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Authors: Todd Gregory

BOOK: Need
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Perhaps three months had passed since my conversion and we'd arrived in South Beach. There was yet another party going on in the house, and I was bored, sipping a glass of red wine and walking around the pool in my red bikini. It was early evening, and the sun was beginning to set. Tiki torches around the pool had been lit, and a thin sheen of sweat covered my skin as I smiled and muttered inanities at beautiful young men with exceptional bodies, ignoring the obvious invitations in their eyes as they looked over my body. The music was blaring, and a sweating group of men in thongs and bikinis were dancing on the other side of the pool, their slick skin glowing in the torchlight. I hadn't seen Jean-Paul in what seemed like hours, and I was wishing I were anywhere but there when Clint came up behind me and cupped my ass in his big hands. I spun around and smiled at him. “Having fun?” I asked, gesturing with the wineglass at the dancers.
Clint shrugged. He was wearing a metallic-blue bikini barely containing the bulge in the front. “Every once in a while I get bored with all of this,” he said, taking my hand and leading me back into a dark secluded corner. He pulled me to him, rubbing his bulge against mine and pulling me into a deep kiss. His hands drifted down to my ass, and he pulled me even tighter against him, and his tongue went into my mouth as my back arched a little bit.
He was a great kisser.
I could taste blood in his mouth, a hot metallic taste.
“You've fed,” I whispered in his ear.
“And now I want to fuck you,” he whispered. He slid a finger into my ass, and I moaned. The taste of blood, the feel of his damp skin, and the pressure of his finger as it toyed with my asshole were driving me mad with desire.
But before I could lose myself in pleasure, out of the corner of my eye I noticed another couple.
The boy getting fucked was about my age, maybe a little younger. He was Latino—dark cinnamon skin, black hair, and lean and muscular. His bright yellow bikini was down around his knees, and he was getting ridden very hard from behind. His eyes were closed, and he was moaning, pulling on his own nipples with his hands. He was up on his toes, two big strong hands grasping his waist to keep him from pitching forward from the power of the thrusts. He was so beautiful that I couldn't help but smile.
And then I saw the man fucking him was Jean-Paul.
I couldn't believe it.
I gasped.
Clint turned and looked. He gave me a sad look. “You didn't think Jean-Paul was going to be faithful, did you?” He nuzzled my neck.
I tried to pull away from him, but Clint was too strong for me. “I thought he loved me,” I said, knowing as I said the words how pathetic they sounded. I didn't expect Clint to understand. Yes, Jean-Paul and I had sex with the others in our little fraternity—sometimes with more than one at a time—but this Latino boy was a
human.
And watching as Jean-Paul rode this boy, I remembered that night they'd found me at Oz and led me back to the house on Orleans Street—when
I
had still been a human. I knew then the sad truth—that I wasn't special, after all.
What had drawn Jean-Paul to me that night?
He looked over at me, and our eyes locked. A slight smile played at the corner of his lips.
And I was inside his mind for just a flash of time.
And I knew.
It had been the heartbeat, the pulsing of my fresh human blood through my veins, and my youth.
I stifled a sob.
He didn't love me. He was simply attracted to young humans.
But he didn't just drink from me—he allowed me to drink from him that very night. He'd decided then and there that he wanted to convert me, to take me away from New Orleans and the old human life I'd been leading. That had to mean something, didn't it ?
I clung to that thought as I watched the man I loved fuck another young human.
I stopped resisting Clint but didn't react either as he slid my bikini down my legs and lifted me up, closing his arms around me, and I could feel his thickness probing between my cheeks.
And as he entered me, I kept watching Jean-Paul and the Latino. I moaned and gave myself to the pleasure but never closed my eyes. Even as Clint pounded away at me, the intensity and violence of his movements growing with each inward stroke, I didn't—
couldn't—
take my eyes off them. Even as Clint toyed with my nipples, kissed my throat, moving faster and more intent on achieving his final pleasure, I kept watching them.
Jean-Paul reached his climax at the same time as the boy, both of them shuddering and moaning so loudly I was surprised the entire party couldn't hear them over the music.
I watched as Jean-Paul spun the boy around and kissed him, the moonlight shining on the boy's perfectly shaped round ass, the thin triangle of lighter skin at the bottom of his back, just above the curve of his cheeks.
