Last Bitten (The Emerald Night Series) (2 page)

“Yes,” Nia agreed
. “Take me with you,” she pleaded.

The mysterious suitor
swept her away from the sinful tide and they withdrew to the quiet beach, down a few dark halls, one last left to black door with a sign: “VIP” in red.

The door opened automatically
. More black lights, a few odd couples moving in tandem strewn out against a back drop of blue velvet pillows, curtains to cubicles, some tied some not. Nia saw skin, plenty of skin. Nia heard sounds, sounds of pleasure, sounds that made the heat in her belly boil as all she could think about was sex—sex with a stranger.

God
. . .

“There is no God here,” he said opening a curtain and leading her inside
. “Just me.”

Sh
e laughed, “Just you. And you are?”

“I’m Johnny
. Take a seat, relax, enjoy. You’re Jessica.”

“How do you know my name?” she asked
.

“My bouncer
. He takes notes for me.”

“Oh
, I see.” The pillows were as comfortable as they looked; Nia took off her red leather jacket and laid it beside her.

“But that’s not your real name then?
More gin?” he asked.

She already felt the buzz—the buzz from him and the buzz from the booze
. “No thank you. And no, that’s not my real name,” she said watching him, wanting him to take off that tight black shirt, those tight black leather pants, and  . . . more, she wanted more. “I’m Nia.”

He eased down next her and slid
on top of her, spreading her legs with his. “You want this, Nia?” He pressed hard against her sweet spot, and as he did, she slung her head back, the buzz shooting up through her.

“Yes
.”

“You’ll have me?”

“Yes.”

“Forever?”

“Yes.”

Removing his shirt to reveal his perfect body, firm pecs,
and delectable abs, she was all too happy as he helped her off with her hoodie and skirt. Nia wore a simple black G-string, no bra.

Johnny
smiled at that. He liked that. She was free enough to let loose. He rolled her over onto her stomach and had her kneel, running a finger under her thong, pulling it up and letting it go so it slapped back against her, “I want you from behind,” he said.

She nodded
.

He unzipp
ed and thrust into her wet spot, leaving her string on so he could admire the frame of her hips and her tiny waist. “You’re so right, my Nia.”

And he was so big
. The pain was pleasure, as she felt sensations she’d never imagined. He yanked back on her hair as he took her, slow at first, building, writhing, until she felt his hand upon her large, firm breast and another slip around to her spot. He massaged the one ache she had left, and in an exclamation of utter satisfaction, they surged. The two collapsed upon the pillows. It was quick and hot—just what they craved.

“My Nia,” he said
. “Thank you.”

“For what?” she asked
, thinking she knew what he’d say next, feeling something deeper for this man.

“For t
his,” he said, holding her in close and sinking his long, sharp fangs into her pulsing, virgin neck.

Nia
now had no idea what he was doing to her. The night was turning into something of a disaster. She closed her eyes and endured the pain.

“Don’t fight it, my Nia.”

The fight was exactly what she had in her
. It hit, boiled up the same pathway that all the lust had just flowed through. But regret was a horrible thing to fight as the life slipped away from her. Nia fumbled with her one free hand for her jacket. Finding it, she reached in her pocket for that one item that her father had given her the day she’d left for University.

Where was it? Where was it?

The black switchblade was missing. She groped around the jacket as he groped her breasts and drank from her neck. Becoming weaker and weaker, she fought the urge to just close her eyes and give in. Finally, she felt metal—the cold but friendly weapon that she’d gripped in her pocket everyday while mazing the campus. It was there for a reason. It was fate. She pressed the button and brought it down on him; where it hit, she wasn’t sure.

He ripped away from her neck, all she saw was a bloodied
lip, and his red eyes were filled with so much . . . what was it? Nia couldn’t tell; it was like he loved her and was saddened by her sudden aggressions.

“What the hell are you doing to me?”
she grabbed her neck and looked down. The blade was stuck in his gut. She quickly yanked it out and stuck it into his heart.

Johnny fell back, his o
wn dark blood sprayed out on their love bed. He gave her an ungodly grin before his eyes returned to that lovely shade of green, and his lids dropped.

Panic set in as
Nia reached for his shirt, her clothes, and the switch blade, closed the blue curtain behind her and ran, searching for another open stall, she found only one after interrupting a whole bunch of sex in action and other bloodied images she didn’t want to acknowledge.
Who were these people?
She didn’t want to know. She wanted to be dressed and out.

In the other pocket of her jacket was her red lipstick and her small
, sparkly Pier One mirror—a buck—she examined the two ripped holes in her neck, oozing with her own blood.
They don’t really exist do they? No they don’t.
She denied the obvious, wiped his spray of blood off her face and body as best she could, turned the shirt inside out, and tied it around her neck to cover up the marks. After redressing, she returned to the main club room.

Hana
, where are you?

