Ahhhh, it's been a long ass time since I've written on . But I'm back, and cowriting with mah gurl Jordan. We're so excited so enjoy~~~

As far as Ivy Pickett is concerned, there isn't a better rush than after a successful theft.

The rush, the adrenaline, it's madness. She's always had sticky fingers, grabbing at things that weren't hers since a little child. A snatched pair of sneakers here and a stolen five dollar bill there was how she learned to survive, or really, to thrive.

Her first theft was a Hello Kitty wristwatch, pink and plastic and really quite junky in retrospect. Nowadays even Ivy's antsy hands wouldn't grab at it. But back then, it was gold, sitting on Hanna Jenson's dresser, amongst all the best things in the house. Most of the kids in the foster home had the worst, lowest of the low shit. But not Hanna, she had Limited Too jeans and a Game Boy Color and that fucking wristwatch. And she rubbed it in everyone's faces. Ivy had no idea where the fuck she got all of her things, but it had eaten her very insides to watch the blonde little Barbie playing with all her fabulous things. So one night, when Hanna had been downstairs getting an extra scoop of ice cream for being good all day (since she hadn't retaliated when Ivy threw dog shit in her face), Ivy had snuck upstairs and in a moment of panic, snatched the watch and stuffed it under her mattress.

Today had been no different. She'd been innocently passing through when she'd recognized the name of the podunk little down on the way in. Something struck her and she'd veered off the road, driving her stolen little shit vehicle, littered with equally shitty stolen things, down to the main road and into whatever the fuck Bon Temps was. She was met with what she was always met with in Louisiana: small towns filled with even smaller people. Which was, if she was being honest, one of her favorite things on the planet. That and diamonds. She really fucking loved diamonds.

"She's back here." Suppose when she had pulled over to that little bar, with barely any cars in the parking lot save for that fateful blue pickup, she should have been a bit more careful. She'd spent enough time nicking things to know which was a good idea and which wasn't. But Ivy was never one to shy away from a bad idea, in fact, she craved them. Bad ideas, she thought, made the world interesting.

A nearly six foot, scruffy, sweet-as-pie looking man with with that same bumbling police officer stopped in front of her cell. A smile spreads across her face as she takes in his kind face, that long hair and sweet smile she used to know and love. But now, instead of smiling or really, grimacing at her like he used to, he was glaring at her, confused.

"They cuffed me," she pouted, sticking her bottom lip out and holding her wrists towards him. He shifted his glance between her and Officer Bellefleur. "Oh, come on now. Don't say you don't recognize me, Sammy."

Sam's eyes widened at the sound of his name. He stared at her, with her blunt dark hair, wide and certainly wild eyes. The lines of her face were sharp and the smirk on her face was familiar. But he still hadn't placed her.

"It's understandable," she told him, popping her hip out, and looking a bit more like an angry teenager than a wanted criminal finally behind bars. "I've grown some major tits since the last time you saw me."

Sam Merlotte blinked once, then twice. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed in shock and he blurted, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I'm the decorator," she explained, a nasty little smirk on her face, "this place is in shambles."

"Jesus Christ, Ivy," he barked, grabbing onto the cell door and shaking his head. "How the hell did you end up in here?"

"Helping them clean this place out, kickin' around a few cons," she said, scuffing her boot on the floor and looking over her shoulder at the only other person in the cell: an overweight elderly woman who looked like she had no idea where she was or what year it was.

"Picked her up outside your bar," Andy explained gruffly, waddling forward and narrowing his eyes at Ivy. She was smirking still, with wild eyes that Sam knew too well. It was like he was back in New Orleans, seeing her stand in front of him like nothing had changed. "She was rifling through your truck. Saw her climbing out of Mrs. Fortenberry's car before that carrying a toaster."

"A toaster?" Sam glanced back to her, though he shouldn't have been so surprised.

She shrugged. "Never know when you need to make toast, especially when I saw your name on that bar and remembered you telling me once you wanted one of those. I thought, wow, Sam Merlotte and I could really enjoy a few slices of toast together. Maybe a little strawberry jam too, like Mrs. Rockhart used to make."

