Once Bitten - Clare Willis Read online

  As the music morphed into a mesmerizing Middle Eastern tune, Eric moved me toward one of the curtained-off areas. He lifted me easily and laid me across the couch, and then pulled the curtain closed. He hadn’t released my left hand and now he lifted my arm and licked the inside of my wrist. I literally shivered with pleasure, even though he was barely touching me. I closed my eyes and felt his lips touch my cheek, cold enough to cause me to flinch, but warming almost instantly. His kisses moved lightly across my face to my neck. I breathed in his scent and it flowed through me like a drug, swept away my inhibitions, all my conscious thoughts. His hands slipped under my dress and moved everywhere, bringing the nerves to life all over my body.

  “Angela, surrender yourself to me, and I will fulfill all your dreams.” His voice seemed to come from someplace deep inside me. Did he really say that?

  “Yes, yes, God, yes…” Did I really say that?

  His lips caressed my face, my arms, my neck. I felt his teeth against my skin like tiny shards of glass scraping and burning, but the pain was the same as the pleasure, and my body reached out to receive him. I was overwhelmed by a yearning to be closer to him, to merge with him so that nothing could ever separate us.

  Then came a sudden pinch of pain, exquisitely sharp.

  Chapter 4

  Instinct told me to pull away, but my body wanted something else. It yielded itself up to him, pressing closer, offering every vulnerable inch of skin to his ravishment. I saw colors on the insides of my eyelids as if a bright light were shining on them, twisted vines of red against a pink sky. At each beat of my heart waves of blood crashed against my skin. I could no longer hear the music or feel the couch I was lying on. Everything was Eric.

  Then the world went black.

  I woke up sprawled on the couch with Eric smoothing my hair off my face. I heard his voice before I opened my eyes.

  “Angela, are you awake?”

  I heard myself mumble, “Yeah, okay, must have been the drink, not used to hard liquor. I think I need to go to the bathroom, wash my face…”

  He tried to stop me, telling me to lie still and rest, but I slid off the couch and stumbled away. Kimberley and the Macabre Factor people were no longer in the bar, thank goodness, so I was able to get to the women’s room without being seen by anyone who knew me. I went into a stall and sat on the toilet without lifting my dress. The fog had cleared a bit but my memory was still very fuzzy. I was fully clothed, down to my bra and black stockings. My body had the shuddery, slippery feeling of postcoital release but there was no evidence that sex had happened. At least not sex as I had thought of it previously. Something had happened, something powerful and earthshaking, and I felt excited, happy, and desperate to touch Eric again. Also scared by his power over me, embarrassed that I didn’t remember the consummation, and worried that I’d let everything move too fast.

  I smacked myself on both cheeks and told myself to snap out of it. A plan had to be formulated. I firmly believed my mother’s admonitions against being “loose,” not because I wanted to save anything for my husband, but because the few hook-ups I’d had were humiliating wastes of time and body fluids. The guys involved treated me like a piece of chewed-up bubblegum afterward. I wanted, no, needed, to see Eric again, for him to want to see me. I didn’t regret our encounter, far from it, but I felt I had to exert some control over the situation.

  I stood up, straightened my stockings and dress, and left the stall. I couldn’t use any of the mirrors because they were all occupied, one by a woman so beautiful you would never guess she wasn’t female until you saw her big hands, another by a pair of huge breasts topped by an insignificant head, and the last by a skinny man applying black eyeliner onto the eye that wasn’t covered by a pirate patch.

  In a lounge filled with threadbare velvet chairs two women were snorting cocaine off a glass coffee table. One of them held a straw out to me, but I shook my head.

  “I think I’ve had enough,” I said.

  Eric was where I had left him, arrayed casually on the velvet couch, knees crossed, arms spread. In the dim light his face and hair gave off a faint glow, like a candle glimpsed through a curtain. He stood when I approached and made a little bow, then handed me my purse.

