Then the suitor comes. Like poor Sherman he doesn't belong here, but he doesn't belong here in an unnerving, predatory way. This guy is different. He's holding a drink but he hasn't had any. He's looking around like he expects to get jumped, watching all the corners, checking the exits.

He looks me over three times before he moves to the bar, circling me like a shark when there's blood in the water. I watch him in the long mirror behind the bar. His reflection is blurred.

The glass must be dirty.

He's about six two, narrow in the way of a guy that leads a sedentary lifestyle but takes care of himself and works hard on staying in shape. His clothes are all tailored, his belt and shoes alligator, and he's wearing an Omega. When I spot the watch something stirs, deep down, something fluttery and scratchy waking up in my belly. When he sits down next to me the feeling grows. It's heady, intoxicating. I forget to pick up my drink.

"Hi."

"Hi," I say, and I blink. He has a lean face, not model handsome but, I don't know, endearing. He wears glasses, by the little marks on his nose, but doesn't have them on now. His hair is a sandy blonde and when I see his hands I decide they belong to a doctor, for no particular reason. He touches my wrist and I'm aware of pressure and heat and the texture of his fingertips, but it's as dead as any other touch, just an awareness.

Except it isn't. I don't stop him or pull my hand away.

"You don't look like you belong in a place like this."

I don't belong anywhere with the living.

"I guess not."

"Are you upset about something?"

I flinch. He says it like he already knows the answer.

This has to end. This man is kind. I don't dare meet his eyes. I don't want to feel that.

"Go away."

I take my hand away and prop my chin on it. I might go thirsty tonight. I'd rather take the risk than hurt someone undeserving.

He's not leaving. He's not giving up.

"You look upset."

A tiny part of me wants to tell him. Tell him all of it. Of course I'm upset. I'm a corpse, I have every reason to be upset. I don't. I turn away even more.

I catch the motion out of the corner of my eye. He passes his hand over my drink. A flicker passes through his face and I can't read it. I turn back and taste my drink.

He's put something in it.

"Why don't we get out of here?"

I squeeze the glass and stop myself before I crush it. This is worse than usual. I feel betrayed. I'm angry and I want to savor it. Feeling something is precious, even if it's hate. If you crawl through the desert and find a drink of water, who cares if the water's warm?

I down the rest of the drink and slip off my stool and think. This guy is probably not going to have a dingy apartment. This might be a mistake. I should go, but I can't. I have to have this one.

Then I look over and see his face and hate myself for what I'm going to do to him, even though I now know he deserves it. Something is off about this, something wrong. My instincts are starting to scream at me to leave, hole up somewhere for the day and come back to the hunt tomorrow night.

We leave the club. I walk with him. It's late, now, fewer people on the street.

"I'm parked on the next block, in a lot," he says, and squeezes my hand.

I drift along with him. The parking lot is half empty, surrounded by barbed wire that glows under harsh high pressure sodium lamps. The attendant's booth is empty, closed up. There's a big white van parked in the corner, away from the lights. He starts leading me to it.

His hand tugs mine when I stop.

"Come on, honey."

Something familiar in his tone. I've had enough. I don't like this. I pull away.

His hand grips mine. Hard. I can't pull loose, and I shriek in panic and really pull, but he still holds on. I give him a shove that should rip his arm out of his socket, but he doesn't let go. He's got my other arm and he picks me up off the ground and I kick my feet and thrash. I throw my head back and hear a thump when the back of my skull hits his nose. That makes him let go. I shake loose and bolt.

Two steps later a sledgehammer hits me in the back. That's what it feels like, before fire rips through my body and I go down. My limbs won't do what I tell them to and I'm shaking, my arms and legs writhing around out of my control.

My bones creak as every muscle in my body clenches all at once. When he rolls me over and pulls the taser barbs out of my back I realize what happened. He stuffs it back in his suit pocket and picks me up from the ground, gingerly, like a newlywed. He holds me in his arms so my head falls against his chest.

Oh God.

He carries me back to the van and throws me over his shoulder, fireman style. I can't move, just stare at my arms dangling towards the ground as he yanks the van doors open and gingerly lowers me to the floor, cradling my head with his hand. He tucks me inside the bag, pulling it up around me before he grasps the zipper and drags the world away.

I'm in a body bag.

Continue reading Thrall.

The Bad Boy Next Door.

Quentin I Rose I.

Quentin II Rose II Quentin III Rose III Quentin IV.

Rose IV Quentin V Rose V Quentin VI Rose VI Quentin VII Rose VII.

Quentin VIII Rose VIII Quentin IX Rose IX Quentin X Rose X Quentin XI Rose XI.

Samples Hawk Blackbird Mockingbird Paradise Falls.

Thrall.

end.