She became well aware that she was still behind bars, locked in a cage with a toothless townie while her old friend and a clueless cop stand by. Sam was still confused; shocked that she was standing behind bars, a surprise visit that not even Sam and his whirlwind of a life could have predicted.

"Well," she said after a while, "you can't say I don't know how to make an entrance!"

"You got arrested on purpose," he said, shaking his head and resting his hands on the cell bars. "That's really fucking stupid, Ives."

"Well when was I ever smart?" she offered, letting that trademark little smirk he used to know so well creep onto her face. Sam held his glare for only a few moments longer, but her face and the wave of nostalgia that hits him is enough to break him. "Besides, stupid is a bit of a relevant term for us folks, don't you think?"

He shook his head, patting in the cell one more time before turning his head over his shoulder and shouting, "Alright Andy. Time to let her go."

"What?" came the gruff and confused voice of the officer who had arrested Ivy on the scene. She'd been nearly halfway into the bed of Sam's truck when he'd grumbled and grabbed her by the legs, yanking her out. She'd landed on the ground and swore at him and he'd decided that meant disorderly conduct. That hadn't been very disorderly until then, when she called him a fat little bitch and earned herself a proper handcuffing. And it wasn't even at all kinky. "We can't just let her go, I've been trying to run her ID and nothings coming up! Ain't nobody with the name Ivana Slopdique in all of Louisiana!"

"Slapdique," Ivy corrected.

Andy opened his mouth to growl bearishly again, but Sam held his hand out to stop him.

"Just, let it go Andy? For me. Uh," he sighed, looking around and leaning closer to the mildly overweight cop, "how about free beers at Merlotte's for a week?"

"Month," Andy barked. Sam nodded and the officer nodded awkwardly to Sam before giving Ivy a wary glance and wandering away. Ivy just grinned, wiggling her eyebrows.

"Well haven't you got him wrapped around your pretty little finger."

Sam didn't dignify her with a response. Ivy was used to this with him and her often, less than polite comments. Though, this hardly even ranked on the offensive and off-putting things she'd ever said to him, it was a nice throwback to have him speechless.

Andy returned, moving to unlock her cell and fumbling with the keys.

"Thanks officer," Ivy purred, strutting out of the cell and dragging her finger across the badge on his chest.

"It's sheriff," Andy stuttered, "Sheriff Bellefleur."

"And I'm Ivy Pickett." She forcibly shook his hand, which remained limp in her grasp as his eyes glazed over in confusion. "You should know now, considering that we'll probably be seeing a lot of each other."

Andy remained quiet and alarmed, glancing at Sam helplessly until Ivy spoke again.

"Right, Sam?"

Sam rolled his eyes, firmly grabbing the crook of Ivy's elbow and pulling her towards the door. "Let's go. Sorry for the trouble Andy."

Once they were outside, Ivy ripped her hand out of Sam's grasp. "That hurt." she said, pouting and placing a hand on her hip.

"Yeah well," Sam was exasperated as he spoke, sweat above his eyebrow, hair tousled in every which way, his blue puppy-dog eyes looked nearly full to the brim with tears. Ivy would've felt guilty if she was capable of it. "Where the hell have you been?"

Where the hell has she been? Ivy thought about it. California, New York, Seattle for a short stint with a punk band, every single jeweler in America. She's been in a few police holding cells, spoken to wise hookers and downcast gamblers in Vegas. She's hustled the despondence into some men, pretending she was "no good" at pool and strutting out of a bar with pride and hundreds of dollars in sweet, sweet cash.

She'd ridden on the backs of motorcycles along with the men who, always foolish and blinded by her looks and tiny build, were stupid enough to trust her with the keys. She'd stolen motorcycles and driven them to God knows where, until she'd found God knows what she wanted that day.

"Around," she said decisively, "I've been around."

There was a beat of silence.

"Are fucking kidding me?" Sam was different than Ivy remembered. Same mannerisms, same anger over nonsense. But something had changed and she couldn't quite put her sticky little finger on it. "Ivy, where have you been for the last three years?"

"I said around," Ivy argued. Even though Sam was fun to mess with, for the most part, she wasn't in much of an arguing mood. She had just been let out of jail. She just had to discover what the smell of elderly woman's perfume mixed with cigarettes was. Whether you're a shifter or not, jail sucks.

