Look Before You Leap (pt. 2)
After six months in the Burlesque theatre troupe, Heather had barely made a dent in her debts.
Nobody dropped out of veterinary school after three years -- it was insane. At $20,000 a year, who could afford to pay back the loans without a white coat? She slogged through her classes and clinical rotations, but that fucked-up feeling like the walls were closing in didn't go away. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. It isn't for me. Well, she'd made her bed, they told her. Now she had to lie in it.
That bed was a cot in the converted den of a Key West cottage. Her costumes hung from pegs on the walls, bright splotches of pink and turquoise against the wood paneling. Close up, they weren't sexy. You could see the spots where sequins popped off and had to be re-stitched. Her feet kept blisters from the acrylic platforms she wore on stage.
Heather had two roommates. They all danced in the troupe. Life was a blur of cocktails and fake eyelashes and tanning beds. The experience had taught Heather that she wanted an office job. Or maybe one where she could bum it in sweatpants and flip-flops.
On Friday nights, she did two numbers, one with a giant high-heeled shoe and another featuring a carousel horse. And so goes my childish innocence, she thought as she flashed the audience in her ruffled skirt. Well, screw it. The house went nuts and that spelled cash. A fat bank account meant she could pay down the tuition and still afford groceries.
She left the club before closing, jangling a set of car keys as she crossed the parking lot. The door and ignition keys were separate. One was oval, the other rectangular, and Heather could never remember which went to the lock. It took a minute, but she finally got the door of the soft-top convertible open and tossed her duffel bag in the passenger seat. She buckled herself in, started it up, and agitated the gravel on her way out of the parking lot.
In the back seat, a black shape shifted.
John had gotten to the parking lot around 10pm and located the convertible with the proper license plate: 'Strwbry'. It wasn't subtle, he thought, but doubted very much that subtlety won a burlesque dancer any favor. Using a utility knife, he cut a seam in the canvas that covered the car. He kept the tear close to the frame. When it was wide enough to admit him, he sheathed the knife and squeezed through the flap, an act of contortion that had its own place on the stage. From the inside, he taped the canvas into place and hunkered in the cramped floorboard. His black sweater, pants, and hair blended into the interior. Hopefully, the dancer didn't routinely inspect her car upon leaving work.
While he was down there amongst the soggy french fries and Slurpee cups, John reminded himself of her more appealing qualities. Whenever he got himself into such messes, there were inevitable moments when he debated backing out, but lacked the initiative to act upon his regrets. Think of the swan, he schooled himself. Pink feathers and legs for days. After an hour of counting loose change, he heard footsteps and a woman got behind the wheel.
And we're off...
Heather accelerated with a lead foot until she found cruising speed. The convertible had more pick-up than her Toyota sedan, which had a busted transmission. Tonight, she had borrowed her roommate's car to get to work. The wild redhead had the weekend off and was living it up with her boyfriend in Key Largo, so she didn't need the ragtop. Perfect timing, Heather thought. A selection of cds rattled in the center console and she sifted through them, keeping one eye on the road.
It was during that inspection that she noticed a hulking shape in the back seat.
SHIT! Shit, shit, shit! Grabbing tightly to the wheel, she sucked on her bottom lip and did her best not to drive into the wrong lane. What did the security staff always tell the dancers? Never get in the car without checking the back seat. Heather had gotten so wound up over which key to use that she forgot and just hopped in like she lived in Mayberry, no cares in the world. Think... Don't freak out... Think.
A cramp shot through John's calf muscle. Was that meant to happen to vampires? Well, this is brilliant, he thought. Quite irritated, he flexed his foot and determined that he couldn't wait until the dancer's destination to make his move. As soon as the car reached a steady speed, he popped the blade on his knife and rose between the seats, pressing the edge to the dancer's throat. "Pull the car over... very slowly." They rode beneath a streetlamp, which illuminated the terrified look on her face and a head of brown hair. What the--? "No, don't!"
Heather squeezed her eyes shut and slammed her foot on the brake pedal. In a cloud of rubbery fumes, the little convertible screeched to a halt. The momentum launched her attacker through the windshield and over the hood. "Oh god... oh god." The tight seatbelt had knocked the breath out of her lungs. Everything ached. Trembling, she craned her neck to see the man lying in the road. Is he dead? Did I kill him? A dozen horror movies flashed in her mind. Should I run over the body?
John picked up his head, which shook loose a few chips of windshield glass from his hair. He rubbed his face. Flecks of mica sparkled in the asphalt, thanks to the low beams of her headlights. His skull was totally bashed in, he was sure of it. That was the only thing that could explain how badly his head hurt. "Fuck me..." Questioningly, he shielded his eyes and peered over the bonnet of the car. The girl was looking at him, too. Apparently the car had stalled, because he heard the whine of the engine as she tried to restart it. "Oh, no you don't," he said in a kind of disbelief at her gumption.
The vampire leaped onto the car . He entered it through the man-shaped hole he'd left behind. Half in the passenger seat and half on her lap, he seized her by the throat and pressed his thumbs into her windpipe. "This is a bit embarrassing," he admitted, spitting a piece of glass to the side. "I seem to have caught the wrong girl."
April, she thought. Panicking and short of breath, Heather tried to swallow. Up close, the man's eyes scared her more than his hands. How could he have gone out the windshield and gotten back up? How had he moved so fast? Why was it funny to him? She cut her eyes left and right, looking for a way to escape the situation. His knife was still in the car, but it was on the other side of the dashboard, where she couldn't reach it. Her right arm was pinned under his knee.
With the other, she clawed at his face.
Darting as fast as a bird's neck, John turned his head and bit the soft flesh below her thumb. When he tasted blood, the bones in his forehead and nose transformed into a vampire's features. He heard a squeak in the dancer's throat. He knew she wanted to scream, but couldn't get a noise past his hands. He was flying by the seat of his pants now, no road map, only a squirming brunette underneath him, and she was a beauty.
His bite eased.
"Don't worry," he said. His voice was low and accented; a lover's voice. John kissed the sore place in her palm. "It isn't what you think." He tucked his face into her neck and smelled her scent of hairspray and lavender body lotion. She wasn't what he'd been expecting, but neither was he disappointed, even with the splitting headache.
Outside, a car full of tourists honked as it swerved around the convertible and kept going. Heather whined. She fumbled for the door handle, but couldn't find it in time.
"Well. Maybe it is." John's fangs sank into her throat.