Disclaimer: All Charlaine Harris's. I'm just taking them out for a spin

A/N: Lots of love and thanks to my reviewers. I'm guessing at the limited amount that the first chapter was crap—not to worry. I hope this one is better. I spent a lot of time on it, so fingers crossed ;)

Also, I'm in the lookout for a beta… But I'm too embarrassed to ask So to save me some angst, if you've got spare time and wouldn't mind wading through my crappy writing, message me!


I have a plan.
Not a dream, seeing as my dreams consist of nightmares, when I actually manage to sleep. I've become something of an insomniac. Oh no, I have a mastermind plan that is easy as pie. I'm just not gonna think about anything. I'm gonna do. No more Sulky Sookie, no more woe-is-me Sookie. Sure, I was tortured to the point of death— so are thousands of other people. You don't see them crying their eyes out and waking up screaming. Not on television, anyway. Move over, Dr. Phil. Sookie Stackhouse is in town.
Trouble is, my mind is being recalcitrant (thank you, Word of the Day). I just can't stop thinking about Things (otherwise known as Lochlan and Neave) and the more I try not to think about it, the more I do. I'm also trying very hard to forget a certain six foot five expanse of pure magnificence. This is how I found myself dolled up in my good jeans, killer heels and tight long sleeved blue shirt (that showcases my Natural Bounty) in my car, headed for Shreveport. Where in Shreveport, do you ask? Well, to hell if I know.
My car pulls up by its own accord in front of a bar called 'the Clover'. It has a dandy little neon sign with a leprechaun and four-leafed clover. I walk in and sure enough, the babble of different minds washes over me.

Man, look at her tits…
Fuckin' homo! Look at him, rubbing up against that good fo' nothing…I need a hit.
I'm gonna fucking die. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I need a fucking hit!
I wonder if Damien'll let me get a taste of that fine ass...
I'll get another job, Clarice will understand… I hope she doesn't kick me out again..
Just one more drink and I'll go home…

I braced myself and smiled. I sauntered over to the barman (who looks like he should have a name tag reading "Hi, my name is DANGEROUS") and asked for a Cosmopolitan. I always wondered what they were like cause I never tried one. I'm not a big drinker. Man, she is so pretty. I wonder if she'd dance with me. Nah... She'd laugh at me. Mama's right, I aint never gonna get a girl. I take a sip of my Cosmo (thank you, Carrie Bradshaw) and turn towards the extremely loud broadcaster. He aint wasn't so bad. A little too tall and reed thin, Gran would've thought he never seen a day of hard work. He had nice dark brown hair, though. And strange yellow cats eyes.
"Hey, I'm Sookie!" I said to him when I got uncomfortable. He was staring at me for what seemed like an hour.
"Oh, H-hi! I'm Greg. Do you… Would ya like to?" He stuttered, nodding his head at the dance floor. I downed the rest of my drink and led him to the floor. Poor guy. I felt sorry for him.
Besides, I sure do love to dance.

Time was spinning around me like a carousel, and I was shaking my booty all over the dance floor. I even had a small crowd dancing around me. Greg was long gone. I forgot his excuse to leave (I think I scared him off with my Shakira-inspired dancing). Still, dancing like a lunatic was no excuse for what happened next; if I'd reached out with my mind, I could have seen trouble. I could've sensed that Tattoo Guy was gonna pull out his gun and shoot Tattoo Girl, who just happened to be dancing alongside me.

I saw Tattoo Guy pull out his .45 and aim at Tattoo Girl's back. I didn't know what to do. He had his finger on the trigger. His brain was a tangled red pulsating mass; he was angry as all get out. Take this, stupid bitch, steal my stash I'll kill you!
I jumped on him just as he pulled the trigger.
The bullet careened into the ceiling, blowing out the neon lights. People were screaming or standing stock-still, frozen in terror. Tattoo Girl must've known something was up (I was too concentrated on trying to wrestle Tattoo Guy's gun out of his hand—the next bullet had my name on it), cause she ran like the devil was after her, but not after pulling her own gun out and firing off in Tattoo Guy's- and my- direction.
The second I could unwrap myself from Tattoo Guy's beefy frame I ran out to my car and drove off, burning tire. I didn't allow myself to think, not even to yell at my own stupidity. After all, I was still alive. The plan is therefore, still in motion.

