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  The pain he heard behind her sweet southern drawl made him crave the sight of pleasure and happiness lighting up her eyes. Perhaps some inexplicable, unquantifiable magnetism drew him in. He met thousands of women on the road. Some were more real to him, plain and simple.

  Connors hummed an inane tune as the device removed Jonnie’s toxic blood and replaced it with fresh, clean donor fluids.

  “What did you people do to me?” The needle left his arm with a minor nip. Dark river waters churned. Downstream, an illuminated bridge cycled through a variety of primary colors.

  His surroundings didn’t make him feel much. Grim yet essential moments like the one he’d tolerated sucked out his joy right along with the dirty blood running through his veins. Reminded him that his entire essence was poisonous, sick.

  “Hemotoxic venom,” Connors chirped, packing up paraphernalia with soft clacks and the metal-on-metal noise of a zipper closing. He laid a circular adhesive bandage over Jonnie’s needle stick.

  “Excuse me?” He slashed his eyes to the plastic surgeon, finding him texting. Why did he even ask? Every time he pressed for more clarification on what he’d undergone, the resulting details disturbed him while offering him nothing useful on how to stop his dependence on Connors and the transfusions.

  “The vampire treatment entails replacing the customer’s blood with a synthetic formula that mimics the effects of hemotoxic venom. What vipers use to immobilize their prey. The formula staves off the aging process by halting cell degradation, but after a few years in the patient’s system, it turns on the body. Hence the need for refills. Think of it like changing the oil in your vehicle. But hey, you’ll be driving a shiny new sports car forever, so that’s a positive.”

  Connors flashed a wink and toothy grin combo fit for a used car salesman. How apropos. At least the man harbored a modicum of self-awareness.

  The sales pitch for the Vampivax treatment sounded too good to be true, and he’d assumed the brand name was an exercise in cheeky irony to match the product’s campy packaging.

  He should have seen through it all. But he’d been thirty, drunk on fame yet old enough in rock star years to feel the impending terror of age snatching that fame away. Took ten years for the first symptoms to show up, and another ten for them to require regular management. For twenty years, he’d kept his condition secret from his band. They bought the lie that he had good genes and used top-quality moisturizer.

  He might have been stupid to sign up for the serum, but he wasn’t dumb enough to out himself as a freak in front of his mates, his second family. “What if someone drives a stake through my heart? Will that end my miserable existence?”

  Connors snorted. “Nope. That’s a myth, pal. Your Vampivax will rally around any intruding agent and push it out. In more good news, you can eat garlic all you want. Speaking of, a boutique Italian eatery just opened over on Fourth. The red sauce is to die for.” Connors kissed his fingertips like a European chef.

  “What about the fangs?” Those lovely little pointy things made their first unscheduled appearance a year ago. His fiancée had thrown the ring in his face and run off screaming.

  “They show up when the reptile DNA booster in your Vampivax mutates. Happens after fifteen to twenty years. Natural part of your progression.”

  “What else can I expect as a natural part of my progression?” He stroked the undersides of his pale arms, pushing on one of many small bruises. The sting of self-inflicted pain overrode his emotional hurt.

  “Keep seeing me and you won’t have to worry about it. Ready to settle up?”

  Jonnie took his wallet out of a coat pocket and thrust a credit card at the doctor. Connors swiped it through the white plastic square topping his mobile, smiling at the screen. The scumbag was right about one thing. Jonnie didn’t want to know what new, horrific surprise lay in store for him next. “Drop me back at the arena.”

  The driver obeyed, hanging a tight U-turn in the parking lot and exiting back onto the street. He pulled into the loading dock, where Jonnie got out without a word. At least the rain had stopped. Its residual wetness made slick car roofs glimmer, and errant drips struck the pavement in a musical rhythm. He inhaled the mineral odor of wet rock mixed with funky fishiness from the nearby river, enjoying feeling normal as he resigned himself to another week or so of healthy living.

  Between the two tour buses, Fyre’s bassist, Thom, thick waves of hair cascading over his beefy shoulders, puffed a cigarette. He blew two rails of gray smoke out of his nostrils like a fire-breathing dragon. Thom’s bass tech, Dusty, leaned against one of the buses, smoking and talking.