Sam sighed, shaking his head. "That's not good enough."

"Sorry."

"You aren't sorry."

"Okay, I'm not."

Sam sighed again, turned on his heel, and began walking away. Ivy followed and he didn't say a word.

"I'm not a kid anymore, you know," Ivy called from behind him. "You don't have to treat me like I'm eighteen."

He scoffed loudly. "You're always gonna be a kid, kid."

Now that sounded like the Sam Merlotte that she met nine years ago, offering his worn flannel top after a shift-gone-wrong. The boy who she spent four years of her life with. For heaven's sake, she knew everything about him. And being back in his presence, well, it kind of felt like home.

If home was a shitty little town with probably nothing interesting to steal, that is. Ivy always had her priorities set.

"Come on," he said as they reached his truck, the same one she'd been caught climbing into a few hours ago, "I'll take you back to my place."

-.-

Sam's "place" was entirely not what Ivy was expecting. Though she didn't envision a sprawling mansion with an infinity pool or a Victorian household with a white picket fence, she certainly didn't picture Sam Merlotte still living in a trailer.

"I thought you'd have made it big," she said, staring up at the ransacked, movable home. The Louisiana heat was nearly unbearable, though it wasn't anything she hadn't dealt with before. Ivy was a layers girl, and had simply yanked off her flannel to reveal a black tank top that showed a little more than Sam had been expecting. In fact, it had taken him nearly thirty seconds to stop staring at her tits. And Ivy couldn't lie, she loved the attention. "You know… not living in the same sort of shack we did five years ago."

How unfortunate, Ivy thought. The place was a real dump. The siding was a dingy white, caked with dirt between the oddly spaced shingles and metal. There was a cheesy, aqua awning, with awful pin-stripes that looked like it smelled of mildew and wet dog. The whole place looked like it had floated out of New Orleans after hurricane Katrina had hit.

Ivy wasn't into it.

Sam shrugged, slamming his truck door closed and helping her with her second of just two duffel bags. Ivy packed in a rather clever way, always ready for when someone (or something) might be on the lookout. All her very important things had to be small enough to fit inside a bag she could throw onto her back and run (or gallop) away as fast as she could. The rest of her things were inside her trusty storage garages about ninety miles south. "Don't have much need for anyplace bigger."

"Hmm," Ivy clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "You know, I may live on the run, but that doesn't mean I don't like a little five star hotel service here and there."

Sam brushed by her, walking up the stairs to his tiny trailer. He yanked the door open and looked down at her with an exasperated expression. She lifted her free hand up to tickle his whiskers and smirk. He rolled his eyes. "Get on inside, Pickett."

"Yes, Sir," she saluted him, "whatever you say, Sir!"

Sam eyed her curiously and Ivy slipped right on inside. It was nowhere near as cruddy on the inside as it was on the out. Actually, Ivy could almost appreciate the effort had made to have the place look like a home. The yellow shag rug, albeit being stained, gave it a semi-warm vibe when paired with mismatched (and stained) furniture. If Ivy could pick through a dictionary and find a word to describe the room, she'd pick quaint. Maybe boring, but mostly quaint, because it could also be condescending.

"You look judgmental," Sam said, opening the fridge to grab a few beers. "Take it easy."

"It's hard to in this dump," Ivy admitted.

"Okay, well," Sam passed her a beer and sat down on a dark brown recliner. "Why don't you try and take a seat?"

Yeah, right, like Ivy would put her million dollar ass on that sorry excuse for a couch. Sure, it was cute. But cute could mean dog lice in Sam's house.

Which, in her many experiences with Sam, is not worth the risk.

"There's no lice, for fuck's sake. I learned how to have that not happen, now."

Ivy scoffed, "Have you?"

"Yes. Now sit, make yourself at home."

She decided to put Sam out of his misery, sort of. While sitting down she also took his beer and very obviously, very rudely, exposed her chest to him while leaning over his recliner. It was a win win for all.

Sam sat up abruptly a few moments later. "I have to go."

Well, almost a win win.

