Vampire Dancing, page 1
Content copyright © 2012 J.K. Gray
All Rights Reserved
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious.
Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is, thankfully, purely coincidental.
To everyone who had faith.
You know who you are.
Table of contents
00:00 am ...
A bead of perspiration runs down the side of her face. Her pulse is pounding. Her mouth, dry.
She has energy to burn, and this is the place to start a fire.
All around her, bodies move to the swell of the music. The pace is frantic; the atmosphere, electric. Her thighs sway within the confines of a low cut, figure-hugging black dress. Her every movement is sensually smooth, yet simultaneously unyielding and untamed.
The lights fade and the music stops. A murmur ripples throughout the room.
Her nostrils flare. The odor of sour perspiration and curdled copulation is strong in the air. The anticipation in the room is palpable. She can hear it play breathlessly upon the lips of those surrounding her.
Moments pass, and, just as the darkness seems to take on a life of its own - to become an actual entity in itself - the room explodes once more to a pulsating, hypnotic rhythm.
She throws back her head. A dark mane of lustrous hair whips across her face. Her eyes dazzle like sapphires. She is in perfect synchronicity with the pulse of the music.
Beautiful. Entrancing. Enigmatic.
No one notices just how different she is.
He negotiates with ease through the crowd. Not once does his gaze stray from the sight of her undulating figure.
Seconds pass ... and then he is before her, invading her space.
Her eyes blaze with a mixture of apprehension and excitement. She can feel his piercing gaze probe her mind. She tries to look away, but it's no use. There's no escaping his intrusion.
Light flashes across his face. His features are strong – extra defined by a stubble that is several hours old - and his hair is dark – not too short and a little wild. His emerald eyes are like whirlpools.
She finds them mesmerizing.
He encircles her waist with a strong forearm and pulls her close. She gasps and resists, but he pays her objection no attention and slides his other hand across her rump, then travels lower still.
She struggles to escape; manages to break free of his gaze and verbally objects - “No” - but her resistance is feeble at best, and all but lost to the din of the music.
He moves his mouth close to her ear and speaks: “You like to live dangerously ... I can tell.”
She shakes her head in protest and unwittingly - or perhaps wittingly - becomes prisoner to his gaze once more.
He slides his hand around the front of her leg and ventures under of her dress.
She reaches down and stops him from probing further.
He maintains his position, but doesn't push.
The music is at fever pitch, pulse-pounding at a 160 beats per minute. The atmosphere is euphoric; orgasmic. Bodies twist, arms flail. The crowd is surfing on the crest of an adrenalin tsunami.
Hesitantly, she relaxes her grip on his hand. He takes this as an invitation to proceed, and finds the warmth between her thighs. She gasps and opens her mouth to protest, but before she can utter a word, he flicks the tip of his tongue across the surface of her glossy red lips.
And now she knows for certain.
Overcome by an insatiable desire, she slides her arms around his waist and grinds her crotch against him to the throb of the music. Suddenly, she wants all of him, and nothing less will do. She pushes her tongue eagerly into his mouth and kisses him hard. He finds her taste intoxicating; can feel the fervent pounding of her heart against the wall of her chest. He could take her on this very spot and no one would even notice.
And she would let him.
They make love on the roof of the club.
He is on top of her, unleashing everything he has to offer. Sweat clings to his lean torso like a second skin.
She grabs hold of his hair. Her knuckles turn white with the intensity of her grip.
He moves in rhythm with her, gradually increasing his pace.
With her other hand, she reaches down and sinks her fingers into his buttocks, encouraging him deeper.
He responds to her eagerness, and drives harder still.
She gasps and arches her back. Perspiration drips from the curve of her spine.
He lifts her and maneuvers onto his knees.
Now she's straddling him, her arms around his neck. She moves gracefully, up and down, riding him to the fullest extent.
He cups her breasts and squeezes them hard.
She cries softly with a mixture of pleasure and pain, then sinks her teeth into his neck. Her eyes flicker then turn red. They burn with intention and desire.
The skin on his neck breaks and a moan escapes his lips. He closes his eyes. When he re-opens them, they, too, are blazing with arousal.
Her mouth is smeared with his blood. She flicks her tongue across her full lips and begins to move faster ... then faster still, and, as a result, the crisp night air becomes awash with the sound of their moaning - louder and louder, until ... she brings them both to the point of climax.
He watches her pull on her dress. She's doing it from quite some distance; just grabbed her stuff and made some space. As yet, he hasn't bothered to clothe; reckons his arousal is still way too boisterous to cram into his pants.
She pulls on her shoes, fastens the straps, then rummages through her cream colored leather purse for something.
"Anything I can help you with?"
He touches the fast healing wound on his neck. "I think we got a little carried away back there at the club."
Still no response.
She finds what she's looking for: some cleansing pads and a small mirror. After she's finished wiping her face and fluffing up her hair, she re-applies her lipstick - plum red - then packs everything away.