  “You forgot this.”

  As I received it our eyes met and I felt dizzy again. The current pulling me toward him was frightening in its intensity. I forced my gaze down to the tie tack in his cravat, a coiled golden snake with a ruby eye.

  “So, I need to be going, I’m feeling a little unwell, but, um…” I fumbled in my purse and took out a business card, “but I’d really like to see you again, if you’re thinking about doing any advertising for your businesses…” Oh, shut up, already! I handed him the card.

  He smiled and put it in his breast pocket. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”

  “No, I mean, yes.” This was really embarrassing. “I really should go.”

  He reached out and smoothed some hair off my cheek, letting his fingers glide around my chin and down my neck, leaving everywhere he touched tingling.

  “Could I have your card?” I whispered. Propriety be damned, I couldn’t take the chance of not being able to find him again.

  He took out a wallet and handed me a card that was square and thick, nothing like a regular business card. I held it under the light of the candle.

  M. ERIC TAYLOR

  HARBINGER, INTERNATIONAL

  I looked up. “There are no numbers on here.”

  He shrugged. “I prefer more traditional methods of communication.”

  What could be more traditional than the telephone, I wondered.

  “Ink and paper has been used for two thousand years. The telephone is barely one hundred.”

  There it was again, another comment that sounded like he was reading my mind.

  He laughed, which was another non sequitur—unless we were having a separate conversation from the verbal one.

  “Let me see you to your car.” Eric held out his arm with the elbow bent, a gesture I hadn’t seen since my father asked me to dance at my sister’s wedding.

  I shook my head. “No, please don’t.” I couldn’t trust myself if he took me to my car. What if he asked to come home with me? I turned and left the room without looking back.

  It wasn’t until I was in my car, checking my face in the rearview mirror, that I saw the dried blood on my neck, glowing purple in the street lamp’s fluorescent light.

  Morning again, and the shifting clouds cast bands of light and shadow across my bed. I had forgotten to close the blinds last night, in fact I hardly remembered getting home. The black dress lay in a heap on the floor, next to my purse, keys, and pantyhose. My head throbbed, my tongue and teeth felt fuzzy, and one of my eyes was partly glued shut. My muscles ached like I’d slept on a bed of rocks. The light from the window was killing my eyes, so I pulled the covers over my head.

  I tried to go back to sleep, but my thoughts kept jostling each other like kids at an ice cream truck. Maybe I did get drunk last night and blacked out, I thought. How else to explain the gaps in memory and the hangover? I only recalled having one drink, but I rarely drank, so I didn’t have much experience with its effects. My behavior had been unlike me in so many ways—the drinking, leaving clients unattended, not to mention making out with a guy I just met. And then feeling like I would jump off a cliff if I couldn’t see him again. All these things—not like me at all.

  Just the thought of Eric reignited an eagerness I hadn’t experienced since junior high, when I still believed in love at first sight. Being with him had been a breathtaking experience, literally. Was it possible to pass out from sheer excitement? I closed my eyes and remembered the sweet scent, the luminous blue eyes…

  Time for another symbolic slap on the cheek. And a reality check. What the hell happened last night?

  Telling myself to be clinical, I touched my body from face to knees, with each part trying to remember exactly what had happened. I was r
emarkably unsuccessful. The encounter with Eric remained a glorious blur. There had been kissing, I recalled the velvety feel of his lips and tongue against mine. There had been touching, from what felt like a dozen hands at once, all over my body. Yet I had come out of it wearing all my clothes. Was it possible to have had the greatest sex in my life without actually having sex? It reminded me of my mother’s favorite movie, Ghost, which she watched on DVD at least twice a year. In it the woman’s boyfriend is killed but he comes back and makes love to her, except he has no body, so it’s all in her head, or all spiritual, or something like that, but it’s staggeringly sexy.

  But Eric had been undeniably corporeal. And I did have one clear memory, from the car, while looking in the rearview mirror.