"What? You're leaving me here?" Ivy imagined having to spend time alone, in Sam's less than luxurious home and she nearly got the chicken pox from the thought. Upon her initial scan, there was absolutely nothing she'd want to steal from inside the house. Except maybe a few of Sam's t-shirts, but that was mostly for a "torture him with her tits" sort of scenario.

"Yeah, I have work," Sam said, scratching the back of his head guiltily. "I have a bar now."

Despite confirmation that Sam had achieved his life-long dream of owning a bar, Ivy was too bothered to find it in herself to be happy for him. Besides, she'd seen the place. It didn't look like it served lobster.

"That's cool and all," Ivy clicked her tongue disapprovingly, "but can't you hang out for a minute? I don't like this place."

"And that's your problem."

"Oh fuck you," Ivy said casually, standing up. "I just got back and you're already blowing me off? At least take me with you. Or leave me with something interesting."

"I haven't got a ball of yarn." Sam laughed coolly. Ivy rolled her eyes. Shaking his head and heading towards the front door, he added, "You've been fine on your own for the past five years, I'm sure you'll be fine for a few hours."

Was Sam always so confrontational?

"I'm coming with you," Ivy demanded. She was twenty-three years old, a real woman. Real women don't take orders from men unless it's in bed.

Like a two year old, Sam ran to guard the door, holding the knob and shaking his head. "No you're not."

"Why?" Ivy asked, strutting towards the door. Everything she learned about boys, manipulation, and persuasion had led to this moment. She would get Sam to do what she wanted no matter how much taller, stronger, and smart mouthed he was. Ivy had a certain factor that not even Sam could dismiss with a roll of his pretty little eyes. "Are you ashamed of me?"

"No." Sam said quickly. Too quickly. "It's not that. I just think you should get acquainted with the house, is all."

"Is it really?" Ivy was closing in on him. "I think you're ashamed of me. In fact, I think you've made quite a name for yourself here in this shit old town-"

"-Bon Temps-"

"-Whatever. You don't want me to tarnish your rep, is that so?"

Sam tried to pull that cold, false laugh again, but it fell flat under Ivy's close scrutiny. She was dangerous and she knew it. They were merely an inch apart now, all it would take is a tilt of her head and her lips would be on his. Ivy was thrilled by the very thought of it. All of the boundaries between them she could think of would break, their whole relationship would implode, it would be fantastic.

But Ivy didn't know what Sam thought was fantastic. And as of now, she needed a place to stay a night or two. So her lips would remain to herself.

For now, at least.

"Fine," Sam breathed, he looked incredibly frustrated, "you can come."

Ivy stepped out away from him in an instant, pumping her fist with a short, fuck yes.

"Oh god, please don't do that." told her, his voice ridden with anxiety. Despite her cheers (which were decidedly unsexy, the way she looked in that tank top was making Sam question the way he used to think about about Little Ivy Pickett.) "It makes me not want to bring you along."

"Like you have a choice now," Ivy said, giggling, and following him out the door.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose before asking one final favor of Ivy.

"Can you at least try to behave?"

Ivy bounced around him, pulling at the door of his truck impatiently. "Can you hurry up?"

"Follow me," Sam said as Ivy let go of the door handle. "It's just there."

Ivy squinted. "Where? I can't see anything behind that other shitty looking bar."

"Funny."

-.-

Merlotte's Bar and Grille was mediocre at best. Though, in Ivy's experience of being on the run since she was literally fourteen, the shittiest looking places made the best kinds of food. Even if the leather booths had torn seats and the customers looked like they hadn't bathed in ages, Ivy could see the charm. And, well, it had been Sam's dream for as long as she knew him. Not even her cold heart could deny the cuteness of that.

"So," Ivy had followed Sam first and foremost into his back office. He hadn't bothered to stop and introduce her to anyone (Ivy had suspected he was ashamed of the way she eyed the wealthier looking woman in the fur coat) and had merely dragged her ass back with him. She couldn't complain, the back office was where she was sure he stored the cash. Ivy loved cash. "now that I'm staying with you for a while-"

"-a couple of days-" Sam interjected.

"A while," Ivy corrected, looking around Sam's wood paneled office, "I was thinking you could hire me. As a waitress or something."

"No," he said quickly. "No way."

