Page 9 of Vampire Soldier

I shift on my feet, sucking my lower lip between my teeth as I consider the situation. I look up the richly carpeted stairs and warm, dark-paneled wooden walls.

I could walk away. Perry wouldn’t stop me. I think about Tonya and all the ladies at the club who have supported me in preparing for this interview. What would I tell them if I don’t try? Oh, yeah, the dance was great but then I realized my future boss would be the vampire I made out with the other night and conveniently didn’t tell anyone about?

“All right,” I say, nodding once with resolution I don’t quite feel. Fake it till you make it, right?

“Brilliant.” Perry turns to head back up the stairs, gesturing for me to follow him. “This way. Mr. Casadecappa’s office is on the balcony level. It offers a perfect view of the stage. The rest of the floors are dedicated to private booths. I’m quite proud of them, if I do say so myself. Malachi and I spent hours over designs to capture the right aesthetic and vibe we want our customers to experience.”

I stumble at his words, quickly recovering before I faceplant on the stairs. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to have noticed. “Private booths?” I ask tentatively, my thoughts going straight to the only private booths I have experience with.

“For the clients who want a more lavish experience,” he explains blithely. “Along with the private booth, the floor has dedicated services, five-course meals, and high-end alcohol and drinks. We have four different booths, two of which can seat parties of half a dozen.”

“And the dancers?” I press as we reach the landing. The private booths are visible through the open, arched doorways and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least this room doesn’t look set up to be comfortable at all for a private dance. Burlesque dancers aren’t strippers, though plenty of men believe otherwise.

Perry notes my interest in the room and steps closer to the doorway, sliding the thick black curtain further back so I can see more as I stand beside him.

“I’ll be frank, Ms. Taylor. We will not be allowing our dancers to provide lap dances or any other private entertainment on the premises. We are a theater, not a gentleman’s club.” He gives me an appraising look, as if now questioning my expectations of working here.

“Good,” I say, my smile genuine, and poke my head through the doorway to check the area out more. The dining area is set two small steps down from the doorway. The round table looks like black and gold marble, and on our side of the table is a large, warm brown, leather couch with high enough of a back to give an even greater sense of privacy. It’s dark, save for the two wall sconces on each side of the doorway giving off a gentle glow. The light glints off of the small, unlit chandelier that hangs right over the center of the table. From the little I can see, it’s not quite an antique but isn’t contemporary either.

Personally, I love it.

“This way, please.”

I can’t let myself linger, delaying the inevitable meeting between Malachi and me. I may have been too busy to seek him out to return his license, but he’s taken root in my thoughts. Sleeping has become difficult since I made it to this round of interviews. Since the night Malachi rescued me, the only way I’ve been able to sleep is to use my vibrator while replaying the best kisses I’ve had in my life. I’d let myself imagine what could have happened if I had invited him inside, into my bed. It’s him I think about when I bury my face in my pillow to muffle my moans as I climax.

Now I’m outside a propped-open office door, about to sit down across from the literal man of my fantasies for the final interview of a dream I desperately want.

Great. Just great.

Perry knocks twice on the door before pushing it further open and waving me inside. He gives me a supportive smile as I step in and then closes the door behind me.

I feel his stare and I can’t bring myself to look at him yet. Instead, I look around his office.

Like the private booths, his office is dark. It’s the same rich, dark wood covering the walls, trim, and ceiling. His office is larger than the two booths combined. In the center, he has a large desk, the sides made of the same marble as the tables downstairs, but the top is a slab of rich, dark wood. Papers are stacked neatly on his left, a black laptop is on his right, and there’s a credenza to the side with crystal decanters filled with various colors of liquor.

On the wall directly behind him are floor-to-ceiling windows, which overlook the now empty and dark stage. Across from the desk, on the wall with the door, is framed artwork. I gasp, stepping towards them as I let my hand holding the large fans fall limply to my sides. I recognize the artists and it’s impossible. Artemisia Gentileschi. Elisabetta Sirani. Even—my lips part—a Van Gogh.

“These can’t be original?” I ask, stunned, and look at him.

Malachi is seated, leaning back in a large, plush leather chair. He has a tumbler of amber-colored liquid in one hand, and his elbows are balanced on the armrests, his fingers interlaced together.

He raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of the alcohol. “Do you enjoy art, Ms. Taylor?”

I flush as he emphasizes my name; a pointed reminder that I refused to answer after we kissed. The artwork draws me back, though, pulling me towards them. There are two low-set leather chairs placed against the wall and without thought I drop the fans down onto one of them.

“I adore it,” I answer, drinking in the brushstrokes, the vivid colors, the emotion. “I’d planned to go to college to get a degree in art history. I know it’s not the most financially viable, but I was halfway through securing an internship at one of the largest art museums in the city.”

Through my last two years of high school I worked under the table since my mom stopped paying rent when Sam and I turned fifteen. Claimed we were adults now, and if we were born two hundred years earlier, I’d already be married. Sam followed Mom’s path, dropping out and hanging with the wrong crowd. I worked for the motel that let me rent a room while I finished school. Sam lived there too, always managing to scrape up enough money to cover his share of the week’s rent even if it was two weeks late. School was my way out of the Barrows. My way out from the life my mom dropped me in and bounced.

“What happened?” Malachi’s curiosity seems genuine.

My mom showed up with my adorable, redheaded, six-month-old sister and said either I took her or she would leave Charlie at the police station.

I pull back from those dreams, hauling up the walls that had kept me safe for the last twelve years. I turn back towards him, keeping my customer service expression on. I ignore the question. It’s not important for the job interview.

“Thank you for reconsidering me for the final interview.” Belatedly, I fish out my wallet from the bag at my hip. I slide his license out from the stack of loyalty cards, coffee stamp cards, and a few crumpled receipts. I stride over to the other side of his desk, holding it out towards him. “Here. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to get it back to you earlier. I meant to, but...” I trail off as my arm lowers without him moving. I set the license on his desk between us. He’s still leaning back in his leather chair, watching me with those silent eyes of his. I blink and frown.

“Why are your eyes brown?” I blurt out then slap my hand over my mouth. “Sorry, that was rude. Please don’t feel like you have to answer that.”

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