The World’s Wimpiest Vampire (Supernatural Suckers #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Charlie was two hours into his shift at the convenience store when his hunger caught up with him and his eyes fixed on the small basket of ketchup packets. His stomach twisted with a familiar gnawing emptiness.

Charlie swallowed hard. It was a stupid idea. It was always a stupid idea. Ketchup wasn’t blood, no matter how much his stomach growled and his brain tried to bargain. But it was red, and it was thick, and if he swallowed before the taste could really hit his tongue, maybe he could pretend.

Maybe it would take the edge off just enough to get through his shift without doing something worse.

He glanced toward the back of the store where the office door stood half-open.

No sign of Mr. Denton, the night manager.

The store was empty, and the coast was clear.

Charlie grabbed a packet and tore it open with his teeth, squeezing its contents onto his tongue before shoving the evidence into his pants pocket.

The regret hit him instantly.

The ketchup tasted like sadness and preservatives. Charlie grimaced, forcing himself to keep the sugary substance down. His stomach lurched, but the gnawing hunger receded just a little.

He sighed.

Vampires were supposed to be mysterious. Powerful. Maybe even a little sexy, if the movies were to be believed.

Charlie's life was nothing like a movie.

He was stuck working graveyard shifts at a 24-hour convenience store because his landlord didn't care if he was undead or fully dead—rent was still due on the same day.

Charlie wiped his fingers on the hem of his hoodie and slumped against the counter. Another five hours and seventeen minutes until sunrise. He could feel it in his bones. His one new 'superpower' he was actually good at: knowing when the sun would rise.

How useless was that?

A simple Google search could have given him the same information.

Behind him, the office door creaked.

Mr. Denton appeared, clipboard in hand, his usual scowl firmly in place. "I'm gonna be a little longer on those order forms," he said, thumbing over his shoulder. "You’re on your own. Try not to screw anything up."

Charlie offered a thumbs-up. "Got it, boss."

Mr. Denton gave him a long, weary look, like he wanted to say more but decided Charlie wasn’t worth the effort. With a grunt, he disappeared into the back room, leaving Charlie alone.

For a blessed few minutes, all was quiet, the only sound to be heard was the humming of the freezers.

If the rest of the night passed like this, it wouldn't be so bad.

Maybe he could even sneak another ketchup packet or two. Maybe—

Ding-ding.

The door chime echoed through the store.

Then again.

And again.

Charlie straightened, heart sinking as a wave of customers poured in.

Of course.

Anyone who'd ever worked in retail knew that customers always came in droves.

The Orpheum must have just let out. Charlie had forgotten about the indie rock concert tonight.

"Hey, the red slushie machine's empty!" A teen in a backwards cap pointed accusingly at the machine.

A woman in a sequined top slapped a coupon for energy drinks onto the counter. "This says buy one, get one free!"

Charlie looked at it. "Ma'am, that expired in February."

"So? Your store, your rules. Honor it." Her pupils were dilated, her breath sweet with alcohol.

Would her blood be sweet too?

Charlie's fangs threatened to emerge. He pressed his tongue against them, willing them to stay hidden.

There were too many beating hearts in this store.

A balding man waved his hand in front of Charlie's face. "Hello? Earth to zombie boy. I need twenty in Powerball tickets."

"Sorry. What numbers would you like?"

"I don't know. Good ones. The winning ones." The man laughed at his own joke.

Charlie started punching random numbers into the lottery terminal while another customer complained about the price of energy drinks. A line had formed. Someone knocked over a rack of chips.

Just gotta survive the night. Fake it 'til you make it. Or fake it 'til you faint.

One of those two things was going to happen, anyway.

"I said the slushie machine is empty!" the teen with the cap complained again.

Right.

At least that gave Charlie an excuse to abandon the register for a minute.

Pushing through the crowd, he made his way to the back of the store. The teen was shaking an empty cup at the machine. "Dude, I've been waiting like forever."

"Sorry, I'll fix it right away." Charlie knelt down and opened the machine's rear panel. Inside, bags of brightly colored syrups hung like IV drips. The cherry one—the red one—wasn't empty, but it seemed jammed.

"Yo, can I get cigarettes too?" someone shouted from across the store.

"Be right there!" Charlie called back, fumbling with the connector of the syrup bag. He had to get it loose to fix it.

"What's taking so long?" the teen demanded.

Charlie gave the bag a firm tug, the same way he had done countless times in the past.

Except that he was a vampire now. And vampires were stronger than regular humans, even Charlie, and so Charlie had one moment to think 'oh fuck,' before he saw the bag spring loose, rupturing and spraying streams of bright red.

Next to Charlie, the teen jumped back with a shriek.

Both he and Charlie were covered in sticky syrup.

"What the hell, dude?!" the teen demanded. "This was brand new!"

Charlie stared at his customer, but he couldn't respond.

Red liquid dripped down his chest, and his body reacted before his mind could intervene—heart pounding, senses heightening, fangs descending partially from his gums. His vision tunneled, focusing on the red splatter across his hands.

Not blood.

Not blood.

Get a grip, Charlie. If you bite a dude covered in cherry syrup, you'll never live it down.

The room tilted. Charlie grabbed the edge of the slushie machine, fighting the instinct surging through him. His stomach twisted with bloodlust despite the chemical cherry scent telling his brain this wasn't what he needed.

From the front of the store, someone yelled, “Helloooo? I’ve been in line for, like, ten minutes!”

Charlie closed his eyes and counted to three.

Then five.

Then twelve.

This is fine. You’re fine. Nothing’s on fire.

He turned, sticky shoes squeaking against the tile, and trudged back toward the register.

Mr. Denton was already standing there. The night manager’s arms were crossed in front of his chest, eyes tracking the syrup dripping off Charlie’s sleeves and onto the floor.

Before him, the line of customers looked equally unimpressed.

Charlie attempted a reassuring smile. It came out wobbly.

Mr. Denton slowly reached into his pocket and produced a roll of quarters.

“Laundromat’s still open," he said, pressing the quarters into Charlie's hand. "Take care of it.”

“Do I—uh, should I clock out first, or—?”

“You’re not getting paid to bathe in cherry juice, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you know what to do." Mr. Denton blew out a breath. "You don't have a working head on your shoulders tonight, and I don't have the time to deal with you. Go and get your shit figured out."

Charlie gulped, fingers closing around the coins he'd been given.

He'd love to figure his shit out.

The problem was that he had no idea where to start.