"Aw!" Ivy pouted as Sam settled on the front of his desk, folding his arms over his chest and looking at her. "Why not?"

"Because you'd be positively the worst employee in the entirety of Louisiana." Ivy had to admit, even though she found Sam cute back in the day, there was a certain scruff factor to him now that made him, well, sexy.

And the fact that he was flirting with her? Pretty damn sexy as well.

"I think you mean the best," Ivy countered, rounding on him. Sam smirked, eyes flicking up to meet hers. "I'm such a people person."

"Unless you've made a miraculous turn around since the last time I saw you," Sam scratched the side of his face, "I beg to differ."

"Come on," Ivy begged, stepping closer until she was just a few steps away from him. "Please? You won't regret it."

"Just like I didn't regret letting you go into that 7-11 "just to the use the bathroom," right?" Sam smirked. "Because I did a lot of damage control on that one."

"I was young and naive," Ivy waved it away, "besides, we're old friends. Nothing could possibly go wrong."

Sam only looked half convinced, but Ivy knew how to seal the deal.

"It's either this or I ransack this sad, sad excuse for a city."

He flinched slightly.

"The choice is yours, Sammy."

-.-

"Ladies, this is Ivy...Ivy...these are the ladies," Sam jabbed his thumb towards the crowd of waitresses around the bar. They stopped chatting and turned to look at the two of them. Ivy put on her usual "impressing" people face (which included her fakest, cheesiest smile and a little hip pop that Sam told her seven years ago was "useless"). "She's temping for a few days."

It had taken Ivy no longer than two minutes to convince Sam to hire her. After putting her into a skimpy little uniform (or a really tight white t-shirt for her Ivy did not have a bra to go with) and telling her the rules, he'd finally taken her out front to meet the rest of the employees.

"Longer than that." Ivy titled her head to the side, feeling the need to tease Sam at any and every opportunity.

"No more than a week," Sam attempted to reassure the ladies.

Ivy opened her mouth to beg to differ (because she had plans, and hanging around with her old buddy Sam Merlotte was definitely number one of her list), but a perky little blonde stepped out of the pack and held her hand out.

"Hi there!" she cried, her voice even more perky than her tits, "I'm Sookie Stackhouse, it's a real pleasure to meet you!"

Her southern accent was almost worse than Sam's. Ivy loved it.

"Ivy," she said coolly, shaking Sookie's hand and flashing a toothy smile. The other waitress introduced herself as Arlene, and Ivy immediately knew they wouldn't get along.

"Have you just met?" Arlene asked, eyeing Ivy and Sam before walking away without her answer.

"Oh don't you worry," Ivy cooed, giving Sam a flirty little wink over her shoulder, "Sammy and I have history. Lots of it."

"Sam," Sookie giggled, leaning one hand on the counter and grinning at her boss, "how old is Ivy anyway?"

"Not that kind of history, Sook," Sam rolled his eyes, blushing a bit as Ivy smirked proudly in front of him. "And she's-"

"-I'm twenty three," Ivy finished for him. "Definitely old enough for-"

"-and that's enough," Sam placed his hand on Ivy's shoulder and shook his head. "Sookie, how about you show Ivy the ropes for now and I'll have Arlene cover your tables?"

"Sure thing, Sammy." Sookie giggled, Sam tossed her a loving glare before stalking off to his office. Ivy didn't like that. Sam shouldn't give loving glares to people that aren't her. "Now come on girly, what kind of experience do ya have? Ever waited tables?"

Once, Ivy thought back to a short time in Montana, some town similar to Bon Temps. She couldn't recall why she was ever working, especially for people in the first place. Either way, it didn't work out. Something about her stealing other people's tips and being inhospitable, or something.

"No," Ivy told her, "but I'm a fast learner."

Sookie clucked her tongue and shook her head. "Shame, really. I'm a slow teacher. I guess we'll have to start you out as a hostess."

"Hostess, huh? What does a hostess do?"

"She hosts things, just smile n' stuff. Chest out too - you know."

Ivy smirked. Though, her smile was often described as "creepy" and "insane," she didn't have too many problems with the whole "chest out" deal. "Do I have to be nice?"

"Nice or endearingly sassy works."