He wonders what's next.
She slips on a fitted black leather jacket then strolls casually towards him. Her long heels make a distinct clacking sound against the concrete. He finds himself hypnotized by the sway of her hips. When she stops, she says nothing; merely looks him over.
"I'm Amber," she finally says.
"Michael," he replies.
Amber casts her gaze across the lower Manhattan skyline. Despite the pretty lights, she doesn't find built-up tenements and sky-scraping tower blocks a particularly endearing sight. She shifts her attention to the clear night sky, allowing her senses to drift into the expanse. The Moon is whole and the stars gleam like small diamonds set against a black velvet canvas. When she speaks again, she says: "You hungry?"
"Famished," he replies.
Amber slides her purse over her shoulder. "Okay then, get dressed and we'll go find something to eat."
The man in the inexpensive gray suit crumples to the cold parking garage floor.
“Fuckin' trash,” the individual standing over the body mutters. His right eyelid starts to twitch. He reaches up and touches it.
Someone wearing a Yosemite Sam baseball cap and a #44 Yankees
Wiley turns. Light from the florescent falls across one side of his face. “Don't I always?” He closes his cheap Italian style switchblade and tucks it into his back pocket.
Two more figures step into the light. One of them is African American, the other is an overweight American.
“Len,” Wiley says to the overweight American, “check this dead fuck, see if he has anything of value on him.” He turns to the other individual. “Kobie, make sure the coast is still clear.”
Kobie looks like he can't be bothered, but stuffs his hands into the kangaroo pocket of his white hooded sweatshirt and goes about it anyway. Len, on the other hand, is only too happy to do as he's told - especially as he's been addressed by his proper name, and not 'fatso' or 'bitch tits' or whatever other derogatory title Wiley can dream up.
Wiley watches Len get down on his knees and go through the dead man's pockets. “Make it snappy. We don't have all night.”
Len removes something from the rear pocket of the dead man's pants. “He's got a phone.”
“Everyone has a phone,” Wiley says. “Question is ... is it a phone worth having?”
Len fumbles around with the cellphone. “Um ... it's like...” He flips it open.
Wiley knocks it from his hand. “It's a piece of shit history, is what it is.”
They watch the phone go clattering under one of those fancy 4x4 trucks. Except Wiley. He's staring at the back of Len's thick head. “So keep searching him, you rotund fuck!”
Len cowers, believing Wiley is going to strike him (and Wiley will, if he doesn’t raise his level of functionality). He opens his mouth to ask what 'rotund' means, then thinks better of it.
“I ain't got no phone,” the person in the Yankees jersey says.
Wiley looks at him. “Why don't that surprise me, Stan. Your idea of cutting edge tech is two paper cups at each end of a length of string.”
Stan hates when Wiley calls him by his proper name. When Wiley does that, it usually means he's pissed at him, or being sarcastic. Stanley Eugene Jacobs ... What kind of fucking name is that? What the hell had his parents been thinking, to pin that shit on him? Infinitely better is the name Wiley dreamed up: Screwball (sometimes Screwy, for short). Most would find it insulting, to be called something like that, but not Stan. He's the first to admit he's a batshit crazy moon-howler.
“I hate when you call me Stan.”
“Relax, Screwy,” Wiley says, “I'm just messin' with you.”
“Yeah ... I knew that,” Screwball replies. “So, we gonna score some pussy tonight?”
“It's Friday night,” Wiley replies, “and what else are Friday nights for, if not for pussy?”
Screwball flips his Yosemite Sam cap back to front and begins to dance around like someone who belongs in a straightjacket rather than a Yankees jersey. “I just got sex shocks down my prick. You ever had sex shocks down your prick?” He starts to rub his crotch. “Man, I love them sex shocks!”
Wiley wonders what they've been putting in the water down in Texas, and how much of it Screwball drank before his parents dragged him halfway across the country.
Len pipes up: “He's got some credit cards.”
“Credit cards are no good,” Wiley says. “We need cash.”
Len closes the wallet and puts it back where he found it. He hauls himself up. “He don't have any cash. Unless it's in his car.”
The car is a silver Ford Focus. Doesn't look like one of the newer ones - just like the prick's phone. Trust them to choose a guy with cash-flow problems.
Wiley contemplates rummaging around inside the glove box, and maybe even the trunk, then decides the chances of finding cash beyond the confines of the guy's wallet are slim. Also, he doesn't want to spend any more time in this parking garage than is necessary. Their little gathering must look suspicious, and the last thing he wants to have to deal with is some two-bit security guard eager to prove his worth. Lucky for them this place is one of those with the cheaper rates and, as such, doesn't have much in the way of closed circuit cameras or security.
His right eyelid starts to twitch again. Sometimes it irritates him so much he feels like tearing it off. He touches it in an attempt to stop its involuntary movement, but as soon as he removes his finger, it starts to spasm.
“I can see that,” Len says, staring intently.