  I went to the bathroom and examined my neck, standing on my tiptoes to lean in close. There were a few rusty smudges still, so I wet a washcloth and wiped them off. Sully and Moravia had never mentioned that those in the vampire lifestyle actually used those faux fangs to suck each other’s blood, but then why would they? I would never think of telling them what I do in bed (of course there would be precious little to tell). I cleaned my neck but kept scrubbing because I was sure there was a wound somewhere, but there wasn’t.

  I walked past Kimberley’s room. Her four-poster bed with the fluffy white duvet and pink pillows was neatly made, and for a moment I wondered whether she had met someone at the club as well. Then I remembered that she was staying at her parents’ house while they were on vacation in Bermuda.

  In the kitchen I poured a glass of orange juice and toasted a slice of bread. My stomach was churning and the last thing I wanted to do was eat, but I knew it would be good for me. The juice tasted strange, a little metallic. I checked the expiration date but it was fine. The toast seemed gritty and I wondered if Kimberley had changed to a health food brand, but the bag was the same.

  After breakfast I went to my closet and put on a sober black pantsuit with a crisp tuxedo-tailored white cotton blouse, hoping the conservative attire would counteract my feeling of being a crazy vampire-chasing slut.

  I had just sat down at my desk when a knock came at my office door. Steve sauntered in, wearing a gray three-buttoned suit with a blue pinstriped shirt and a silvery gray tie. A matching pocket square peeked out of his breast pocket.

  “So, the Empress of the Night arises from her coffin. How were the nocturnal festivities?”

  The smile on his bronzed face was wry and his dark eyes twinkled with mischief. The thought occurred to me, not for the first time, that I was glad he was gay, because otherwise his handsomeness would make me too nervous to be his friend.

  “Steve, you’re not going to believe what happened to me last night.”

  Before I knew it the whole story came pouring out, of my tryst with Eric Taylor, the vampire capitalist. The whole story—except the part about the blood on my neck. Steve, who usually interrupts all the time, listened with his mouth open. When I finished I waited, hoping he would say something reassuring.

  “Well, I sure wish I still smoked, because now would be a good time for a cigarette. So, are you going to see him again?”

  “The prudent answer would be no, but to be honest, I just can’t say that. There was something about him that was so…” I couldn’t think of a word that would do him justice.

  “Say no more, honey. If he was half as good looking as you say he was, I’d have let him suck my…”

  I interrupted him. “…your blood, I know.”

  Steve sat down and crossed his legs, revealing lavender socks and shiny black loafers. “Let’s get serious for a moment here. Did you say you passed out?”

  “Yeah, I think so, but I’m not sure.”

  “How much did you have to drink?”

  “One drink, I think.”

  Steve wagged a finger at me. “I saw this on Oprah. The guy drugged you with that date rape drug, Rohypnol.”

  “Oh, come on, Steve.” I laughed, but the idea wasn’t that farfetched. It would explain the hangover.

  “I should have gone with you last night. I blame myself. Where was Kimberley while this villain was manhandling you?”

  “Where I should have been. Talking to the clients,” I answered guiltily.

  “But at least you’re okay, right? Nothing happened?”

  Nothing except I can’t stop thinking about the guy.

  “We exchanged cards.”

  Steve leaned closer and squinted at me. “This was no date rape. You liked him, didn’t you, princess?”

  “How would I know, I just met him. Anyway, it’s almost time for the meeting and I need to check my voicemail. Let’s talk about this later.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Steve, I need a little time to myself.”

  “To call this guy? Don’t do it, it’s too soon. You’ve got to wait forty-eight hours.”

  “Get out.”

  He sighed heavily but obeyed my command, flashing a four and an eight with his fingers before he left the doorway.

