The car hummed powerfully under my control; I opened the windows, shot up to fifth gear and felt better than I had in weeks. The dry heat carried on the wind pushed my hair back, whipped through the car as I sped. It didn't matter that I was on my way to work for Eric. Right now, I was free from him, from his maddening control and threats. My phone buzzed at me, directed me to turn and I did, remembering the route from last night. I was giddy, high from breaking the rules, stepping outside the cage in which Eric had placed me. But the lightness inside evaporated as I drew closer to Fangtasia, was replaced with dread that chewed through the bottom of my stomach, making it cramp hollowly. There wasn't any traffic when I reached the brick building, a site that, during the day, was innocuous, not something anyone would look at twice. I pulled into the back lot, spying the entrance I'd come through last night. After parking neatly between two crisp white lines painted on the ground and turning the car off, I was at a loss at what, exactly to do. I didn't have a key to the building, and didn't know if there was anyone actually in the building--or if they'd let me in. After sitting idly in my car, which had taken on the temperature of an oven, I decided, fuck it; I'd just go knock. I got out of the car, smoothing down my shirt and jacket, before approaching the door confidently, though I doubted anyone would be looking, and pressed the doorbell next to the back entrance. A distant buzz echoed inside, and I took my finger off the button. And waited. All was silent for so long I wondered if I should just turn around, tail between my legs, and wait for someone to show up, when the soft but distinct tap of heels against a hard floor and the door opened, revealing a blonde woman, somewhere around forty, who ogled me with such feeble authority I almost rolled my eyes.
"I'm Elliot," I said, in my best 'professional' voice. "The new--"
"Day manager," she filled in, her mouth spreading widely in a smile that creased her entire face, reminiscent of a puppy looking up at its owner, waiting for an obliging stroke on its belly. She just seemed…off.
"I'm Ginger." She shifted in the doorway, allowing me to slide past her into the cool, moist air of the building.
"I wasn't expecting you for another half hour," she said, as I waited for her to pass me, to lead me into the front of the building.
"Well," I said, taking in her outfit of a skirt that could have been a belt and a bandeau top made of an odd plastic material that showed the outline and shape of her breasts, "I wanted to get here a little early and take care of business."
"That's nice." It didn't seem to be sarcastic, but I couldn't be sure. We'd reached the bar, having passed through the storeroom and a main office. She smiled again and disappeared into the back; I took the folded list and read the first item.
(1) Oversee bar delivery, restock as necessary.
Easy enough; I'd worked in enough restaurants during my time, so I was familiar with unloading shipments. I'm sure Eric knew that as well, along with my shoe size, voting and driving record, which of my teeth had been filled, the color of my first car, and anything else that could give him a sort of edge over me.
"When is the delivery supposed to be here?"
"About an hour," Ginger said, walking back into the room with a broom and dustpan in tow. She swept with vigorous strokes, tottering on her heels, making me nervous for her./ I turned away, looked back at the list.
(2) Check souvenirs, fill out re-order sheet.
(3) Call the Shreveport Citizen to make sure our weekly ad is still on the printing list. Number is in the rolodex in main office, under 'S.'
I glowered at the typed words. Really? Shreveport would be under S? I was a law-school graduate, not a first-grade drop out. Even if he had 1,100 years on me, I could still spell.
(4) Make copies of flyer located on main desk in the manila folder labeled 'flyer.' Directions to local Staples are in with the flyer.
That ended the list, and I pulled my cell phone out to check the time. It was almost one o'clock, meaning I had about five or so hours until Eric would be up. Five hours to do four very simple things.
"Way to insult my intelligence, Eric," I muttered, wanting to crumple the paper in my hands and toss it across the room. Instead, I stuffed it back into my bag.
"Whadja say?" Ginger asked, coming up from under a table where she'd been…dusting, I guess. Her bleached hair was in her eyes.
"Nothing, Ginger. Sorry." I stalked back to the office, opened the door and went to the desk that was neat, bare except for the aforementioned rolodex and folder. I flipped through the numbers until I found the number to the paper, which I dialed from the phone that was pushed to the corner, and took in the chair behind the desk, a monstrous affair built for a king (or at least someone king sized), upholstered in a rich red velvet; it made my lip curl back into a sneer as I shook my head at the offending piece of furniture. Who did Eric think he was? I sighed, lowered myself into the seat and felt it give into my weight. I felt like a child sitting at the adult's table.
