Page 4

The vampire entrances are quick. We both hold annual memberships, and unlike the humans, we aren’t screened or marked. There are separate entrances for vamps and the others. Although our existence is known and for the most part accepted among the humans, precautions are in place for everyone’s enjoyment and comfort.

Blood Lust is all about consent for the protection of the humans and vamps. Humans here for feedings are given temporary bite mark tattoos. The tats are placed either on pulse points of their necks or wrists and are visible under the black lights strategically placed throughout the club.

Amadi and I part ways when we enter. He zones in on a group of ladies at the bar on the lower level and I head up top. The upper level is VIP. There’s another bar up here, a lounge area, and most importantly, private rooms for feeding.

Feeding is sacred to me. I don’t feed in public and for sure don’t just feed on anybody. I feed with my eyes and instincts and I prefer pretty, well-kept, discreet, intriguing women. Two of my regulars are here tonight, and when I ascend the stairs, I nod to one and she follows. As soon as she’s in the room, I corner her at the door.

“Noab,” she sighs sensually, then smiles. “I was hoping you were here.”

As usual, I don’t respond. We don’t have a relationship. There’s nothing between us, although she wants more. Her body and words express it each time we encounter one another. What we have begins and ends in a feeding room.

She starts to speak again and I place my finger on her lips. My fangs are out in seconds and pierce her neck. No more words are needed. I’m ready to feed.

Chapter

Three

“911. What’s the location of your emergency?” I answer the seventh call of my shift. I’ve barely been clocked in for an hour, but for some reason today, we are super busy. Our average nine-second pick-up time is closer to fifteen seconds today because we all seem to be answering back-to-back calls.

“At my house.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to need the exact address in case we get disconnected,” I say and she sighs loud as hell before rattling off her address. “Just to confirm, 4456 Webster Avenue?”

“Yes,” she snaps.

“And can I please have your name and phone number?” Another loud ass sigh followed by too many curse words flows from her mouth before she gives me her name and number. “Thank you. Now, tell me exactly what happened,” I say calmly.

“My neighbor’s dog is shitting in my yard again and I’ve told them I’m going to shoot the damn thing if he did it again.”

“Miss Patrice, I have to remind you that you are making a threat on a recorded line.”

“It’s not a threat,” she grumbles. “Are you getting someone here or not? That damn dog is shitting in my flowers right now. Shoo! Shoo! Get out my yard,” she yells in my ear as I type out the details of the call and dispatch a non-emergency officer to the location.

“An officer should be there shortly. Please remain in your home and do not fire your weapon. The call will end in your arrest,” I warn.

“I can’t promise you that,” she snaps, then ends the call. I just shake my head.

In our center, the eight of us on shift take calls and dispatch. Hollow Grove is a small town, so we pull double duty, answering calls and dispatching for EMS, fire, and two police departments. After eight years of doing this, I still get amazed at some of the calls we receive. People’s definitions of emergencies differ drastically from ours on too many occasions.

I would never call 911 to stop a dog from shitting in my yard.

Before I can catch my breath, another call comes through my console and I answer it in under nine seconds. “911. What’s the location of your emergency?”

The calls continue nonstop for the next three hours then we get a thirty-three minute reprieve. Since the calls have slowed, I take a quick bathroom break then grab my sandwich out of the breakroom. As soon as I’m back at my console, Tami darts out, and when she returns, Leah does the same. We alternate taking mini breaks during downtime because although we get thirty minutes for lunch, it’s not enough time to decompress and eat. Most of the time, because of the heaviness of the job, the decompressing monopolizes our entire lunch break.

“Did you make that sandwich?” Tami asks. “That bitch looks good.”

“Girl, I wish,” I tell her.

My morning was so taxing that I rushed out of the condo before I could even think about packing lunch. Langston woke up on bullshit and I was over it. We’ve been fighting nonstop for the last four days. It’s been a battle since he ate my damn Oreos and didn’t replace them. He intentionally triggers me just to test me. He does everything to make me leave him because he knows I won’t.

Or I can’t.

I don’t know which it is, because like a dummy I’m still with him—an inconsiderate, narcissistic, full of shit man.

As much as I want to leave, need to leave, I can’t. Nothing about that makes sense but it’s my reality. I’ve packed my things twice…didn’t leave. I’ve stayed out late with Shae a million and one times…but still return home. I truly feel trapped and can’t figure a way out.

“Where’d you get it?” she asks.