  Playing with phones, two groupies with mussed hair stood next to the boys.

  The bassist nodded once at Jonnie. The pungent, woody aroma of tobacco smelled familiar and grounding. Smelled like his band, the blokes he’d known for decades.

  “Where did you skip off to?” Thom asked in his deep, husky voice.

  A security lamp offered enough yellow light for Jonnie to catch suspicion in the man’s brown eyes. Thom had been onto him and his disappearances for a while. On the selective occasions when Jonnie met a woman after a show, he tended to vanish until after breakfast the following morning.

  “Running an errand.” Well, that sounded preposterous.

  Thom narrowed his eyes, shaking his head as he drew down another drag of smoke, the cigarette’s flaming cherry tip crackling bright in the night. “Sneaking about isn’t a good look on you, mate. Makes you come across like a naughty schoolboy.”

  For all of Thom’s questionable qualities, the lad spoke his mind and didn’t mince words.

  Dusty wrapped a spaghetti-thin, tattooed arm around each of the women, a redhead in denim shorts as tiny as panties and a blonde with bloodshot eyes. “We’re rock stars, bro. We don’t run errands. That’s what lovely ladies like these are for. Now one of you girls go get us some beers.”

  Roadies and crew made up a changing cast of characters, lifetime temp workers who drifted in to and out of the touring scene. Some, Jonnie treasured. Others, not so much. Dusty belonged to the “others” group.

  “Thom and I are rock stars. You’re a roadie.” Jonnie didn’t wish to come off as a snob or an elitist, but he’d had his fill of creeps herding him into a “we” he had no desire to join. He might be an abomination with fangs and venomous blood, but he still had some principles. Like treating women with respect.

  “You need something, hon?” the blonde asked, training her gaze on Jonnie.

  Dusty pulled his hand to his mouth, forearm circling around the blonde’s neck as he made the blowjob gesture, pumping a fist at his face and poking his tongue into his cheek. For added emphasis, he threw in a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.

  “I got the innuendo without the pantomime, you arse,” Jonnie grumbled. Not like it was some mystery what the girls wanted to do. Many of them figured, for whatever sad reason, that sexual favors were all they had to offer another person. The emptiness in their stares gave it away.

  The blonde giggled, struggling against Dusty’s hold. “For real. You want your cock sucked, Jonnie?” She squirmed free and rubbed her neck.

  “No thanks. I’m good.” Though he was no monk and succumbed to the temptations of eager fans now and again, he at least picked lovers with whom he shared some chemistry.

  Unbidden, Eve’s face popped into Jonnie’s mind. He wondered what she was up to this evening. Now there was a woman he’d like to get close to. She’d had no clue who he was and wasn’t impressed by him. Meaning that he’d, in theory, have to work to impress her. What a novel and electric concept.

  “The blokes from Drops of Time are backstage. Thought we could connect and jam in the suite for a bit.” Thom stubbed out his smoke and fired off a text, unkempt hair falling in his face.

  For the first time in a while, Jonnie smiled. Collaborating and making music, nurturing his creativity while spending time with his band brothers and other musicians, fed his soul. Reminded him he s
till had a soul. “Yeah. Sounds good. I think I’ll take a walk for a bit first. Clear my head. But I’ll be by the hotel later.”

  “You alright, mate? What do you need to clear you head of?” Thom’s inquisitive eyes, betraying genuine concern, locked Jonnie’s.

  “I’m fine. Just in a pensive mood, I suppose.” He could tell his bandmates, sure. But why, and to what end? He fit in with his musician friends. His families of origin were scattered across the United States, Britain, and New Delhi, and the stress of Cara’s diagnosis, combined with his recording and touring schedule, put strain on those relationships.

  Why confess something that could set him apart from his closest people? Music offered solace. Musicians were his compatriots. They accepted him, and he wasn’t about to sabotage that.

  “Are we invited to the party?” the redhead wheedled in a baby voice.

  “No.” Dusty laughed as he removed his arm from the groupie. “But your technique was solid, Red. You suck like a Hoover.” He made a slurping noise, stuck a hand in the back pocket of his ripped jeans, and pulled out a laminate pass to some upcoming show.