Wiley scowls. “See what?”
Len points at Wiley's face. "Your eyelid. I can see it-”
Wiley punches Len in the face. Len makes a little yelp and hits the ground with all the grace of a hippo falling at the ice skating arena.
“Don't look at it then! You hear me! Don't you look at my eye or I'll skin you alive!” Wiley's voice reverberates throughout the parking garage's largely sparse interior.
Len cowers and outstretches a hand to defend himself. “I hear you! I hear you!”
Screwball draws heavily on the back of his nose and plants a thick loogie on Len.
For a few moments, all Len can do is stare, terror-stricken, at the green monster clinging to the upper left arm of his gray NYC sweatshirt. As soon as the initial horror fades, he cries out with revulsion and tears the top off.
Screwball laughs. “That shirt is the kinda thing only a tourist would wear.”
Len frantically wipes the sleeve against the car's front tire, all the while making distressed whimpering sounds.
Screwball turns to Wiley. “Why the hell we let this guy hang with us anyway?”
Wiley snorts. “He makes for a good whipping boy.”
“He's got bigger titties than a ten ton whore,” Screwball says. “Sometimes I even think about givin' them a little squeeze, just to see...”
Kobie rejoins the group. “Gayest thing I've heard all night.”
Screwball scowls at Kobie. “Hey, I ain't no homosexual!”
Clearly amused, Kobie replies: “Whatever, man.” He looks at Len, who's still wiping and whimpering. “Lenny's good for the junk food industry. Whenever he walks into Wendy's their stock market value increases five hundred per cent.” He flips up the hood of his sweatshirt and rubs his hands briskly together. “Feelin' the cold tonight.”
“September chill,” Wiley says. “Nips at your balls too if you're not careful.”
Kobie chuckles, then turns his attention back to Len. “Quit your blubberin', Len. Help me drag the body over there.” By 'over there' he means between the front of the car and the wall.
Len pulls his top back on and steals a quick look at the arm were the loogie previously clung. Only a damp patch remains.
Kobie grabs the dead man under the arms, being extra careful not to get blood on himself. “Grab his feet.”
As always, Len does as he's told.
Wiley and Screwball watch the two men place the body between the front of the car and the wall. Not the best hiding place in the World, but out of sight for the time-being; which is long enough.
Screwball's hands venture back down to his crotch. “I can't wait till we find us some pussy.” He gives himself a quick tug, almost like he's checking to see that everything is still present and correct. “I really can't wait to get my hands on some of that soft stuff.”
Wiley looks at his watch; a tatty piece of digital crap with a worn leather strap. His mom gave it to him on the day of his sixteenth birthday, and that's the only reason he's still using it, almost seven years later. The display reads: 00:20 am. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his green and white checked shirt and lights one up. When he's done, he hooks a thumb inside the brown leather belt around the waist of his jeans, and inhales deeply.
Exhaling smoke through his mouth and nose, he says: “Relax, Screwy. It may be late, but the night is still young.”
They end up in a strange little diner in Lafayette Street, Lower Manhattan. On the wall facing Michael is an analogue clock. It's designed to look like the Moon, and is currently displaying half past midnight.
Amber sits, staring at Michael's plate. The plate, in itself, isn't anything to look at, but the last chunk of an extremely rare steak cutlet, skewered on a fork and going round and round, mopping up the remainder of what had been two fried eggs, is fascinating to watch for reasons she can't explain to herself.
The steak eventually stops skating around the plate and finds its way into Michael's mouth. He nods, as though in agreement with some inner dialogue.
“You like that, huh?” Amber says.
“Oh yeah,” Michael replies. “This place is just too crazy for me. I love it - love the fact they serve breakfast twenty-four hours a day.”
Amber picks up the menu. The cover is completely black with a picture of the Moon at the top right corner. She flips it open. The Dawn of Man from Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey starts to play. She closes the menu, killing the sound. “I'll say it's crazy. What is it about this place that does it for you?”
“The Moon,” Michael replies. “You got the Moon on the menu, and the menu plays space music when you open it. There's pictures of the Moon and astronauts and shuttles on the walls, and sometimes they even play space music over the speakers - well, I dunno if it's actually space music, but it sounds like music that belongs in space. Anyway, it's like being somewhere else.”
Amber interlaces her fingers and rests her chin on the backs of her hands. “Like being on the Moon, perhaps?”
“Yeah.” Michael takes a sip of his coffee - cream and two sugars. “It's like being on the Moon. You feeling it too?”
Amber doubts that sitting in a 24hr diner named MoonCrest is at all like being on the actual Moon. The room is brightly lit and the staff seem friendly enough, and her small slice of Pecan pie served with a dollop of vanilla ice-cream and espresso hadn't been anything but agreeable. But ... this isn't the Moon. This isn't even normal.
“I had you down as someone completely different,” she says.
Michael takes another sip of his coffee. “Yeah? How so?”