"Shreveport citizen, advertising, how can I help you?" I'd forgotten about the phone held next to my ear and jumped at the male voice before collecting myself.
"Hello, this is Elliot Smith, calling from Fangtasia?" I figured I'd stick with the alias I'd had in Texas; I'd grown familiar with it, responded to it when called.
"Yes?" Whoever was on the other line had grown considerably cooler. Vampires. The most divisive subject on the planet.
"I'm just calling to confirm the weekly ad will be running this week?"
"Fangtasia," he said, voice dry. "Come alive after dark. Would that be the one?"
How was I supposed to know? "Yes," I replied. "That'll be the one."
"You're all set, then. It'll be the usual three by five on the second page."
"Great, tha--" I tried to thank him, but I'd been greeted with a dial tone. "Asshole."
I got up from the chair and went back to the front of the bar. I hadn't really had a chance to look around last night. The main room was large, with various tables and a few couches spread evenly-spaced apart before it opened up to a dance floor that neared the back. Next to the front door was a coat check; on the other side was the souvenir stand. Behind that, steps led up to a sort of stage that had a main floor with a large chair, like the one in Eric's office, with a few smaller chairs next to it. The stage extended into a small VIP area that held more couches and a smaller dance area. I wrinkled my nose; how elitist: look, but don't touch.
I slid behind the bar, which Ginger was washing down with a wet cloth. The coolers behind were full, but the ice bins needed to be filled. There wasn't much to replace, a few cases of Corona here, Budweiser there, and maybe a bottle or two of scotch and vodka. As looked at the almost-full canister of vodka, I shuddered, feeling the caustic liquid crawl down my back; it was one alcohol that bit back. The storeroom was semi-empty, but what needed to be refilled was there, and I carried it out, case-by-case, feeling overdressed for the task. I slipped off the suit jacket and smoothed my hair back into a ponytail, took a breather, and went back to the task. When I finished, I sat down at the bar and leaned on my elbow to catch my breath.
"You look winded," Ginger called. I jumped at her voice, turned around to see her lounging at a table.
"Yeah," I breathed, irritated. "The cases are heavy." She nodded in agreement. I tilted my head. "What else do you have to do?"
"Oh, nothing really," she said, stretching in the chair in which she sat. "I just like to be here. I don't need to even really come in until four."
"What time did you come in?"
"Noon." She lifted her hands in front of her, gestured to the room around us. "I just like to be around them, even when they aren't here."
"Ah," I had to keep from shaking my head. Ginger didn't seem like a real person; it was like she didn't exist until a vampire was around for her to serve. I assured myself I was nothing like that, then felt bad for using her to make myself feel better. The feeling was excised quickly enough, though, when the back door rang. I unlocked it, opened the door and saw a semi-truck parked in the lot. The man in front of me was big, but not overweight, dressed neatly enough in a button-down shirt and jeans; I smiled and let him in, noticing that his eyes went up and down my body, stopping on my chest. When I turned to allow him in to unload, I'm sure he checked out my butt as well.
He handed me the inventory list; I waited for him to bring everything in, which took six trips back and forth. He pulled his copy of the delivery from a back pocket and began to read off; his voice wasn't quite steady, and I caught his peering around nervously, like someone was going to pull him into a dark corner and drain him dry, though it was the middle of the day. Odd.
"Eight cases of Bud," he said, pointing to the boxes on the bottom. I nodded, checked them off.
"Six of Hoegaarten." Nod, check. We found a pattern, and I signed with a flourish when we'd finished. I escorted him out, and it wasn't until he'd pulled away from the lot that I took a look at the price list of the alcohol; it seemed to be too much, especially for the south. I frowned at the paper; something was off.
"Ginger," I called, coming out of the office with the flyer and my keys, "Is there a package store on the main street anywhere? I'm headed off to make copies."
"Package store?" I shook myself mentally for having dropped a New England word.
"Liquor store?"
"Oh, sure," she tilted her head, thinking. "Actually, it' right near the Staples, on the corner. But if you want a drink, why don't you just get one here?"
"Oh, it's not that; I just want to check something out."
