Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions

In my defense, I was very drunk, very heartbroken, and very much not expecting to drag home a half-dead vampire like some goth raccoon who’s hoarding bad decisions.

I should have kept walking. I should have ignored the man slumped against the alley wall, blood darkening his shirt. I should have known that a creature with eyes like his wasn’t meant to be saved.

There’s also a particular kind of regret that comes with realizing you’ve just invited an apex predator into your home. It's somewhere between “I shouldn’t have texted my ex” and “let’s see if the week-old milk is still good.”

Fair warning: if you’re looking for a heroine who doesn’t swear, has her life together, and doesn’t make questionable decisions daily, you’ve come to the wrong place.

Otherwise, strap yourself into the shitshow they call my life and hold on to your granny panties – this is going to be a bumpy ride.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

That two-timing, butt-munching, flea-invested douche-canoe!

The bartender across from me is staring at me like I’m the creature from the blue lagoon. Probably because my lips and tongue are stained azure from the six blue curacao and lemonade cocktails I’ve sucked down in the past hour.

I know what you’re thinking – how is she still sitting upright after so much alcohol? Well, my lovelies, this curvy girl’s size and fast metabolism has helped me drink seasoned alcoholics under the table when the time called for it. Yay me!

That doesn't mean I’m not feeling the effects, though. I have a distinct suspicion that when I finally decide to lift my ass from this barstool, my equilibrium is not going to be top-notch. Oh well, I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.

I should have known when I woke up this morning, and my coffee machine was on the fritz, that shit was going to get rough today. That machine has been my partner in crime through two years of college, moving house four times and many mornings of hangovers or one-night stands.

As soon as I switched it on this morning, there was a sudden spark before the back of the contraption burst into flames. I was stunned for all of two seconds before I realized that I was the only adult in the house, and it was my responsibility to stop the fire from spreading and my whole house from burning to the ground.

Luckily, I remembered that according to Professor Google, you should use baking soda to smother an electrical fire, not water, like in usual cases. So, I rushed to my pantry and grabbed the box that had rarely been used (because I can’t bake for shit) and doused that fucking fire like my life depended on it. Come to think of it, my life did depend on it. Huh.

My second clue should have been when my newest employee quit via Instagram DM. Very professional, I know.

A week ago, she begged me to look past her young age and give her a chance. This would also be her first job. I reluctantly agreed because I remembered that I once, too, was a new addition to the workforce and struggled to find someone to believe in me. And look at how that turned out.

Calling the bartender over, I slide my empty glass towards him, “Another, please, barkeep.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I need to cut you off.”

“What! Why?” I ask, outraged, realizing my volume control button might be broken when a few heads swivel my way. Oh, bite me.

“Because the hotel has a strict policy that non-hotel guests are only allowed to use the bar until 10:00 pm.”

I look at him warily because this policy sounds like a load of bullshit to me. Is he trying to get rid of me without offending me? Some Karen probably complained about the large, fat single lady who was drowning her sorrows in vats of alcohol. Well, fuck you, Karen.

I glance at my wristwatch and give him my sweetest smile, “I’ll make you a deal. It’s currently 9:45 pm. If you serve me one more drink, I’ll tip you a crisp 50-dollar bill.”

The look in his eyes tells me I was successful in my negotiation tactics. “Fine, but I must ask you to hand me your keys. I’ll call you a cab once you’re done.”

With a huge smile, I slide my hand into my purse to hand them over. “You have yourself a deal, my good sir.”

Turning around to mix my drink, I catch him rolling his eyes at me. He’s probably fed up with drunk customers who think copious amounts of alcohol will solve their problems. Judgy much?

Sipping on my last cocktail of the night, I think back to the moment I walked into Steven’s apartment to find him balls-deep in my previously mentioned ex-employee. Yeah, you heard me right.

Steven had popped into my bookstore a few times in the last week. Nothing odd about that. He even introduced himself to Kylie, my new employee. Nothing odd about that either. It was unusual, though, when I found them huddling in a corner yesterday, whispering and giggling together.

And because I was hyper-focused on the new vampire smut books that had arrived that morning and where I would be displaying them, I didn’t give it much thought. Because having a dark, broody, dangerous man claim you as his for all eternity trumps me worrying about whatever that was.

Gemma, my 62-year-old employee, had sent me home early today (as if I wasn’t the one paying her salary) to prepare for a function I had to attend with Steven at his office tonight. On the way home, I realized that the pair of shoes I needed for the evening was still at his place. So, I popped over to his apartment, intent on being in and out in minutes.

What awaited me will haunt me for days. Probably months. Most likely years.

Due to his bedroom being in the back of the apartment, I initially didn’t hear the noises when I slipped inside using a copy of the key he gave me two weeks ago. But after about five steps down the hallway, the sounds coming from behind the closed door made me pause for about 2.5 seconds – my gut screaming at me.

When I slowly pushed the door open, trying to prolong the moment of seeing my world get tee-peed by used toilet paper, my mind ping-ponged between screeching like a banshee, laughing hysterically like an evil witch, or crying like a kid who just lost his pet axolotl.

The only way to forget what I saw is most likely to bleach my eyeballs. Will my health insurance cover that procedure?