I couldn't blame Jean-Paul for wanting him—he was indeed quite beautiful.
But I could blame him for having him.
And for the first time since I became a vampire, I felt the dark pull of hatred filling my heart.
And when Clint was finished, I kissed him on the cheek, pulled up my bikini, and disappeared back into the crowd of dancers. I accepted a hit of Ecstasy from someone and lost myself for the rest of the night in the music.
I stared up at the pink clouds over New Orleans. That was the night everything changed for me—everything about Jean-Paul, about being a vampire, about my new life and world.
The others noticed—I've never been great at hiding my feelings. I withdrew from all of them, refusing to talk about my sadness. I knew how to block Jean-Paul from reading my thoughts, and every so often, I saw him looking at me with confusion in his eyes. I simply smiled back at him and every morning returned to his bed. I continued as before, occasionally slipping out at night onto the crowded sidewalks of Ocean Boulevard to find someone's luscious neck to feed from.
And then one night, maybe three weeks later, I saw the Latino boy again.
A blinding rage rushed through me when I saw him walk out of the Dolce & Gabbana store with a large bag. He was wearing khaki shorts that reached past his knees and a black tank top that hugged his lean torso. He was yakking away on a cell phone, and in that moment I wanted nothing more than to see him dead and writhing at my feet.
The feeling was so strong I could see it as clearly as if it had actually happened.
Make him suffer,
a voice whispered inside of my head.
Make him pay for daring to love Jean-Paul.
I tried to resist—it wasn't a good idea.
I crossed the street and followed a few steps behind him, listening to him talk on his phone, completely oblivious to everyone and everything around him, unaware that death was not even a yard behind him.
The person on the other end of the phone was obviously a close friend, perhaps a lover—I couldn't determine which from the way he spoke to him. His voice would lower into a husky, lusty whisper one moment before rising into a joyful shout of laughter.
Poor, stupid, pretty little Latino muscle boy who had only a few hours left of life to him.
I followed him all the way to his apartment. It was a white building, without a doorman or any kind of security. He took the elevator up to the fourth floor, and then I took the stairs. I could smell him—he was inside apartment 4-B.
I didn't hesitate, even for a second. I knocked.
“Yes?” He opened the door, his big white teeth showing in a gorgeous smile. Dimples deepened into his tanned cheeks, and he'd removed the shirt. His torso was smooth and hairless, his pectoral muscles perfectly shaped, his nipples large and a dusky shade of purple. Muscles bulged in his stomach, and his navel was tantalizing. I could feel my cock growing hard inside my own shorts, and I knew that I was going to fuck him. I could see in his dark brown eyes his own interest, his desire for me. His shorts hung low off his narrow hips, and I could see stubble from where he'd shaved his pubic hair just above the waist of the shorts. There was a nice bulge in the front of the shorts, and one of his hands absently brushed against it as he stood there smiling back at me.
“Hi,” I said after a moment, unsure what to do now that he was right there in front of me. I could see the vein in his neck, beckoning to me. It was pulsing with each beat of his heart—which I could almost hear.
It would have been so easy to just feed from him, push him back into his apartment and sink my teeth into his neck, draining him until his heart ceased to beat and leave him there to be found.
But as I looked into his soulful brown eyes, I realized killing the boy would solve nothing. It wasn't his fault Jean-Paul had found him attractive, had seduced him at the party—Jean-Paul probably never bothered to learn his name. Jean-Paul wouldn't know the boy had died, would never know that I had killed him in a fit of insane jealousy he would consider unseemly for a vampire.
He stood there looking at me expectantly.
“We met the other night,” I went on smoothly, “at the party on Ocean Drive. I'm Cord, remember?”
He looked puzzled. “I don't remember you, I'm sorry.” The smile flashed again. “I must have been some kind of wasted, huh?” He barked out a laugh. “Where are my manners? Come in.” He shut the door behind me. “Would you like something to drink?” He held out his hand. “My name is Luis, Cord. I'm sorry.” His voice had a sort of accent, a lilt to it that was rather seductive. “I honestly don't remember you, but the whole night was kind of a blur for me. But I must have given you my address—and I'm really glad that I did.”
The apartment was beautifully furnished, as was the community spread out beyond the wall of glass. One wall was covered with framed posters of the young Latino—one was an ad I recognized for Calvin Klein underwear, another for a swimsuit company whose name I couldn't recall.
