Last Bitten(3)

“Oh, I see.” The pillows were as comfortable as they looked; Nia took off her red leather jacket and laid it beside her.

“But that’s not your real name then? More gin?” he asked.

She already felt the buzz—the buzz from him and the buzz from the booze. “No thank you. And no, that’s not my real name,” she said watching him, wanting him to take off that tight black shirt, those tight black leather pants, and . . . more, she wanted more. “I’m Nia.”

He eased down next her and slid on top of her, spreading her legs with his. “You want this, Nia?” He pressed hard against her sweet spot, and as he did, she slung her head back, the buzz shooting up through her.

“Yes.”

“You’ll have me?”

“Yes.”

“Forever?”

“Yes.”

Removing his shirt to reveal his perfect body, firm pecs, and delectable abs, she was all too happy as he helped her off with her hoodie and skirt. Nia wore a simple black G-string, no bra.

Johnny smiled at that. He liked that. She was free enough to let loose. He rolled her over onto her stomach and had her kneel, running a finger under her thong, pulling it up and letting it go so it slapped back against her, “I want you from behind,” he said.

She nodded.

He unzipped and thrust into her wet spot, leaving her string on so he could admire the frame of her hips and her tiny waist. “You’re so right, my Nia.”

And he was so big. The pain was pleasure, as she felt sensations she’d never imagined. He yanked back on her hair as he took her, slow at first, building, writhing, until she felt his hand upon her large, firm breast and another slip around to her spot. He massaged the one ache she had left, and in an exclamation of utter satisfaction, they surged. The two collapsed upon the pillows. It was quick and hot—just what they craved.

“My Nia,” he said. “Thank you.”

“For what?” she asked, thinking she knew what he’d say next, feeling something deeper for this man.

“For this,” he said, holding her in close and sinking his long, sharp fangs into her pulsing, virgin neck.

Nia now had no idea what he was doing to her. The night was turning into something of a disaster. She closed her eyes and endured the pain.





“Don’t fight it, my Nia.”

The fight was exactly what she had in her. It hit, boiled up the same pathway that all the lust had just flowed through. But regret was a horrible thing to fight as the life slipped away from her. Nia fumbled with her one free hand for her jacket. Finding it, she reached in her pocket for that one item that her father had given her the day she’d left for University.

Where was it? Where was it?

The black switchblade was missing. She groped around the jacket as he groped her breasts and drank from her neck. Becoming weaker and weaker, she fought the urge to just close her eyes and give in. Finally, she felt metal—the cold but friendly weapon that she’d gripped in her pocket everyday while mazing the campus. It was there for a reason. It was fate. She pressed the button and brought it down on him; where it hit, she wasn’t sure.

He ripped away from her neck, all she saw was a bloodied lip, and his red eyes were filled with so much . . . what was it? Nia couldn’t tell; it was like he loved her and was saddened by her sudden aggressions.

“What the hell are you doing to me?” she grabbed her neck and looked down. The blade was stuck in his gut. She quickly yanked it out and stuck it into his heart.

Johnny fell back, his own dark blood sprayed out on their love bed. He gave her an ungodly grin before his eyes returned to that lovely shade of green, and his lids dropped.

Panic set in as Nia reached for his shirt, her clothes, and the switch blade, closed the blue curtain behind her and ran, searching for another open stall, she found only one after interrupting a whole bunch of sex in action and other bloodied images she didn’t want to acknowledge. Who were these people? She didn’t want to know. She wanted to be dressed and out.

In the other pocket of her jacket was her red lipstick and her small, sparkly Pier One mirror—a buck—she examined the two ripped holes in her neck, oozing with her own blood. They don’t really exist do they? No they don’t. She denied the obvious, wiped his spray of blood off her face and body as best she could, turned the shirt inside out, and tied it around her neck to cover up the marks. After redressing, she returned to the main club room.

Hana, where are you?

There was no sign of her roommate in the crowd, and Hana was tall—noticeable. The round tables fell short as well as the outer edges packed with dark faces. A feeling fell over her, like she was being watched, but by whom or what she wasn’t sure. It was like everyone was staring at her in that moment.