Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
The damn card is burning a hole in my pocket.
I don’t even know why I brought it with me when I left my apartment.
Maybe because I was just sick of staring at it on the coffee table.
Maybe because a tiny, clawing part of me– buried under layers of stubborn pride and barely scraped-together dignity– knew I was running out of options.
Either way, I swiped it up at the last second on my way out the door and stuffed it into my coat pocket like a cigarette I’d promised to quit.
Just in case.
Now, three hours later, I’m standing on a cracked sidewalk outside another dead-end job prospect, and that little black card feels heavier than anything else I’m carrying.
Heavier than the thought of my empty wallet.
Heavier than the slow ache in my feet from trudging all over this side of the city.
Heavier than even the dull pounding behind my eyes from lack of sleep.
I’ve hit up every place in a three-mile radius that had an open job ad online.
Half of them weren’t even hiring anymore– listings still up from last week or the week before, never updated.
The other half handed me cold stares and polite smiles as they told me I didn’t have ‘the right kind of experience’ or ‘someone else just filled that role’.
Even the sleaziest dive bar in Midgrove said no, and I’m pretty sure their last bartender was high his entire shift and once punched a guy for asking for a lime wedge.
I wrap my arms tighter around myself as the wind picks up, biting through the threadbare lining of my coat.
The city air smells like car exhaust, my breath fogging up in front of me as I exhale slowly and steady myself against the side of a bus stop terminal.
The bench is slick with old rain and littered with discarded fast-food wrappers– as much as my feet ache, I can’t bring myself to sit down amongst the filth.
Slipping the card from my pocket, I stare at it for a long moment.
Matte black, embossed numbers, smooth to the touch.
Classy. Clean. Simple.
Not the kind of thing you’d expect from a place that specializes in illegal blood donations. The phone number taunts me, like it’s whispering a secret only the desperate get to hear.
I flip it over a few times with my fingers, tracing the sharp edges of the corners.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to call. Just to ask, see what it’s all about. There’s no commitment with a phone call, and if it feels off, I can just hang up and pretend like this never happened… right?
I chalk up the tremble in my fingers to the cold as I slide my phone from my pocket and start dialing the number. My pulse ticks up as I hit call and bring the phone to my ear, heart hammering like I’ve already sold something I’ll never get back.
It only rings once.
“Bite,” comes a bright, cheery voice on the other end. “How may I direct your call?”
“Uh, hi,” I say, instantly regretting this. “I got your card from a friend. She said I might be able to sign up for some… donations?”
“Absolutely! One moment, please,” the woman replies, chipper as a morning show host. She doesn’t sound fazed at all, like people call up asking about blood-for-cash programs every day.
Actually, I guess they probably do.
There’s a soft click, then a new voice comes on the line. This one is smoother. Controlled. Expensive.
“This is Francesca Fox, whom am I speaking with?”
“Taylor Holt,” I answer.
“Good afternoon, Miss Holt. How can I assist you today?”
I swallow thickly, suddenly wishing I’d prepared what to say. “I… a friend of mine gave me your card. Bex Hamilton. She said she’s done some donor work through your agency, and since I’m between jobs right now, she suggested I give you a call.”
There’s a quiet clicking sound– fingernails on keys.
“Ah, yes,” Francesca says after a moment. “Miss Hamilton has completed several engagements through our service. Are you interested in offering the same?”
“Uhm, I think so,” I say, unsure if I’m lying or just trying to convince myself.
“Excellent,” she replies, her voice silky smooth. “When are you available to come in for your screening?”
I reach up to comb my fingers through my hair, glancing around the vacant street nervously. “Like I said, I’m between jobs, so my schedule is pretty open right now…”
“Would three o’clock work?” she interrupts.
“Today?” I ask, startled.
“Yes. If you provide your address, I’ll send a driver to collect you.”
“Oh. Okay.” Before I can second-guess it, I rattle off my address. She confirms it before hanging up, as if this whole conversation was the most mundane thing in the world.
I lower my phone slowly after the line disconnects, staring at the blank screen.
What the hell did I just agree to?