Ivy didn't know much about endearing. Sassy sounded fun. Maybe she could some how inject her favorite pastime into hosting. Endearingly steal wallets and being sassy and cryptic when the foolish bumpkins asked if she'd seen it. Yes, Ivy could be a great endearingly sassy hostess.

Hopefully one with a little more than just tips at the end of the night.

Meanwhile, Sookie was silent, her eyes glazing over briefly at some point beyond Ivy's shoulder. When Ivy turned, searching for whatever Sookie was so transfixed on, she found nothing but empty tables.

"Sorry," Sookie blurted, abruptly untying her apron, "You know what? Maybe you can just be a bartender."

Ivy's mood dropped...just when hosting was starting to sound fun.

"What? Why-"

"-You just, you seem like you know how to make a drink. And you and Tara have similar, um, hands- go over there."

"Who the fuck is Tara?"

"Behind the bar missy! I have work to do."

It was then and there that Ivy decided Sookie Stackhouse was strangest southern belle she's ever encountered. And in her years, there has been a wide array of her kind. But in her defense, she wasn't wrong. Ivy could fix a doozy of a drink.

So she went over to the bar, fixed herself a doozy of drink under the eyes of a girl who she could only assume was Tara. When she looked up to offer a half-assed wave to her new bartender friend, she didn't receive a friendly smile.

This girl was no Sookie Stackhouse.

Just as Ivy was about to get into the nitty gritty with this apathetic Tara character, an overweight man in a blue flannel stomped over and slammed his hand on the table.

"Do you have Patrón, little lady?"

Tara answered before Ivy could think to check.

"I ain't no little lady."

He cackled, bearing a row of yellow teeth that reminded Ivy of the grim image of Sam's trailer. "Do you have patrón then, big lady?"

Seething, Tara shook her head no.

"You should invest," the man spat, "what about Jack?"

The man looked like a load of fun, all ruddy cheeks and dirty whiskers. And since Ivy was half a feminist, she jumped in. "What about it?"

He furrowed his brows. "What do you mean what about it?"

"What about Jack?"

"What?"

Tara cackled, and the man grew so frustrated that he pounded his fist on the table. "Do you have Jack Daniels or not?"

"We don't have 'not,' but we have Jack Daniels."

Throwing his head in his hands, the man let out a growl of frustration. "I'll have a Jack on the fucking rocks, then."

Ivy wasn't quite finished. "What's the magic word?"

She remembered how that little question used to piss her off back in the foster home. Hanna Jenson always said the magic word, so she always got what she wanted. Hello Kitty watches galore. But Ivy never learned it until she was around ten, being a little slow at catching on to the whole manners thing.

But now she knew "please," and exactly how to use it.

"Please," The man said, his voice cracking. "Screw this, actually. I'll just go to the Vamp bar. They have top shelf."

He walked away, Tara nodding approvingly as he stormed out the door. Ivy would've probably smirked and high-fived the girl if she wasn't so suddenly sidetracked. Vampire bar? There was a Vampire bar in Bon Temps? Ivy thought those places were exclusive to New York City and Seattle, you know, relevant places on this planet. But Bon Temps! That's just rich.

The man had to be bluffing.

"Don't you hate men like that?" Tara asked, her upper lip rose in disgust, "Misogynist, racist, sons of bitches who tip coupons to Denny's when there aren't any Denny's within a square mile of this litter box of a town?"

"Yeah, so true," Ivy said, dazed. Though she genuinely agreed, she had other things to chat about with Tara. "Did he say something about a Vamp Bar?"

"Oh god, not again. Another fangbanger workin' in this bar." Tara said, chuckling. Ivy was about to correct her on the fact that she was no fangbanger, though she had banged a few fangs in the past, maybe. But this wasn't about that. This was about the bars themselves. These places were practically breeding grounds for rich elder vampires with money. Old money, at that. Old money and safes upon safes of sapphires, rubies, golden encrusted brooches, silver diadems from the renaissance era, and diamonds and- oh. Ivy was seeing stars.

"Listen," Tara spoke. Ivy nearly jumped ten feet in the air at the sound of her voice. She completely forgot where she was amidst all the money/diamond hype. "It's in Shreveport, not Bon Temps, thank God. It's called Fangtasia, corny as fuck, but whatever. People go there if they want one thing and one thing alone. And you know what that one thing is? Trouble."