Suddenly, I found myself parked in Fangtasia's car lot (I got lucky; there's never any parking thanks to the fangbangers), not at all sure how I got there. I expected to feel a surge of happiness when I walked through the front doors, from the bond, but I got nada. Zilch. Pam greeted me as I walked in. I didn't have to pay a cover. She raised her eyebrows at me, and mouthed "We will talk". Oh, joy unbounded. I went to the bar and asked Felicia for a Pinã Colada. I never had one of those either. This night was shaping into my losing my Exotic-Margarita-Virginity.
There is no love lost between me and Fangtasia's newest bartender. Felicia served me my juicy goodness with a cold hard stare. Her fangs were out some, too. Not that I care, I've seen the fang display dozens of times before. I smiled at her toothily. My mood wasn't all that Christian at the moment; Stupid bitch was what I was thinking. On my guard now (a little too late), I reached to see if anyone had an "I'm gonna kill everyone in the room" thought. Lucky for me, everyone seemed to be thinking about sex. Unlucky for me, everyone seemed to be thinking about sex. Unsurprisingly, a large portion was the fangbangers.
I felt something then that just about knocked me off my feet. A warmth spread all over my body (lingering in some places further south) making me all tingly and lightheaded. I felt like I was the luckiest girl in the world. Eric had arrived (which, in itself goes to show how unlucky I really am—not that I'm complaining. I've got my plan after all). His beautiful long mane of blonde hair was tied in a ponytail and fanned over his back and he was wearing his black Fangtasia shirt and tight black leather pants. If I was a blasphemer, I would worship that ass.
I resisted the urge to gulp. Those pants were cupping his derrière like they were made to. Actually, they probably were.
Eric looked hot. No, more than that.
Eric looked dangerous.
And, coincidentally, danger was headed straight for me.

"Sookie, you and I must talk," was all he said. No "Hi my lover! Remember me? We had mind-blowing sex a bunch of times the other day and then I disappeared for week without as much as a thank-you card!" He didn't waste time, my Eric, did he?
Suddenly, Eric froze. His nostrils were flared; he was smelling gunpowder on me. I caught a glimpse of anger from his slithery, snakey, vampirey brain. I could see Eric register the fear I felt through our blood bond. I tried long and hard to hide the fact that I can occasionally read vampire minds. So far, it's only been Eric's mind. I don't know what to make of that. I also don't know what the Vamps would do if they knew about my extended talent.
I blame my newly found ability on oh-so-encouraging Bill. I blame a lot of things on Bill. Which is a terrible thing to think especially cause right now, Bill is deathly sick. Something which wouldn't have happened if I didn't need saving from the Things. I was too inebriated to think fairly.
Eric grabbed my upper arm with force that was stingingly painful and dragged me past Fangtasia's clientele— almost all of whom sent me envious glares. There was no use pulling back from Eric's clampdown on my arm, it'd be like trying to get out of a titanium bear trap with your hands soaked in oil.

Just as quickly as he'd grabbed me, Eric stopped in front of a room I'd never seen before.
"What, is this the door to Narnia?" I asked snarkily. My arm hurt like hell, give me a break.
Eric look nonplussed. Obviously, he didn't read C.S Lewis. Or watched the movie.
"Why do you smell like gun residue?" Eric demanded, his blue eyes doing that sexy blazing thing. Like an ice fire.
"I was out, not that I have to explain myself to you!"
"Sookie, you do not understand. There is trouble afoot," Eric replied.
Trouble afoot? In what badly made pirate film is he featuring in? Oh yeah, I forgot. Viking. Hello Brain? Yeah, you suck. That's all.
I think the margaritas have gone to my head—I've always been a lightweight.
"Sure thing, Boss! Point me to the Batmobile and I'll skedaddle on home!" I retorted.
Eric had really pissed me off, regardless of the ooey gooey feelings the bond made me feel and my little forte into the World of Drinking Alcohol only fuelled those thoughts. Serving drinks is one thing; drinking them yourself is another. Somewhere, I sort of felt sorry for Eric. He was face-to-face with Seething Sookie and even I think she's a bitch.
"Sookie," Eric whispered angrily, his voice tinted with that feint accent of a world gone by, "There was an accident at the Shifter's bar. Dermot has left a message for you."
At least, I think that's what Eric said.
I'm not too sure, cause I sort of swayed onto the carpet and threw up (and I don't think it stemmed from my alcohol consumption).
And then, everything faded into a sympathetic black.

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