  I listened to my voicemail while skimming my email for my new love’s name, the only dull thing about him. He had said he preferred traditional methods, but I was too addicted to electronic communication to believe that anyone in this day and age who was younger than ninety wouldn’t use them. My palm was sweating on the mouse as I scrolled through my inbox.

  The first voicemail was from Les Banks, the graphic artist, asking me to call him back, not saying about what. The call had been placed last night at 5:45, after I left the office. I saved it and made a note to call him later. The second message was from my mother, made at 9:02 this morning.

  “Honey, I know you’re really busy, but your father and I haven’t laid eyes on you in weeks. Could you come over for dinner this Sunday? I’m making your favorite meatloaf…”

  Normally, the way to my heart is through my stomach, but the way I was feeling this morning, eating was the last thing on my mind. Still, I saved that one and made another note to call Mom back.

  The last message was a guy obviously reading a script, inviting me to a conference on online marketing in Austin, Texas. I deleted that one.

  The emergency meeting was in the Ferlinghetti Room, which overlooked the Bay and was decorated with photographs of the author and poet standing in front of City Lights, the bookstore he founded in North Beach in the 1950s. When I got there everyone was already seated. Dick Partridge was at the head of the table, tapping his pen and looking at his watch.

  On his right was Kimberley, looking like she had suffered no ill effects from her late night. She was dressed in a more somber than usual blue suit with a short-sleeved jacket, in deference, I supposed, to the unfortunate circumstances of the meeting. Around her neck was a necklace bearing a cashew-sized, presumably real, diamond pendant.

  To Dick’s left was Lakshmi Roy, the other Consumer Products account executive, so small she looked like she should be sitting in a booster seat. A native of India, she was the classic American success story. By the age of thirty she had gone to Yale and worked in Hollywood and had already amassed credentials as grand as she was little. According to Steve, who worked for her, Lakshmi’s managerial style was as different as night and day from Lucy’s. Lakshmi was kind and fair, open to suggestions and gave credit where it was due. On her left was my pal Steve, watching me closely like he was expecting me to fall down at any moment from the after-effects of Rohypnol.

  Next to Steve was Lakshmi’s other AAE, Chase Johnson, a recently graduated frat boy whom Steve referred to as “the human beer keg.” Theresa was also there, with her laptop open, ready to take notes. Her silky red shirt plunged to reveal two prominent collarbones and not much else. I took a seat next to Webster Northrup, manager of the Creative department. Web tried to bridge the sartorial gap between Creative and Accounts by dressing in Levi’s Dockers and button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up. In his mid-thirties, he had a round, pleasant face with brown eyes, thick dark hair, and a bit of a belly. Also in attenda
nce were a copywriter and a media coordinator.

  “Now that Angie is here, we can commence,” said Dick. “As you all know, Lucy Weston has not been at work since last Friday. She hasn’t called in or answered her phone at home. We apprised the authorities yesterday and they are looking into the situation. Naturally we hope for the best. Our task now is to reassign the more pressing duties to ensure that our clients do not experience any discontinuity of service.”

  Lakshmi gave me a smile from across the table without moving her lips. She was the reigning mistress of account executive telepathy.

  “Our clients at Macabre Factor called me this morning. They were very pleased with the presentation. I would like to offer my commendations to Angie and Kimberley, who stepped in and took over that meeting at a moment’s notice yesterday. Laudable work, ladies.” He smiled thinly at each of us. “They have specifically asked for Angie to manage their account, even when Lucy returns. Whatever you did in there, Angie, it was well-received.”

  I looked down at the table to hide my confusion. Why in the world was Macabre Factor giving me their account? I hadn’t taken the lead on the presentation, they didn’t like the pitch anyway, and it was Kimberley who hung out with them at the House of Usher while I was off hooking up with their top vampire model. The only person I’d impressed last night was Eric, and I wasn’t even sure how successful I’d been at that. As I raised my head my eyes collided with Kimberley. The look she was giving me was one of sheer malevolence. I wondered if I’d find the locks changed when I got home.