a fluke. A little unexpected side effect of his strict feeding plan. No big deal. And he wasn’t going to see Jolee again. Not to talk to. He’d insulted her to guarantee that very thing. An image of Jolee’s surprised, then wounded expression flashed through his mind. A twinge of guilt pulled at his gut.
Why fret over a mortal? They are of no importance.
He looked around as if the voice in his head were real. Lilah’s voice, deceptively sweet. The voice of his vampire lover, and evil incarnate.
Why would he think of her now? The vampiress who’d crossed him over, crossed over his brothers, and destroyed his family. He’d forced her out of his thoughts. Yet, he could see her clearly in his mind. Her patronizing look when he’d been horrified by the results of his first feeding, by what he’d done to another human being.
“But you aren’t a human being, not anymore,” Lilah had informed him. “You are a vampire, and you are mine. That makes you far more important than any mere mortal.”
And he’d believed her. He’d become what he was because he’d believed.
Why was he thinking about this? He wasn’t that vampire anymore! He wasn’t. He’d changed. His self-imposed exile, his routine, his self-therapy. It was all making him…better.
Yes, and how Lilah would laugh if she could see him now. Living in a trailer, drinking blood through a straw, hiding from his neighbor.
This is your brilliant plan of redemption?
Again his thoughts took on Lilah’s lilting, mocking tone.
No! This was a good plan. It was working. He just needed to be more careful. He needed to adjust his blood intake. He needed to avoid situations where the hunger might appear. He needed to stay calm. His reaction to Jolee was hardly “falling off the wagon.”
“You just need to be a little more vigilant. By tomorrow night, you will be fine,” he told himself. He shook his head, chuckling derisively. “You also need to stop talking to yourself.”
He strode into the living room and turned on the TV. The chatter of voices filled the room. A comforting sound. A sound that drowned out the whir of lawn ornaments and the drone in his own head.
“At just nineteen-ninety-five the Salad Shooter is already an incredible value. But that’s not all you get. We are also including the World’s Best Vegetable Peeler, the only peeler you will ever have to buy again. And the Super Corer—core apples, pears, even tomatoes with just a flick of your wrist. All this for one low price. But this offer cannot last. Call now!”
Christian stared at the beaming face on the television screen. Another infomercial. He’d seen this one before, but he focused on the adamant pitch of the salesperson as he continued his spiel.
Did mortals really live in a world where the Salad Shooter could make their entire lives better? The overly cheery salesperson certainly implied that, and Christian couldn’t help but feel envious of the possibility. He thought of Jolee, wondering what would make her life better. Even thinking about her seemed to make his muscles tense, and his body react. This had to stop.
He strode back to his computer and punched it to life. He sat down, pulled up his blog and added:
Postscript:
I realized I’ve never asked my blog readers how they are. How is everyone?
There. He’d made contact. Step Eleven successfully completed. Now he could forget about Jolee.
Chapter 3
“Damn it,” Jolee muttered as she dropped another glass. Her third of the night. At least this one didn’t break. She couldn’t afford new barware.
“What’s got you so preoccupied tonight?” Jed asked.
She smiled at the old man who had sort of come with the bar. He lived in a building, which was no better than a shack, really, out behind the bar. Jolee had agreed that for his rent, he could handle the janitorial duties for the bar.
“Nothing. Just a clumsy night, I guess.”
He nodded, but she didn’t think he believed her. He was right not to, because everything was on her mind tonight. Vance’s attack. Money. Her arrogant, rude neighbor with his snooty airs.
Money was certainly the biggest concern. After all, she’d spent years worrying about her degenerate siblings, and that had never done any good. She needed to expend her energies on her bar. And making it work.
The bar was relatively busy for a Wednesday night, which meant about twenty patrons. And twenty patrons a night wasn’t going to keep her in business. But even with that very real worry, it was her condescending neighbor who’d been eating at her. Popping back into her mind over and over. Making her clumsy.
She didn’t understand why. Maybe because she’d really hoped they might become friends. But he’d made it clear that wasn’t happening. And as disappointed as she was to discover her neighbor was not friend material, she was even more bothered by his insult. So he thought she wasn’t pretty. She could handle that. It was what else he’d implied that had cut her to the quick. His mocking comment had also implied she wasn’t classy enough to have some fancy French name.
And that bothered her, because it was the same crap she’d heard her whole life. Her family was no good. She was no good. But she was more than her last name—or her first name, for that matter. She knew that, and she intended to prove it.
Her confrontation with Vance and her neighbor’s comment just had her resolve a little shaken. But both men had shown her she just had to work harder to prove she could be a success.
She looked around the bar she’d owned for almost three months. She could do this. Other people’s opinions didn’t mean squat. She sighed. How many times had she given herself the same pep talk while growing up? But this time she meant it. Two jerks weren’t going to stop her.
She got a new glass and filled the bottom with two fingers of rum, then she topped that off with ice and cola. She repeated the process two more times, setting each drink on a round tray. She picked up the tray and went out to deliver the drinks. Then she cleared some of the glasses from other tables, still chanting to herself that she could make this bar into a successful business. She had to.
“Hey, sweet cheeks, another pitcher over here.”
Jolee nodded in acknowledgment without looking toward the table. She set down her tray of empty beer mugs, then turned her back to the long, dark wood counter. Bracing her hands on the edge, she levered herself up onto the nicked wooden surface and swung her legs around to jump down on the other side. She heard a whistle as she performed her little feat of acrobatics, but she ignored it. Whistles and cat calls seemed to come with the territory of being a bar owner. Well, a female bar owner anyway.
She quickly placed the dirty mugs into the sink filled with hot, soapy water, then she turned to grab a clean pitcher. Patsy Cline’s “Walking After Midnight” played on the ancient jukebox against the far wall between the doorways of the ladies’ and men’s rooms.
As she filled the pitcher, she lined up three more glasses and poured shots of Jack Daniels into each. Not only was it busy, but the patrons were drinking. Always good in a bar.
Well,