A catalog was sitting on the coffee table with the address label up. LUIS PALENZUELA. “I think we were all pretty wasted, Luis.” I laughed.
He sat down next to me. I could smell his cologne—ck one. I could hear his heartbeat, smell the slight odor under his arms. He crossed his legs, his left leg brushing against mine softly. He smiled at me. “You're very handsome, Cord.”
I returned his smile and traced his cheek with my right hand. He closed his eyes and leaned in for a kiss.
I left him an hour later, the wounds on his neck already healed into what could pass for small hickeys. I started whistling as I walked back to the house on Ocean.
A few days later, we left Miami and started going to circuit parties all over the country. Jean-Paul always became restless after a few days in any city, and I lost myself in the haze of parties and drugs and bodies. Montreal, Toronto, Palm Springs, Philadelphia, New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles—the next two years passed in a blur of airports and suitcases, hotels and rental condos.
But things were never the same again between us after that party, after I saw Jean-Paul with Luis. His interest in me didn't abate, but his eye wandered. And each time I saw him with another beautiful young human, a knife twisted in my heart.
And each time, I cared a little less than the time before.
The bells of St. Louis Cathedral began ringing, startling me out of the memories and returning me to the present.
I stood up and started pacing. I wasn't dizzy anymore, but I needed to replace the blood I'd let Jared have. I felt hollow and empty, and the craving was there again, getting stronger with each passing moment.
I had to feed again—and I couldn't make the mistake of waiting again.
I cursed myself as a fool again. Why had I been so stupid?
I went inside.
I pulled my clothes back on, and glanced over at the bed where he lay.
He was sound asleep—would it be okay to leave him? I didn't know. It might be yet another huge mistake.
It was a risk, but I couldn't think of anything else to do with him.
I had to feed again—and soon.
I couldn't let the desire turn to need again.
Shaking my head, I slipped out the front door into the warm New Orleans night.
C
HAPTER
3
N
ew Orleans is a dark city of dancing shadows after the sun goes down.
I stumbled as I stepped out onto the front stoop of the house, locking the door behind me. I felt a little dizzy, and another wave of nausea forced me to lean back against the house. It wasn't a good sign, I realized as I waited for my body to shake it off. It meant that my blood loss was even greater than I originally had thought—and I didn't have nearly as much time as I had anticipated to feed and replace the blood I'd given Jared.
You've really done it this time, idiot,
I cursed myself as I took some deep breaths to steady my nerves.
This is precisely the situation that caused this whole fucking mess in the first place.
Of course, beating myself up over it wasn't going to change, or solve, anything.
I sat down on the top step and took another, deeper breath. I could hear the music and noise of Bourbon Street just a block and a half away. I could smell the intoxicating scent of human blood. I rubbed my hands over my eyes and glanced across the street at the house where I'd almost died.
Had I really seen someone in the window earlier, or had it been my imagination?
I shook my head.
You're just imagining things—you've got Sebastian on your mind. Jared's eyes couldn't have changed color, and you didn't see anything in the window. It's some kind of post-traumatic stress thing, triggered by being back in New Orleans and being on your own for the first time in your life—or else it's just your imagination working overtime, that's all. You've fucked up, Cord, and you know you're going to have to call Jean-Paul for help.
Which, of course, was the last thing in the world I wanted to do—and wouldn't do until I'd exhausted every other possibility.
And once I'd replenished, I could undoubtedly think of some options.
The nausea passed and I opened my eyes. I felt better. I probably had at least a few hours before the desire became need again, and surely I could find someone to quench my thirst long before—
Before you fuck up again.
I shook my head and stood up. I breathed in deeply. I could hear the crazy woman who lived in the carriage house next door screaming. I rolled my eyes. She was smoking crack again—my heightened senses could smell it—and sure enough, the man she lived with started screaming back at her. Every night, like clockwork, they'd get high and start their little sideshow. It was annoying to say the least, and when I was trying to relax in my own courtyard or watch something mindless on TV in the living room, it was incredibly distracting. Several times, I'd considered putting them out of my misery.
Crack-laced blood, though, tasted terrible, like it was rotting, and I didn't like the effect it had on me.
Then again, I didn't have to drink their blood to kill them.
But that wouldn't be a smart thing to do,
I reminded myself.
Vampires don't kill. That brings attention to us, and—
“Whatever,” I said out loud.
