Femme Fatal
Author's Note: Ah, it's been so long since I felt the urge to write. I forgot how good this feels. xD So please excuse me if it's a little off, I'm a bit out of practice.
Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight, because if I did, it would be about the COOL characters--namely the werewolves and Victoria and James.
Victoria had always been partial to the finer aspects of life.
She had no problem admitting that her tastes ran on the fast, furious, and often pricey side—dark chocolate and fine wines, sleek silk and genuine leather. She had been married five times and divorced four (husband #3 had died under mysterious circumstances two weeks after the wedding, and though there had been suspicious looks and whispered accusations, no proof found had been enough to build a case), and received alimony enough for any reasonable women to retire on. But Victoria was fast boring of the costly red sports car she had recently purchased, and had therefore decided to enjoy a few more week of single-dom before snagging someone else to pay for her lifestyle.
Of course, she had no clue that none of this would happen as she slipped into a little black cocktail dress that had cost way more than the mere slip of fabric should have been worth and a pair of her highest heels. She had no clue that her life would take a drastic turn (for the better, she later decided, and certainly for the more thrilling) that Friday night, as she slid a tube of gloss across her lips and expertly wielded a mascara brush until her lashes had reached inhuman proportions. When she stepped out of her high-rise apartment complex into the starless night life and bustling activity of New York City, she didn't know that it would be the last time she would feel the brush of the doorman's hand to close to her leg for cordial intentions.
No, when she stepped into the stretch limo she couldn't quite afford, Victoria's mind was on the same thing it would be when she was at the party later that night, her thoughts clouded by the little fruity drink she held in one hand (her fifth? Or sixth?)—the same thing it would be on when she smiled coyly at the stunning boy on the motorcycle in front of her as she left the party early (he had laughed when she asked him how old she was, but Victoria was willing to bet he was a full fifteen years younger than her own thirty-five)—the same thing it would be on when she felt his ice-cold hands hit her skin, flushed hot with lust and alcohol, and she heard the unmistakable sound of silk falling as her little slip of a dress hit the floor (his apartment was certainly dark for anywhere in NYC, perhaps the darkest place she'd seen since she moved here). Victoria's mind was on fast sex and loud music and the blood felt rushing in her veins, and that's where it stayed until those feelings were all pushed out until by something much more primitive. Pain.
They had called it instant gratification, Victoria's kind of entertainment. But she knew differently, and fifty years down the road, when she was still as young and beautiful as she had ever been, with a set of brilliant red eyes to match her brilliant red hair, she felt pretty safe saying she was in the right of it. Because all of it, the sex and alcohol and money and parties and people, they had all been stepping stones to reach where the real gratification had been waiting for her, here, with the night and the hunt, her lover and her prey. Victoria hadn't really lived until that night James had taken her home from the party at two in the morning, hadn't really felt until his lips were positioned at her throat, hadn't really breathed until she ceased to.
She crouched to feed, all catlike grace and post-hunt glory, her fingernails and lips streaked with blood, every inch the femme fatal.