  Dusty’s reply was repugnant, but for the best. One fewer event where these two women would be treated as sex toys.

  “Can we fire him?” Jonnie asked Thom. The bassist enabled some roadies’ gross, exploitative behavior by partying with them.

  Thom shrugged. “He’s strong and he shows up on time, sober, and ready to work. Keeps the rest of the crew in line.”

  Dusty beamed like a star student with a trophy. Which Jonnie suspected he’d never been.

  The groupies lost interest and drifted off, name-dropping various other musicians.

  “Get my equipment to the suite, would you mate?” Thom used his authoritative, bossy voice on Dusty.

  “You got it.” The lanky roadie sprinted into the underground parking garage, stringy hair swishing goodbye.

  With the others dispatched, Thom stepped closer to Jonnie, close enough he could smell the groupies’ flowery perfumes emanating off his bandmate. At this proximity, the halogen glow of the streetlamp would expose dilated pupils or red squiggles.

  “What’s going on, Jon? Tell me you aren’t using.” The bassist’s stare dug deep.

  Jonnie didn’t blame the man for his concern. Though hard drugs had never touched the band itself, heroin tore through the crew a couple of years ago, nearly destroying a summer tour.

  “Of course not. You know me. Just got a lot on my mind, with Cara and all.”

  “Did something happen?” Thom didn’t sound convinced. Though a shameless libertine, the man’s mind was as sharp as the points of Jonnie’s sheathed fangs.

  “It’s stage-four cancer. Something could any day.”

  Thom backed off and stayed silent for a beat. He opened his mouth, then clamped it shut as if to swallow more nosy questions. “Sorry to pry. See you soon.”

  “You will.” He hugged the bassist and rounded the corner, coming to face a hill flanking the side of the building. Inlaid stone steps led to the front of the arena and a downtown street, and he hiked up stairs until the city emerged in a carnival of honking horns and chattering people. A horse-drawn carriage sat idle on the curb, and the animal snorted and stomped a hoof. Odors of fried food, exhaust, and beer mixed with post-rain wetness.

  Strolling at a fast clip down the sidewalk, he kept moving before anyone in the smattering of remaining fans lingering outside the venue spotted him. He didn’t mind chatting with the folks who paid his bills, but tonight, solitude called. Tonight, darkness sang its siren’s song.

  He walked down Main Street, dodging small rainwater pools as he looked up at buildings jutting toward obsidian skies. Cabs idled by the curb, the hot breath of their engines like puffs of hellfire in the crisp climate. A large, drunk group in matching tee shirts clomped by him as they stumbled to their next bar.

  Jonnie sauntered, slipping into the night like a pair of custom-made trousers. He’d felt more and more like a loner lately, more drawn to the evening’s black cloak and its heady, teeming vibrations. The cosmic blanket and cool atmosphere slid over his sensitive skin in sensual caresses. Fast clouds blew past like cigarette smoke, revealing peeps of stars amidst light twinkling in windows.

  The heightened emotions that people expressed when free of the sun’s judgmental glare made for a devil’s playground. Night stoked desires. Bred intrigue. Fed the id’s mischief. Night was noir, in the richest and most luscious sense of the word.

  Shite, he was starting to enjoy this vampire thing, an unsettlingly liberating realization. Didn’t he want to die?

  Jonnie’s ruminations ceased as he spotted Eve a few feet in front of him on the sidewalk, strolling with a friend. For the first time in ages, fate had winked at him. Delivered the enigmatic, melancholy beauty who’d woven her way into the wrinkles of his brain.

  And damn, what a knockout. A simple black dress hugged her round, proportional hips and breasts. Straightened sheets of black silk rested on her shoulders. Sexy heels showed off toned legs. White car headlights and ambient light from restaurants cast her skin in shadowing fit for a femme fatale.

  At first, Eve said nothing, she just stopped in her tracks and looked up at him with a keen stare. He still didn’t know her eye color. A travesty.

  “Looks like we’re destined to find each other.” With a decisive step, Jonnie closed some space between them, catching a hint of a scent befitting her name. Like honeyed apples, the aroma of Eden’s forbidden fruit. God, to bury his face in her long neck and breathe. Breathe in sweetness and femininity and escape. Then sink his teeth into her and drink her essence like ambrosia.