"Alright then. See you later."
"Bye," I returned, walking out into the bright light of the day. It had gotten hotter, and I felt stifled in my clothes. With the air conditioning on full blast, I drove down the street past Fangtasia, and was on main street a few minutes later; the directions were simple: left, right, right. I turned into Staples parking lot and went in, silently thanking whoever had invented air conditioning as it blew over me in a gust. I dropped the flyer off and was told it would take ten minutes; with that time, I went to the corner of the street walked into the liquor store that was there, just as Ginger had promised.
"Hello," I said to the older man behind the counter. He sat up straighter when I offered my hand. He took it, and shook gently, like my fingers would have fallen off had he grasped firmly.
"Well, hey there."
"My name's Alicia Sider, I'm a representative for Eight Straight distribution up in Vermont; do you think it would be possible if I could look at your delivery costs and see if my company could save you a little money?"
He looked at me closely, but broke into a smile.
"Well, sure, honey." I almost cringed at the pet name. "Do you have a business card I could keep?"
Oops. Thinking fast, I theatrically smacked my head.
"Oh, no," I slipped into 'airhead girl' mode. "I'm sorry, I forgot them at the hotel room. The heat down here is like nothing I've ever experienced before."
"From up north, then?"
"Born and raised. New Hampshire," I lied.
"Well, let me see if I can rustle up an invoice for you," he said, distracted, and disappeared into the back. "I'll get you a copy so you can keep it."
"Great," I called. When he came back, I told him I'd have a look over it when I got back to my hotel room, and would call him to see if I couldn't save him any money.
***
By the time I got back to Fangtasia with the copies, it was almost three. Time was speeding up on me, I guess. I sat down with the invoice of the delivery to Fangtasia and the one I'd just gotten, both from the same company, and saw that my suspicion had been right. Eric was being charged thirty cents more for each item than the man across town. It didn't seem like much, but added together, then multiplied by the amount Eric had probably bought over the years? I didn't want to think about the figure; it was probably more than I'd make in a year.
I dialed the distributor's number.
"Hello, Southwest Distribution, how can we help you?"
"Hi, this is Elliot Smith calling from Fangtasia?"
"Oh?" Again, the speaker, this time a woman, changed tone upon hearing the name 'Fangtasia.' What was it, the new Beatlejuice?
"Yes, I have a problem with the shipment."
"Hold please, I'll transfer you to a manager." Before I said anything else, the line buzzed with the atrocity that is muzac. After a few moments, though, a man answered.
"Yes, how can I help you?"
"I have an issue with the invoice from today's delivery."
"What's that?"
"Well," I said, purring into the phone, circling him like prey in my head. "My problem is that you're up charging my boss thirty cents to the unit."
"That's impossible," the man said, his voice oddly calm.
"Oh? Then why am I looking at an invoice from a business less than two miles away, human owned, that's missing the percentage increase?"
"How did you get someone else's invoice?"
"Doesn't matter. What does matter is what you're going to do about it."
"The charge must be a gas tax," he reasoned, trying to play dumb.
" Gas tax. For two miles? I don't think so. I think your company has something against vampires, and it's going to stop today."
"Yeah?" He was sneering now. "How?"
"USA Today, The Times, and whatever Podunk newspaper is nearest to you," I said, smiling. "Vampire discrimination, splashed across the front page. How many other people are you ripping off?"
"They're not people," he snarled. "They're vampires."
"And they're not who you should be afraid of," I hissed back, getting angry now. "It's the lawyers that will get you. Believe me, I will get your name in the papers if you don't fix your prices and refund us what you owe; it doesn't matter who you're doing this to--it's still against the law. Do you know how quickly a grassroots campaign against could begin against you if I call a few people?"
The line had gone silent.
"That's what I thought." I leaned back into the throne that was imitating a chair and cleared my throat. "I assume you have our past transactions filed in a computer database somewhere?"
"Yes." He was angry. I enjoyed it, let his malice wash over me. I was doing the right thing, no matter whom it was for.
"Then I expect a check by the end of the month. No later, or you're going to find yourselves on the very bad side of the American Vampire League."
"Fine."