Ablacked-out town car picks me up at 2:45 p.m. on the dot, and the driver doesn’t speak a word to me beyond confirming my name. He just nods once, opens the door, then gets behind the wheel and drives in smooth, effortless silence.
I spend the whole ride fidgeting in the back seat, wondering if I’m making a huge mistake.
By the time we pull up outside a sleek office building, my stomach is in full rebellion, twisted into knots I doubt will ever loosen.
The place looks like a tech company’s headquarters– glass exterior, towering white pillars, and a nameplate near the door that just says Steele Holdings in tasteful chrome lettering.
Nothing about it screams ‘vampire blood agency’, which I suppose is kinda the point.
Inside, it’s even more surreal. The lobby is bright and inviting, all gleaming tile and brushed steel.
The air smells faintly of citrus and cleaning products.
There are no candles, no incense, no moody red lighting…
none of the stereotypical things I’d expect for a place that caters to dangerous creatures of the night.
Just sharp edges, quiet whispers, and a woman at the front desk who greets me like I’m here for a spa appointment.
I give her my name, and she taps something into a tablet and nods, handing over a temporary ID badge and directing me to the elevator.
I expect the fourteenth floor to feel different– darker, colder, more secretive. But it doesn’t. It’s just as bright. Just as clean. Just as white.
I kinda hate it.
White walls, white floors, white furniture.
Even the air feels white– sterile and still and pristine.
It’s like everything’s been scrubbed of color, and with it, emotion.
It makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, warning me not to trust a place that deals in blood and doesn’t show a single damn stain.
I’m led into a private office by another silent assistant, and there, waiting behind a glass desk that probably costs more than my yearly rent, is Francesca Fox.
She rises to greet me, and I immediately clock her as the type of woman who could run an army.
She’s both breathtaking and intimidating as hell.
Supermodel tall, high cheekbones carved like a blade, tan skin glowing under the soft overhead lights.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe bun that somehow only makes her look more commanding, and her white power suit fits her like armor– sharp shoulders, nipped waist, not a single wrinkle in sight.
Every inch of her is composed; perfectly polished.
She smiles– cool and professional– and gestures to the chair across from her.
“Taylor Holt,” she greets smoothly, settling back into her seat. “Thank you for coming in.”
I nod and sit, perching stiffly at the edge of the chair like I might need to bolt at any moment. The leather is soft and expensive, and the whole room feels like a page out of a luxury magazine.
“I’m sure you understand our need for discretion,” Francesca continues, pulling a folder from a sleek drawer and sliding it across the desk toward me. “Before we can proceed, I’ll need your signature on this.”
I glance down at the papers. Non-Disclosure Agreement is written in clean block letters across the top of the first page.
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly too dry.
My eyes scan the paragraphs, but the words start to swim.
Legalese. Liability. Damages. Confidentiality clauses stacked like dominoes.
The message is clear: if I say a word about this place to anyone, I’ll be held responsible in ways I probably can’t afford.
Which is ironic, because I already can’t even afford to keep a roof over my head.
Still, I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the pen. I can feel her watching me– not pressuring, just waiting. Calm and patient, like she expects me to sign without question.
And she’s right.
I pick up the pen, gripping it tightly as I scrawl my name on the dotted line.
“Perfect,” she remarks when I’m done, sliding the folder away smoothly. Her tone is cheerful and detached, like this is just another Tuesday in her world. She opens a second drawer and retrieves another folder, placing it in front of her on the desk.
“Let me give you a basic overview of what we do here,” she says, folding her hands on top of the thick packet.
“As you may be aware, the vampire population has seen exponential growth over the last decade. With that comes increased demand for resources– most notably, blood. While many rely on traditional banks, our clients– typically affluent, influential individuals– prefer to feed directly from a living source. Bite exists to meet that need.”
She pauses, gauging my expression.
I nod once, though I’m not sure if it’s out of understanding or survival instinct.
“We provide vetted, willing donors to fulfill our clients’ requests,” she continues. “We handle all of the logistics, from transportation to security, contracts to confidentiality. Donors are paid per engagement, and the rates vary depending on what services are offered.”
My stomach clenches, but I keep my face blank. I force myself to nod again.