Page 38 of Blood Lust

My heart forgets how to beat.

She’s wearing dark jeans, boots, a fitted jacket. Hair pulled back, sharp and elegant. Her face is unreadable, but her eyes look… cautious.

Like she’stesting the air.

She takes her usual seat at the bar. It’s been a week since I’ve seen her and ten days since we chatted online. Hell, if you ask me.

Tonight, no words pass between us. My hands move on muscle memory: uncork, pour, slide. The wine glass whispers across polished oak.

She doesn’t thank me; doesn’t need to.

Her fingers wrap around the glass like she’s steadying herself.

I watch her without watching her.

Every flicker of her lashes and every small sigh is carved into my memory like scripture. I know she hasn’t signed on in days. But she’s here now. Real. Breathing. Well, Ithinkshe’s breathing. I know vampires don’t need to breathe. Real vampires, that is. And she is a real vampire. I’m sure of it.

I can’t speak to her, not like I do when I’m Fang950. I can’t break the fragile boundary of our two worlds. In this one, I’m just a quiet, unassuming bartender.

Still, I wonder what she’s thinking.

And if she misses our chats.

If she suspects that I miss them.

I step back to clean a glass that doesn’t need cleaning, just to keep my hands from doing something reckless. Like reaching out for her hand.

She stays for half an hour.

Drinks half her wine.

Then leaves a ten-dollar bill and disappears into the night.

Not a word spoken.

But it’s the loudest night of my life.

Chapter Thirty-three

Last call is at 12:45. By 1:07, the chairs are up and the floors mopped. I take the long way home, three miles of cracked sidewalks and cold air sharp enough to scour the smell of stale beer from my lungs.

At 1:39 a.m., I’m back in the crappy studio apartment I can barely afford, surrounded by stolen milk crates and a mattress on the floor.

The desk is just a plank of wood balanced across two filing cabinets.

The computer hums like it’s alive.

I don’t even bother taking off my coat. Just sit down, crack my knuckles, and fire up AOL.

Welcome.

You’ve got mail.

(Spam, of course.)

I click into my buddy list.

She’s not online.

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