"Pleasure doing business with you," I said, and put the phone down. That had felt good. I went back to the front of the bar, smug, found the inventory form for the souvenirs, and went to work. Rifling through the shirts, I couldn't help but snigger at some of the logos and catchphrases. 'Fangtasia: We only bite if you ask…', or 'Come Alive with the Dead, Every Night,' and my favorite, 'Fangtasia, the Bar with Bite.' Who'd come up with these ridiculous lines? The rest was pretty basic; key chains, bottle openers, and, oddly enough, fake teeth. The job was done quickly enough.
***
I found myself sitting on the couch of the second back room, iphones in my ears, listening to the Arcade Fire, a favorite. I closed my eyes, breathed in deeply and thought of home, of the drive to my house. The last time I'd gone, I'd arrived at night, passed through twisting roads that kept me on my toes, gripping the steering wheel. I saw them in my head now; tall trees, like straight-backed warriors guarded either side of the asphalt and I sat up straight behind the wheel, trying to peer through black that was impenetrable, a visible void that sucked in the glow of my headlights. I felt myself relax into the couch under me as I recounted the journey; I'd always found driving alone at night relaxing, and the familiar roads in my mind were comforting. They led to my overprotective father, who had scared my prom date to death by cleaning his (never fired) shotgun when I was coming down the stairs in a dress that made me feel beautiful. Now I laughed, but then I'd wanted to melt into the floor. The roads led to my mother, my rock, who'd helped me study for my LSATS longer than was humanly possible, who'd made me school costumes during my youth and worked as hard as any man I'd ever known, working two jobs when my father had been laid off from his high-powered aerospace job.
I kept traveling in my mind, though the roads I crossed now were light; they had to be, because the sight was too beautiful to be marred by darkness. I would around a softly wavering lake that led into mountains, surrounded by trees whose braches reached into the light, their black fingers bathed gold in the light.
My peace was interrupted by a sudden and intense ball that gathered in my stomach, the hot grip of anger that clawed its way through me, igniting my blood as it traveled through my body. I gasped, surprised, rocked forward and gripped my knees while taking deep breaths. This was not my anger, was not related to anything I was feeling. I was homesick, nostalgic, but not--
"Oooh," I whispered, electricity connecting synapses in my brain, forming a realization that scared the hell out of me.
Eric. I was feeling him, his anger; the deep sadness that had attacked me in my car was his too, and probably the apathy. I felt his emotions.
Did he feel mine? Did he know that I hated him at times, would have liked to push a stake through his heart rather than touch him for what he did to me?
Probably. Now, though, I was curious. What had happened that Eric had felt anything that deeply? I'd never suffered that badly, and I didn't want to.
An impressive ten minutes later, when I was still deep in thought, music still rushing through my ears, Eric walked in, taking up most of the doorway. Before I could speak, he had caged me in, arms on either side of me. His lips moved, but I heard nothing. He realized, and pulled the iphones out of my ears.
"You are--" he began, but I interrupted him.
"Enterprising? Capable? Intelligent? Stubborn? Yes to all."
"Not worth the trouble you cause," he snarled, forehead creasing. His lip pulled back, but it was with disgust rather than to allow room for his sharper teeth.
"Show them to me," I said, grasping him around the neck. If he was going to attempt to scare me physically, I would do my best to reciprocate. "You're an animal, let me see the evidence."
His fangs ran out, and I looked into his eyes. I had courage; it sang inside me, pushed me forward, though it might have been stupid.
"Take my keys away, I'll learn to hotwire the car. Or steal yours. It's the 21st century, Eric, and I'm an intelligent woman, not your goddamn pet." I was breathing heavily, and he looked ready to pounce. Why not poke an agitated tiger?
"So you can throw a fit, you can try to keep me chained down, or you can trust me, let me do my job, and by the way, I've already solved a major problem today, and stay out of my way."
"You know where I rest," His voice was deep, echoed through my ribs. I moved my hands down to his chest, pushed against him, though it was like an ant trying to move a tree.
"And I haven't told anyone, nor do I plan on it."
"Swear. On your parent's lives."
"I swear, Eric." I swallowed hard, but meant it. His arms caved and my body was freed, but I didn't move, was stuck where I sat by a wave of desire that was so complete, so ravenous, I barely felt the weight of his mouth on mine until he pressed his tongue to my closed lips and they opened, almost beyond my control, willingly.