There was no sign of her
roommate in the crowd, and Hana was tall—noticeable. The round tables fell short as well as the outer edges packed with dark faces. A feeling fell over her, like she was being watched, but by whom or what she wasn’t sure. It was like everyone was staring at her in that moment.

Hana
. . .

There was no time to wait, no time to search
. Nia had to escape; she did so out the front of the club, avoiding Mr. Clean at all costs, and hailed a cab. They circled like ugly, orange sharks, and she secured one, got in.”The University, McCann, please.”

The cab sped off down the waterfront street
, and Nia looked back at the continual centipede wriggling into the club. The blinking green Johnny’s sign quickly vanished in the distance, further shrouded by the mist coming off the Sound.

She returned face
-front to watch the turban in the driver’s seat and the flash of multi-colored city sights flying by: lights, buses, small groups of people meandering on drunk to the next dive bar, to the next hole in the wall. You could tell their vice by how they dressed: the stoners in their plaid, the easy in their short skirts, the hipsters in their skinny pants, ready for it all. It was too much for her, all of it. Her neck hurt, so did her below.

What was I thinking?
I’m just like them now. I never wanted to be just like them.

You won’t
,
an unknown voice answered, and she realized it was in her head. .

Nia
covered her ears.”Go away, go away,” she said.

“Excuse me?” said the driver
, turning his head slightly to reveal his long black-grey beard.

“Not you, not you, sorry,” she said
.

Twenty-four
hours,
the voice said.

“
Twenty-four what? Twenty-four hours to what?” Nia shouted.

“Do you want me to pull over?” The driver asked
.

“No, just go
. . . go,” Nia cried in the backseat and pulled her hood over her face so she could hide in the dark, hide from her mistakes, hide from her guilt. “I’m nothing,” she whispered.

The freeway whizzed by and before she knew it, the
cab had stopped in front of McCann—the tall, sixties-styled dorm set.

“
Forty-two dollars,” said the driver.

“
Forty-two dollars? What’d you take the long way or something? I don’t have that. I have a twenty.”

“Forty-two dollars
,” he said again. “I’ll wait for it.”

“Oh frick
,” said Nia opening the door and hurrying over to the gloomy, grey building. She punched in the code and entered the building, only to bump into
him.
Of all the people in the world why’d it have to be him—her personal stalker.

“Nia
, what are doing up so late? You’re usually in bed by now. Nice scarf.”

“Andy
, I need twenty-two bucks.”

“For what?” The tall
, awkward, blond lank, happily pulled out his wallet. It was exactly the moment he’d been waiting for—she owed him now.

“The cab, he’s back there, can you go? I just need a shower
. I need to go.” She handed him her crumpled twenty.

“Why, something happen?”

Nia looked down, “I . . . Andy . . .” She sighed. “Just don’t ask. You win, okay? You win.”

“Score!” said Andy pulling down a fist
. “I’ll meet you for breakfast then in the morning. I’ll come by.”

“Fine
,” Nia pushed past him. He wore the same awful, dated, nineties Hip-hop jacket that he’d found at the second-hand store—someone must have told him it looked cool. It just didn’t.

The stairs up seemed
endless; she drudged down the long hall to the very last room on the left. The door was unlocked.
We forgot to lock it, oh no!
“He was probably in my room,” Nia said. “Oh Andy, I can’t think about this right now.”

Stripping down to nothing,
she slipped on her black robe and matching slippers and hit the communal showers. It was empty, a bleak white—exactly what she needed. She let the hot water and thick steam wash away her pain and anguish from the wild night out.
I’m not a virgin.
She faced into the shower jet.
I was saving myself for Mr. Right. Who am I kidding? I don’t believe this. He used me and I let him. I fell for it. I fell for his looks . . . oh . . .

What was it about him? She didn’t know
. In fact, she still wanted him even after what had happened.
But he’s dead; I killed him! I’m a murderer and a slut.
The wound at her neck didn’t hurt as much as her below did, even though it looked worse: three ragged holes. She considered a trip over to campus health then decided otherwise.

“
STDs,” she whispered. “We didn’t use anything.” She slunk down to the shower floor and brought her knees up to her chest, washing vigorously with the pink bar of soap. “I’m such a fool. Hana, I’m a fool. Even you would have told me to use a condom. Why didn’t I? Why?”

She dried off, retreated back to her dorm
, and slipped under the covers still damp. The ill thoughts trailed on as Nia fought to sleep, wondered about Hana, the club, Johnny . . . and more Johnny.

Twenty-four
hours . . .

“What does it mean?” she murmured
, finally falling asleep.

***

The loud knock at Nia’s room door was enough to send her flying out of bed. She slipped on a black t-shirt that lay on the clean-clothes pile that she never put away and found some faded black jeans to match. She skipped the G-string this time and wrapped a purple scarf around her neck.

She opened the door
, “Andy, I’m tired. You’re too early, you’ll—”

“Andy? No Andy here.
I’m Detective Rand and this is Detective Blithe. We need to ask you some questions.”

“Oh
,” Nia backed up. “I don’t have much room in here.”