My Vampire and I
Many years ago…
He lies in the vast, cold mausoleum that has been his resting place for hundreds of years... Marcus Lucius Verano, vampire. Time has neither ravaged his countenance nor his body. His pale, chiselled face is unlined; his black hair shows no sign of gray. He lies as though asleep; a young man in the prime of life—strong, virile, handsome...and deadly.
Deadly, that is, to those who have sought to destroy him, and there have been few who’ve dared. Among those who love and admire him, he is renowned for his powers, his strength, his intelligence, and his beauty.
He has loved completely but once, and that love was taken from him in a heinous fashion—by one he will never forget, nor forgive, no matter how many centuries pass.
In his death-like sleep, he dreams, not of revenge, but of redemption in the arms of one who would love him as no other ever has. He has a vision of such a one...but he must wait, for this one has not yet born. Still, the face in his vision becomes tantalisingly clear to Marcus in his repose—young, fresh-faced, with golden hair, and laughing blue eyes, he moves through the vampire’s netherworld with a confidence born of unsullied youth.
The vampire awakes and rises from his bed of marble. As he strides from the mausoleum into the darkness of the night, the vision haunts him and will continue to do so for many years to come.
But now he hungers for the lifeblood that will sustain him, and so he pushes from his mind all thoughts that would distract him from the hunt. His eyes scan the darkened streets; he waits and is rewarded by the sound of footsteps and a voice tipsily singing an old drinking song.
He smiles and steps out in front of the man who looks up at him without fear. The vampire’s green eyes hold his in a calm and steady spell.
He inclines his head slightly. “Good evening...”
“And to you, sir. Can I be of service?”
“You can indeed, sir...I need but a little of your blood...”
West Hollywood—Present day
If there was one aspect of life I liked, better than anything else, it was when five o’clock came on a Friday and I could skip out of Carter’s Colonial Bank and head for Mo’s, my favourite watering hole. There I would meet my friends, Mark and Kevin, and we would knock back a couple of martinis, before deciding on where to eat. Except, this particular evening that starts my story held something that, even in my wildest and most bizarre imaginings—and that’s saying something—I could never have anticipated. You see, it was the start of a rollercoaster ride that, quite literally, changed my life forever.
I’m a horror movie freak. In my opinion, there’s nothing quite like a good horror story to get me going—I mean, sexually. There’s something about the adrenaline rush that comes from being scared out of your wits—it always makes me hard. Could it be because I was born on October thirty-first —Halloween—and a Scorpio?
Anyway, I’ve seen just about every horror movie ever made—some terrific, some so bad... Actually, I kinda like some of the bad ones too. My favourite vampire was Frank Langella...sexy, even better than Brad Pitt, and a long way from being the monster conjured up by Bram Stoker in the book Dracula. That baby gave me nightmares all through my teens. My favourite werewolf was Michael Landon in I Was a Teenage Werewolf. He was so darned good looking before he grew the whiskers and the black nose... I would drive my mom and dad wild, always wanting to stay up for the late night horror flicks. I’ve got quite a collection of those old movies and still get a kick out of them.
I’d heard through the grapevine that Mark, knowing my fondness for all things spooky and weird, was planning to throw a ghoul party for my twenty-fourth birthday. Everyone had to come in costume—the more far out and scary the better. Even before he officially told me, I had begun planning my own costume. I was going to cheat and not be scary—just fabulous! No dumb Frankenstein’s monster mask for me!
I’d been working out pretty hard at my gym on Santa Monica as of late, so I figured whatever I designed, it should show some skin. I mean, why hide what I’d been working so darned hard on? Oops, sorry...my one-track mind. Anyway, I had decided to be a devil—a golden devil. All I’d wear was a gold lamé bikini. The rest of me would be all me—with some golden touches. Gold boots and gold horns atop the golden hair with which I am naturally blessed would complete the ensemble. Oh, one more thing, a golden trident. I decided against a forked tail—that just might get in the way or someone might stand on it or—well, a lot of things could go wrong with a tail. Right?
When the big evening arrived, and I stood in front of the mirror, having lightly sprayed my body with some gold sparkly stuff, and I thought to myself, Roger, you look great! Something about the golden sheen of your body makes your newly toned muscles look sleek and firm. I was kinda turned on just looking at myself. I smiled smugly. The bulge in my bikini added a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’...whatever.
I stuffed my driver’s license and some money from my billfold into my boot, and I was ready to go, go, go. My friend Kevin was to pick me in approximately five minutes—just giving me time for a quick belt to put me in the party mood, so to speak.
The doorbell rang. Kevin’s early...? I wondered with some disbelief. Kevin’s never early, but there he was, wearing a white sheet and nothing else. He flashed me, just so I was sure. Jeez. That was scary! Kevin’s a cutie, with big brown eyes and auburn hair he keeps really short, almost military length.
“You look good,” he said, leering at me. Kevin had been trying to get into my pants ever since I’d met him, telling me I’d love his big dick. I liked him, I really did, just not in that way. He eventually got the message but still couldn’t resist the odd innuendo or pass. Like right then, as I turned to lock my apartment door, he pinched me, hard.