  His cock twitched against the prison of his tight leather pants. If she would have him, he could escape his walking death sentence for a bit by sliding inside of her and affirming life in the most primitive of ways.

  Her gaze drifted to the side, mouth curving into a crooked smile. Despite the shy deflection, her posture, comported as a debutante’s, didn’t slouch. She moved so fluidly, demure though decisive. He fought the urge to adjust his fly. Could she see his rising excitement?

  “Looks like it. Sorry about earlier, but you confused the hell out of me. Has anyone told you it’s shady to lie in wait on the doorsteps of women you don’t know?”

  Eve’s friend gasped and waved her hands in the air. “Oh my God, oh my God. Jonnie Tollens. Chariotz of Fyre. Fangirling so hard right now.”

  The behavior didn’t faze him. People acted all sorts of goofy in the presence of celebrities. He’d been a stammering fool when he met his guitar idols.

  “Hello, love.” He signed his name on a scrap of paper the friend handed him before turning to Eve.

  His fingers itched to brush an errant strand of hair from Eve’s cheek. Would her skin feel as soft as velvet? How would she react if he gave in to his desire? “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  Passersby whispered as they strode past the trio. A woman jerked her head over her shoulder. “I’m positive he’s somebody,” she told her date in a loud hiss.

  The person’s conspicuous act drew the attention of a group of teenagers leaning against a mailbox. One snapped a picture on his phone, intensifying Jonnie’s urge to keep moving.

  Eve touched her friend’s elbow. “I think I’m gonna hang out. You okay with that?”

  The friend whipped out her phone and pushed buttons, a smirk bending her lips. “Are you kidding? That was my whole…what I meant to say was of course. Call me the second you’re in a car, okay?”

  “Sure thing. Thanks, hon.” Eve slid off her heels and took soft, rolled up flats from her purse. As she slid them on, he licked his lips at the sight of her dainty feet. Princess feet.

  He’d kiss and suck every one of those petite toes, then cover them with massage oil and rub his stiff dick between her soles until he shot his seed on her sculpted ankles. Huh. He’d never had a foot fetish before. The thrill of novelty blazed through his veins.

  Intoxicating, to feel
something besides the usual cynicism and ennui. To feel lusty, animal. To want.

  “Thank me with seven-layer dip,” Meg called while pouring herself into a hatchback with a pink ride-service logo sticker on its back window.

  Jonnie walked down the hill, guiding Eve by placing his hand on the warm, swan’s neck curvature of her spine. Touching her filled him with a glow. For a sweet second, he pretended they were a couple.

  He caught a change in her breathing, a hitch, and she moved a bit closer to him. Realizing that she responded to his touch delivered a hit of heady pleasure as they took careful steps down the wet sidewalk. It shone silver, like night magic kissed the spaces between pulverized rocks in the concrete.

  “Let’s take it from the top. What happened to you, again?” Eve asked with interest as they passed a bar with an outdoor patio. Pop music streamed from the pub, patrons on the terrace chatting and drinking pints of brew. A fire hydrant sprayed water onto the road, adding to the urban liveliness.

  “Skip the pleasantries, eh?” Jonnie withdrew his hand from her back and played with one of his rings. He’d hoped that they could get to know each other a bit before getting down to business, engage in social conversation befitting the vibrant city nightlife.

  “I think we’re past pleasantries.” Her voice carried a brusque inflection, tempered by kindness. And she had a point. He’d darkened her doorstep, begging for her services, and no doubt come off like a barking mad lunatic. He’d even put her under his weird new spell for dramatic effect, for Christ’s sakes. They were light years beyond idle talk about favorite sports teams and what they studied at university.

  They approached a long stretch of green space flanking the river. Trees and playground equipment dotted a park. A couple walking three fluffy lap dogs watched the water from an overlook, and a lone teenager swung on one of the bench swings, none of them appearing particularly concerned with the activities of others. Jonnie gathered his thoughts as he and Eve turned onto a walkway parallel to the rushing water. The illuminated bridge cycled through its light show, and now he was actually in the right frame of mind to appreciate the spectacle.