Someone was coming—I could smell their blood. It was two people, a man and a woman, and they were almost to the corner at Burgundy. Young, from the scent. I could almost taste it, it was so strong. They both were wearing perfumes from Calvin Klein—Obsession, maybe. It barely masked the stale sweat under his arms and inside his shoes. I could also smell their pheromones—they were terribly attracted to each other and certainly at some point in the evening ahead he would be mounting her.
I turned my head to the right and watched for them. A few moments later, they came around the corner. I looked back in the other direction toward Bourbon Street. Orleans Street was deserted from my stoop all the way to where the fool in the hand grenade costume was dancing on the corner, trying to get people to go inside the Tropical Isle Bar for one of those lethal green drinks. A car drove through the intersection at Dauphine—a United cab with several women in the backseat. I looked toward the young couple. Cars were rushing by on Rampart Street a block and a half in the other direction.
The only people on Orleans Street all the way back up to Rampart were this couple and me, standing on my stoop.
There were no witnesses, no one anywhere to hear or see anything.
They were perhaps in their early twenties; she was a petite young woman who probably didn't weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet and needed heels to top five feet. She was wearing a denim miniskirt that barely covered her, her tan, shapely legs teetering on heels so high her back had to hurt. She was wearing a spaghetti strap top with no bra—I could see her nipples through the thin cotton top. Her light brown hair was streaked with blond. He towered above her at well over six feet and over two hundred pounds. His long sandy blond hair tumbled out from beneath the backward LSU baseball cap on top of his head. He was wearing an oversized white LSU football jersey with the gold and purple stripes on the shoulder. His jeans were baggy, faded, and torn at the knees. His arm was draped loosely but proprietarily over her thin shoulders. They nodded at me as they walked past me—both were carrying the large green plastic cups in the shape of a hand grenade with a long handle.
They weren't drunk, but they were well on their way. I could smell the alcohol seeping through their pores, and the sweet smell of marijuana hung around them. They'd left Bourbon Street to smoke a joint in their car, I surmised, and now were on their way back to have another drink.
It would almost be too easy to feed from them.
I started down the steps after them but stopped myself. I wasn't strong enough to handle them both—I'd given too much of my blood to Jared. I cursed myself again for a fool. I could handle only one person, and I needed darkness and seclusion to manage even that.
I listened for Jared, and heard his shallow snoring.
But I could smell the couple's blood, could hear the pounding of their hearts, and could feel the desire growing within my chest. There was still time, I reasoned, but I needed to hurry.
As I watched the couple hurriedly walk toward the lights and noise of Bourbon Street, out of the corner of my eye I thought I again saw movement in the windows across the street.
I stared through the darkness. The pink clouds had cleared, exposing the velvety bluish black of the night sky and the sparkling of hundreds of stars. The sliver of a moon hung, barely casting any light.
It's amazing,
I reflected for perhaps the thousandth time,
how dark New Orleans gets at night
.
Miami was always so bright you could hardly see the stars at night.
The light from the streetlamps barely penetrated the darkness, and the dampness of the air created a hazy halo around the glowing lights.
Had I really seen something? Had something actually moved in the window, or was I just imagining things?
I swallowed and walked across the street.
Vampires have much more powerful night vision than humans. The first time I'd experienced it, it had kind of freaked me out. That first night after my conversion, when Jean-Paul took me out to feed from the house on Orleans, was forever burned into my memory. It was Ash Wednesday, and the sun had already set. It had rained all day, so the streets and sidewalks were slick and wet. Water dripped from the overhang as I stepped out onto the steps. A cold wind was blowing from the direction of the river, and Bourbon Street sounded muted. But despite the gray fog and the darkness, I was stunned at how vividly I could see. The thick fog was simply like a veil of gauze, and the glowing streetlights seemed to dance with vibrant, living light. I stood there, with the water dripping onto the side of my face, enrapt, looking first one way, then another, unable to fathom and comprehend how amazingly beautiful everything seemed.
“Come with me, my dear.” Jean-Paul had smiled at me and taken my hand. When I reached the bottom step, he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “You have all eternity to see the beauty of the world. Come on, it's time for you to feed.” He led me down to the corner of Dauphine Street, and we turned left. My tongue kept feeling the incredibly sharp points on my incisors, and I could hear a lot of hearts beating ahead of us. He led me to a bar called Good Friends. There had been only a few people there, besides a cute blond bartender who couldn't have been much older than I was. Jean-Paul ordered us each a glass of absinthe, which he taught me how to sip while he decided which of the few other patrons would be perfect for me to take my first drink of human blood from.