Ivy wanted money, the trouble was just collateral.

"So if you're dragging trouble into my life, with some more dirty vampire business, please stay out."

"I wasn't trying to enter, first off," Ivy snapped defensively, "Second, I have no personal interest in vampires."

"Then why did you go all goo-goo eyed at the sound of a vampire bar?"

"Well damn, Tara." Ivy shrugged, "I just met you and you're already digging your heels into my ass."

Tara just gave Ivy the stink eye. But Ivy barely noticed, because she was already halfway out the door.

-.-

Ivy always found travel much easier on four legs.

She also found that breaking into places was much easier when she was using her "ability" or whatever the hell it was to her benefit. Sam used to bitch that it wasn't for that point, she couldn't change it whatever the hell she wanted for the purpose of stealing. Ivy begged to differ.

Sam was soft. Sam was the reason the earth stood still, because he never bothered to change anything. It was almost like the whole concept of being special meant nothing to him, he just used his abilities to run in the woods at night and in maybe one or two cases, eavesdrop.

But those were minor, weak offensives compared to what Ivy did.

Like she said, she had storage units full of shit. Where she got all of it, well, it wasn't exactly paid for.

Fangtasia wasn't any different from any other vampire bar she'd trotted her way into before. In the light of day, however, it was even more ridiculous than she expected it looked filled with hundreds of sweaty humans and horny, blood thirsty vampires. Ivy liked camp, but man, Fangtasia was a little much.

It wasn't hard to sneak through the door after the scrawny little bartender, with her arms full of groceries. It wasn't hard to shift after that same bartender went into the back. It certainly wasn't hard to pour a rather generous amount of top of the shelf whiskey down her throat. And it wasn't even the slightest bit hard to put all of the cash in the register into her trusty little fannypack, secure it carefully around her neck, and maneuver it around as she shifted back again.

But was hard was when she was in the woods outside the bar, with a nice little lift of quite a bit of cash. What was hard was feeling that itch that she just couldn't scratch.

She wanted more. And she knew that damn bar had plenty of it. But daylight was burning, and Ivy knew she'd have to be in and out.

Fast.

So she trotted back, her tiny legs moving to slow so she changed them, now running on two bare legs bag into Fangtasia. She was suddenly thankful for the sweltering heat; running nude in the winter was always a nasty ordeal. Ivy didn't look good in goosebumps.

There was one more quick change before she was back inside the bar. She was able to somewhat sniff out something like diamonds. Not with her nose, or anything. Just by her incredible sixth sense for where a heavy black safe may be located.

Light on her feet as always, Ivy followed her sense, tail high in the air behind her as she slid between a tiny opening in a door left ajar. And after sneaking into the back offices, the safe was easy to spot with her enhanced eyesight. But unfortunately, not easy to reach in her current form.

So she changed one more time.

Naked, and somewhat cold, Ivy was close enough to the safe to reach out and touch it. All she needed was a means of opening it. But as much as Ivy was a shifty, expert thief, she was also an impatient son of a bitch.

And so she did what she knew best: she slammed her fist against the safe.

Nothing happened.

Checking over her shoulder and finding nothing, Ivy grabbed the dial with one hand and started randomly checking numbers. Left, right, left, right...nothing. She swore loudly, and just when she was about to bang her fist against the side of it again… a hand grasped her throat and she was flung backwards across the room.

Lifted off her feet, bare ass naked, with her back pressed against the wall, Ivy stared down in horror. She couldn't move. As many times as she's been chased or caught by the law, she's never been physically unable to move.

Panicking, she looked around the room for something to shift into. A fly, a rat, anything to get her out. But the room was empty, all she could see in front of her were pale blue eyes.

"Get the fuck off me," she begged, gasping for air as she clawed at his chest. The effort was fruitless; his body was like a cold stone wall with no means of climbing.

"Settle down, kitten," the blonde vampire growled, "retract those claws."

Ivy screamed.

Yoooo and that would be chapter one. Review with your thoughts homies~~~~~~~~~~

What did you think of Ivy?

adios