Page 6 of Bloody Temptations

“Do you guys work on tips or something?” It finally dawns on me why he is loitering around, and I feel even more embarrassed that I thought there was even a remote chance he was interested in talking to me.

I mean, look at him, and I really do let myself look. He’s perfection, and I’m… me. There isn’t particularly anything wrong with me. I’m not repulsive or anything, but it’s like comparing a halogen light to the sun. Looking at him, I feel so glaringly average.

Actually, that’s the perfect description for me. Average. Average height, average looks, average body.

The only way I really manage to break my personal mould is with my uncharacteristically shitty job and apartment. Which isn’t something to gloat over.

Thank the Gods the lighting in here is all flashy and shit—hopefully he can’t see the embarrassed burn on my cheeks. All the blood—and alcohol—I’ve drunk tonight rushes to my head as I try to dig into my back pocket to find my wallet. The quicker I pay the tip, the quicker this whole ridiculous scene will be over and this uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach can go away.

The stool I’m perched on wobbles precariously as I dig into the too tight jeans and it’s tipping before I realise the issue. My arms fly out frantically, but I only catch the air, unable to catch myself.

This is gonna hurt, my brain offers unhelpfully, as the world goes sideways. But I don’t know if my body or ego is going to hurt worse as I hurtle in what feels like slow motion towards the ground.

4

Kai

For the second timein five minutes, I manage to save the vamp from himself. Good thing he’s cute, because he’s kind of a disaster. I don’t even have the time to respond to the possible insult—I mean I do work for tips, but for bartending, not for chatting up guys on the floor—before he’s crashing towards the ground with a comically panicked face.

I manage to catch him before he hits the disgusting, sticky floors of the club, hauling him upright. The stool is a lost cause, so blondie ends up doing a weird two-step thing when I pull him up. The unsteady movement sends him stumbling into me with a loudoofsound.

“Gods, why do I bother leaving the house?” He mutters, jerking himself out of my hands before I can even truly take in the feel of him against me.

He runs a hand through his blond hair, making it flop back down in his face again and looks around frantically between the table and the sea of beings dancing behind us on the dance floor. If I didn’t know better I’d think he was avoiding looking at me. Probably because he is. I’m almost offended.

“I wasn’t looking for a tip, my guy.” I say to get his attention again.

He’s muttering to himself and sending frantic wide eyes to a group of beings on the floor who are watching us with amused interest.

“Huh?” His head whips around back to me. It’s hard to hear in the club, which is my excuse to step closer to him.

He takes a panicked half step back when I do, so I stop my advance. “I said I wasn’t looking for a tip.”

Somehow, that only makes him panic more. He turns from me, his eyes darting around while his mouth opens and closes a few times, like he’s trying to think of something to say. I tilt my head to catch his bright green and red eyes again. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

I make sure to hold his eyes for another second, to really drive the point home. The point seems to sink in because he flushes pink again and squeezes his eyes shut, a smile trying to break through the anxiety on his face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to insult you and—shit! Thank you for saving me, too.” He winces, his fangs gleaming in the light. There is a smudge of blood on the right one, and if I wasn’t working I’d want to lick it off. But I actually do have a job to get back to before Lifo cracks the shits. Again.

I take another step forward, and this time he doesn’t retreat on me.

“Definitely my pleasure, hot stuff.” I wink, loving the way the blood fires up his skin. He bites his lip, that bloody fang digging into the soft, pink flesh.

I have to force myself to stop looking at it. These shorts are dangerously tight and getting anything past half chub would probably get me fired. I brush some imaginary lint off his shoulder, just to have another excuse to touch him. The subtle shiver at the innocent touch makes me want to do it again.

So I do.

I’ve never been great at impulse control. It’s how I ended up over here in the first place. I saw him sitting here at the table all alone while I did the rounds on the floor, collecting dirty glasses and making sure everything was okay. A spotlight hit him at the perfect moment, lighting him up just as he smiled at whoever he was watching.

I’ve long since lost my shifter instincts but it didn’t matter. Something about him called to me. Maybe it was the uncomfortable way he perched on his stool, trying to curl himself in, make himself seem smaller. Or the way he kept shoving his hair out of his face, even though it just fell straight back where it had been moments before. Or that he kept laughing and just a half a second later, pulling himself back, as if it wasn’t allowed or something.

I don’t know. But something about the awkward, adorable man said this guy—he’s important. I knew it in my guts—I had to go talk to him. So I dumped my glasses on an empty table and here we are.

My hand rests on his shoulder, my thumb drawing a circle there on the fabric. It’s soft, super worn-in cotton. But that’s not why I’m touching him. I really need to go, but I can’t seem to make myself pull away. To be fair though, I’m not trying very hard.

Eyes still locked on his, I see his lips part and my predator-like focus catches his tongue darting out, before he reconsiders and rolls his lips over his teeth, sealing his mouth shut decisively.

I wonder what he tastes like? I bet it’s blood and anxiety and innocence. I bet it would be intoxicating.

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