A Crush On You (pt. 1)
God, he was drunk. Three sheets to the fucking wind. John recognized it but did nothing to prevent himself from becoming quite sloppy over a cluster of shot glasses and a pile of discarded lime wedges.
They designed these places for loners, he thought, his chin resting sleepily on his palm. The tiny tables had room enough for one chair, two if gentlemen didn't mind rubbing knees, which most of them did, for fear of accidentally rubbing something else. He supposed they all looked like starved, neglected dogs, too, a few dodgy enough to paw the buttocks of waitresses who wore top hats and glittery bow ties, and who shook their breasts like maracas above the cocktail trays. At least, those waitresses who weren't in drag.
Burlesque was a unique art form by itself. Key West was bound and determined to put its spin on things.
Between acts, men in too-tight shirts rolled a pink swan on stage. It was, without a doubt, the tackiest thing John had ever seen. He perked up when a dancer stepped from the curtains. She was a leggy and lithe strawberry-blonde, and she wore fishnet hose with seams up the back. The rest of her costume was a nest of pink feathers and satin. When she waggled the ruffled bottom of her spanky pants at him, John was enchanted.
By the time she finished her routine, he knew he was going to commit an indiscretion.
Well over a century had passed since he became a vampire under his sister's teeth. It made sense that John had followed certain rules of conduct to accomplish such a long run of things. He drank only those too inebriated, frightened, or past caring to report the crime. He rarely killed anyone. Of course, the homeless and vagrant were fair game and made New York a veritable buffet. Occasionally, however, he slipped, like a fascinated child in a shop full of breakables, who knew better than to touch but couldn't help poking a finger. This was going to be one of those times.
After the club closed, bouncers watched the dancers get in their cars, John assumed so no perverts like himself could haul one of them behind the dumpsters. From the dark juncture of two buildings, he craned his neck to see which car she drove. It turned out to be an old convertible with a soft top. He noted her license place as she puttered away in a cloud of blue smoke. It never hurt to be sure.
Once she was out of sight, he began to make plans.