“Kevin!”
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist...your butt looks great in that bikini...very tempting.”
Hmm...Well, that was a compliment, I guess. “Thanks,” I said, slipping the key into my boot. “Okay, let’s go, so you can frighten all the boys at the party.”
My Vampire Lover
West Hollywood: Present day
On the morning of the night I met the man who would forever change my life, my brother, Jonas, had called me to say he and his husband, Ted, would be in town for a couple of days over the weekend—and could they stay over at my place?
“Sure,” I told him, “and maybe you’d both like to go dancing Saturday night.”
My brother is two years older than me, and at thirty, he’s already been in a five year relationship with Ted. They live up in Portland but come down to LA about twice a year—usually on short notice, like the time I’m talking about. That was okay though, because, until I met him, I really didn’t have a life. Oh, I had friends, boyfriends on a couple of occasions, and a fairly decent job managing a small Italian restaurant.
It just all seemed kind of pointless at times—a dead end, if you will. I would become restless or listless when I gave too much thought to it, so I tried not to.
Jonas was always on about me moving up to Portland—a much healthier town that LA, in his opinion. Maybe he was right, but I liked LA—the noise, the crowds, the endless traffic. It was alive, vibrant, and to me, home.
After hanging up the phone from my long talk with my brother, I started to get ready for work. I was lucky—I could walk there from my apartment on Rugby. No traffic snarls for me to contend with. La Fortuna, the little restaurant I managed just off Santa Monica, was a bustling place, and sometimes we’d stay open a little later to accommodate some of our slower diners. I always hate to be rushed through a good meal—and I wouldn’t do it to my customers.
This particular night, though, was kinda slow, so I told the chef and the waiters they could take off early, and I’d lock up by myself. After counting out the bank deposit for the following day and stowing it in the night safe, I headed for the door then saw him.
He stood at the window reading the menu. Tall, about my height, a slender, athletic build, thick, dark hair combed back from a delicately boned, pale face. His eyes—I couldn’t see the colour in the dark—fixed on mine as I gazed at him through the door window, and he smiled, a shy, somewhat weary, smile.
I opened the door. “Hi,” I said. “Sorry, we just closed.”
He nodded. “I understand you have a very interesting wine list,” he said, with a trace of an accent...French, perhaps.
I smiled. “The owners pride themselves on it. Perhaps, another night you can sample some of their specialties.”
“Why not tonight?”
Without my seeing him move, he was suddenly standing very close to me, and I was staring into his midnight-blue eyes, my jaw feeling a little slack.
“Uh...sure,” I said, stepping back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”
“Thank you.” His bare arm brushed mine as he entered, and I felt a tingle like an electrical charge pass over my skin. He wore a tight black T-shirt, black straight leg jeans that enhanced his slim build, and a pair of black cowboy boots. The man in black, I thought, admiring the perfect curve of his butt and itching to put my hand there and stroke it. He smiled at me, and I had the uncanny idea that he knew exactly what I was thinking.
“Nice place,” he said. “Every time I pass by, it’s always looked very busy.”
“Not tonight,” I said.
“No. That is why I came. So I could see you.”
“See me?” I gulped slightly. “Oh, you want a job or something? We’re actually not hiring right now, but—”
He laughed lightly. “No, I don’t need a job. I just wanted to meet you. I have been admiring you from afar for some time.”
“You have?” I gaped at him, unsure how to react to that statement. No one had ever admired me from ‘afar’ before—at least, not anyone I knew of. I’m okay looking, I guess...six feet, one hundred eighty pounds, chestnut brown hair, hazel eyes. I don’t work out regularly, but I run and that keeps me in shape.
“Why do you act so surprised?” he asked, sitting at one of the tables and returning my stare with a smile that could only be called thrilling.
“I’m not used to people saying things like that, I guess.” I moved to the bar. “Can I get you a glass of this week’s house specialty?”
“If it is red, that would be very nice.”
I tried to stop my hand from shaking as I poured his wine. Pull yourself together, I told myself. He’s just a guy—a little strange—but a guy, nevertheless.
“Won’t you join me?” His dark eyes bored into mine as I leaned forward to put his wineglass on the table.
“Uh...sure.” I poured myself a glass, then sat at the table opposite him. “I’m Ron, by the way,” I said, holding out my hand.
“Jean-Claude.” His hand was cool and dry, his grip firm.
“I thought you sounded French,” I told him, pleased with myself.
“It’s amazing how one’s accent clings, even after so many years away from home.”
“How many years could that be? You’re still young. Are you here for studies?”
“No. I am here by necessity. I was exiled from France many years ago.”
“Exiled?”
“Well, let us say, self-exiled.”
“Oh yeah, we get a lot of that in the States,” I said, not knowing what I was talking about.
He chuckled. “Am I making you nervous?”
“No, not at all.” I picked up my wineglass. “Cheers. I hope you like it.”
“Salud.” He raised his glass in salute then took a long sip, closing his eyes and savouring it in his mouth before swallowing.
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