong aroma of cheap household cleaning products.
"I guess it's not quite what you're used to. I've had it cleaned though since…" He stopped abruptly.
"Since?" Eric questioned, raising an eyebrow.
Sam was silent for a few moments. "You'll hear it from someone soon enough I guess. The last tenant was murdered here. A girl called Dawn, she worked in my bar."
Eric shrugged. "I hope you've reduced the rent then," he said coldly. The death of some small town hooker meant less than nothing to him.
Sam narrowed his eyes but said nothing. He hadn't known what to expect when Bud Dearborn had called him earlier, asking for a favor. He was mighty glad to get the place off his hands. Even a short term let might be enough to help shake the memory of Dawn's tragic death. Still, he found it hard to warm to this stranger and his casual disregard for another life.
He suppressed his dislike, and force a smile. "If there's anything you need, here's my cell-phone number," he thrust a sheet of paper into the hand of his new tenant. I run a bar just on the edge of town. Drop by if you feel like a beer, I'll introduce you to the locals."
"God save me from that," Eric thought, but turned on his most insincere smile as he forced himself to shake the other man's hand again. Once Sam had left he took a look round his new home. The furniture had definitely seen better days; it reminded him of a cheap whorehouse he and his buddies had visited once for a bachelor party. He winced with disgust as he ran a hand over the bed linen; it was some kind of synthetic material he couldn't even put a name to.
Sighing loudly, he lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The springs groaned every time he shifted his position, and he thought he could feel one digging into his back. This was not a bed built for sex, even if he did find someone he could bring himself to have sex with in this backwater.
"You can do this, Northman," he told himself sternly. He'd been through bad times before, like when his real Mom died and he was sent away to school. That had been dreadful at first. Most of the other boys came from old money, and looked down on him and his family. He'd won them round though, some with his fists and some with generosity. No-one could ever call him mean, not when it came to spending Dad's money anyway.
It wasn't as if he was a weakling either – he worked out at the gym four times a week – you didn't get abs like his watching TV. A little bit of hard work, a lot of charm and enough money, he could get through this ordeal in no time, and be back in Shreveport where he belonged.
Checking his watch he decided to pass on Sam Merlotte's offer to introduce him to the locals. He just didn't have the energy to turn on the charm, and besides he was still feeling too sorry for himself. Checking the fridge he discovered that his landlord had left a welcome pack: a four-pack of Bud, a loaf of bread, some thin-cut ham, coffee and some milk.
The beer didn't do anything to improve his mood. It didn't help that there was no air-con in the apartment, just a noisy ceiling fan. High summer in northern Louisiana and the heat was oppressive. It reminded him of when he was little, when his Dad had just started up the business, and the three of them lived in a small apartment in northern Shreveport.
It had been cramped and hot, but still his memories were happy ones. Sometimes he imagined he could smell his mother. He was too young to care that her perfume was cheap; all he knew was that her skin was soft as she rubbed her cheek against his.
Shaking off the memory he undressed and got into bed. He dozed off a few times, only to wake bathed in sweat and tangled in the damp and uncomfortable sheets. A cold shower gave a brief respite, and finally, in the early hours he fell asleep.
The relief didn't last long. It seemed to him only the blink of an eye before he was woken by the insistent honking of a car horn outside his window. He turned over and pulled the pillow down over his head to block out the noise. That worked for all of two minutes before that noise was replaced by a loud banging on the door of his apartment.
"Hey man," a man's voice shouted, "time for work – it's six thirty already."
So this was real life, down with the common people. Well as far as he was concerned they could keep it.
The title of this story comes from the Pulp song, in which Jarvis Cocker tells the story of a rich girl he met at Art College who wanted to live like the working classes. As he explains to her, she never can, because when things get tough she can always run back to Daddy.
I posted this first chapter by way of a teaser, and now I feel guilty about the delay in following it up. There will be more, but (as at 6th August) I've just got a bit stuck. Thanks to all the people who've fed back on this chapter, especially the suggestions on how much he would earn and what things cost. I promise all of you there will be more, hopefully before too long.