My preference would have been the bartender. He was so beautiful, with his blond hair and golden skin, with his perky little butt inside his black shorts.
But Jean-Paul finally settled on a dusky man in his midthirties, who kept looking at us over the rim of his glass of vodka and soda. He got up and joined us, introducing himself as Matt. He said he was from Iowa—Des Moines, to be exact—and came down for Mardi Gras every year. He was tired, worn out from the five days of excess that had preceded Ash Wednesday, but he wasn't leaving until the next morning. His leg kept brushing against mine under the bar, and I could smell his desire for me—he also desired Jean-Paul but didn't think the odds of a three-way were in his favor.
Eventually, the three of us walked out of the bar. It had started raining again, and I shivered. Dauphine Street was filling with water, and rivers of it were cascading from roofs and balconies. The wind had also picked up, and it had gotten even grayer outside.
Jean-Paul nodded to me, and I allowed Matt to kiss me. He tasted of vodka, lime, and tonic water. I could smell the alcohol his body was trying to expel through his pores. I put my arms around him and closed my eyes. I could hear his pounding heartbeat, and in the gloom the big blue vein in his neck almost seemed to glow. He gasped when I sank my teeth into it, and as his blood gushed into my mouth, I could hear his thoughts.
Oh my God, that feels so good. How on earth did I get so lucky two sexy studs going back to my hotel room with me this young one my God he is so gorgeous and that ass I can't wait to taste it put my finger inside of it and the older one, his arms and chest, I want him to fuck me. I bet he can put me through the headboard—
And then I heard Jean-Paul's voice inside my head:
“Don't take too much, my little one. This was just a test, for you to get used to it. Now it's time to stop.”
I pulled my mouth back from Matt's neck, and in my head I saw myself biting my thumb, rubbing my blood over the wounds on his neck. I looked at Jean-Paul, who smiled back at me and nodded. I bit my thumb and rubbed my blood over the holes. Matt's eyes were still closed, and he was swaying back and forth. I watched as the holes closed, leaving only what looked like two small hickeys.
“Go back to your room and sleep,” Jean-Paul said softly, “and dream of a beautiful young man and a muscular older one joining you—and when you wake in the morning, you will take with you a beautiful memory of the three of us together.”
Matt nodded and, as I watched in amazement, turned away from us and ran across the street in the pouring rain, running away from us toward Canal Street.
“And now you've had your first taste,” Jean-Paul whispered into my ear, “and tomorrow we leave New Orleans for good. It's too dangerous for you to be here.”
I didn't know what he meant by that, but at that point I would have done anything he told me to do. I simply nodded and returned with him to the house.
Back in those days, when all Jean-Paul had to do was snap his fingers and I would leap, I thought, shaking my head. I started to cross the street but waited for a blue Honda to drive past.
I climbed onto the porch and pressed my face against the glass of the window where I thought I'd seen something. I could clearly see the shapes of boxes and sawhorses through the gloom, but there was nothing moving, nothing else except the usual debris of a construction site abandoned for the night.
It must have been just my imagination. Again.
I took a deep breath and started walking toward Bourbon Street. Several blocks ahead of me, Orleans Street came to a dead end where it met Royal Street. On the other side of Royal was the iron fence enclosing the yard behind St. Louis Cathedral. The shadow of Christ's statue loomed over the back of the building. It always gave me a chill whenever I saw it. His arms were spread, and there was something almost predatory about the shadow on the gray slate. Jared had once called the statue “drag queen Jesus,” which had made me laugh, and I remembered that every time I saw the shadow at night or walked past it in the daylight.
That memory always made me smile. No one had ever been able to make me laugh as hard as Jared could.
And look how you repaid him for everything he's ever done for you.
I swallowed and pushed that thought out of my mind.
The first thing you need to do is stop feeling guilty,
Jean-Paul had lectured me, so many times I knew the words by heart.
Let go of that nonsensical Christian bullshit your parents brainwashed you with. Doesn't your current existence prove that their precious Bible is nothing but a collection of fairy tales put together millennia ago by ignorant desert nomads?

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