Siamese
It's another dark club, like all the others. I don't know why she spent so long on her makeup, peering into that little mirror she can't see herself in, tracing the eyeliner over her lid again and again. You can't see shit in here past the smoke and lights from the dance floor.
Where are we now? I can't remember. It happens sometimes. The doctors said my short term memory might be shaky. Not a problem. It just makes it important that I make more things in my life long term. Like Drusilla.
I squint my eyes against the darkness, searching her out in the crowd. She's swaying to some music that sounds like sex, her eyes closed as she flows like liquid. So sweet, so perfect, clad in a gauzy sleeveless black dress. Sleeveless because of me, because of my ripping them off one night in my impatience.
The slightest movement of her eyelid and I know she's sensed me looking. One hand slides up her chest. the long, slender fingers creeping below her neckline, tracing the sharp bones of her collar. The other hand stays on her hip, and oddly enough, it's that hand I watch.
"That your girlfriend?" I'm startled by the voice coming from behind me. I turn around and it's the bartender, a short vicious looking girl, and I realize quickly, a vamp. Fuck it, that's not my job anymore.
"Maybe."
She smiles, taking my empty beer bottle from my hand and giving me a new one. "Pretty...powerful." She turns and fills a cup with chipped ice. "She's my sire, you know."I gasp and she pulls back, her hands up in a gesture of peace. "Chill, I'm not looking for a fight. You can have her."
"Thanks," I deadpan, then more softly. "What city is this?"
"Shit, you're as messed up as she is." She shakes her head. "This is New Orleans, and it suits you. And her." I growl at her and move to the other side of the dance floor, keeping my eyes fixed on my dark girl.
Two songs later, she comes over to me, her mouth wet and begging for a kiss. I oblige, slipping my mouth over hers, tasting salt and that undeniable copper taste. I slip my fingers through her hair, letting them slide back down to her back, tracing her shoulder blades. She's so thin, the bones strain at her skin.
I pull her up and she lies back against me. We don't fit well; she's too tall, but I want her there. We sit there for a few minutes, and then she gets restless. Hearing her whine, I run my fingers down her thighs, pulling the hem of her dress up in back. In the thick shadows of the corner, no one notices as I slide my hands around to her front, touching the tops of her stockings. She sighs as I finally touch her where she needs me, running my hands through her cool moisture.
I catch her climax in my mouth, smoothing her dress back into place as she mewls. "Let's go."
She nods and we leave hand in hand. Later, we're sleeping her favorite way, me curled up next to her back, one arm over her waist, holding her close. "I'm here, baby," I whisper as she whimpers, caught up in whatever fantasy of blood and hurt she's dreaming of. I never dream, myself. Unless an endless expanse of black is dreaming, some sort of wishful escape, some throwback to that horrible month when I was dead.
I'm here, I'm holding you, and I'll never let you go, so you can't let me go. I can't let you.