Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
Charlie stood behind the register, gripping the counter hard enough to leave fingerprints in the cheap laminate.
Eight thirty-seven PM. He'd made it thirty-seven whole minutes without incident.
The ceiling lights buzzed overhead, and each flicker sent a fresh spike of pain through his skull. Everything was too bright, too loud, too much. The coffee machine's gurgle sounded like a roaring waterfall. The freezer's hum vibrated through his bones.
He should not have tried to show off to Brent.
A customer approached with a six-pack, and Charlie forced his face into something resembling neutral.
"ID?" His voice came out rough.
The man fumbled for his wallet, and Charlie caught himself zeroing in on the lines on the guy's hands. Thick veins, close to the surface. One paper cut and…
No.
Charlie grabbed a pen and clicked it repeatedly, using the sharp sound to center himself. The customer slid his ID across the counter.
"Thanks." Charlie scanned the beer without looking at the date. The guy could be twelve for all he cared. He just needed him gone.
"You okay, buddy? You look rough."
"Food poisoning," Charlie managed.
"Brutal." The man took his change and left.
Charlie waited until the door chimed shut, then rummaged under the counter where he'd stashed his emergency supplies. Not ketchup—he'd had enough of that.
His fingers closed around a bottle of cherry syrup meant for the slushie machine.
The same kind that had fooled his brain into believing it was blood last night. Maybe it would work again.
He unscrewed the cap and took a swig. The artificial sweetness coated his throat, his body immediately recognizing it as another lie, another failed substitute.
"That's disgusting."
Charlie jerked around, syrup dribbling down his chin.
Mr. Denton stood in the office doorway, arms crossed.
"It helps with the nausea," Charlie said weakly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
"You know what helps with nausea? Not putting crap in your body." Mr. Denton grabbed the inventory clipboard. "No wonder you're feeling wonky when you're drinking straight syrup like some kind of sugar vampire."
Charlie almost laughed at the accuracy.
"Stock the beer cooler when you're done being weird," Mr. Denton said, disappearing back into his office.
The beer cooler. Right. Charlie could do that. It was nice and cool and would take his mind off customers and beating hearts and visible veins.
He grabbed the hand truck and headed to the blessedly quiet stockroom. There, he loaded cases of beer onto the hand truck, appreciating the simple physical task. No thinking required. Just lifting and stacking.
His phone buzzed with a text from Brent: "you doing okay?"
Charlie typed back: "fine. thanks for letting me crash"
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Finally: "i found some tomato flavor protein shake if youre interested :)"
The kindness of it made Charlie's chest tight. Here was Brent, still trying to help even though he thought Charlie was just some committed method actor having a breakdown.
Charlie wheeled the beer to the cooler and resumed stacking. The cold felt good against his fevered skin.
Sadly, he could not stay in the back forever.
The door chimed. Another customer.
Charlie sighed, letting the cold numb him a moment longer while he listened to footsteps move through the store. They were measured, deliberate. Not the shuffle of a drunk or the quick steps of someone grabbing cigarettes.
Charlie peered through the cooler's glass door.
He saw black boots, tactical pants, and a leather jacket despite the warm evening.
His blood—what little remained of it—turned to ice.
The hunter from the laundromat stood at the end of the chip aisle, examining a bag of pretzels with a casual air that could only be fake.
Charlie dropped to his hands and knees, crawling behind the beer cases. Maybe the guy hadn't seen him. Maybe he was just here for snacks. Maybe—
The footsteps moved closer to the cooler.
Charlie held his breath, which was easy since he didn't really need to breathe anymore. One of the few vampire perks that actually worked.
The footsteps paused right outside the cooler door.
Then moved away, toward the register.
Charlie stayed frozen for another thirty seconds before carefully peering out again. The hunter stood at the counter, waiting. He'd placed a single energy drink next to the register.
Had he actually come to this place by coincidence? Was he not here to try to stake Charlie again?
Would he believe Charlie if Charlie lied about being a vampire?
Maybe he could tell the hunter something about having a twin brother…
No, that was ridiculous.
Charlie swallowed hard and straightened his uniform shirt, tried to smooth his hair, and walked out with what he hoped looked like confidence rather than barely controlled panic.
"Sorry about the wait." He moved behind the register, avoiding eye contact.
"No problem." The hunter's voice was smooth. He almost sounded friendly when he asked, "Long shift?"
"Just started, actually." Charlie found himself responding without thinking, as if this was a regular customer…
But this man had tried to hunt him last night. Charlie needed to keep that in mind.
"You look tired."
Wasn't that the truth? Charlie scanned the energy drink. "Two forty-nine."
The hunter pulled out his wallet, and Charlie noticed his hands. Calloused, scarred across the knuckles. Fighter's hands. One scar ran deep across his palm.
He pulled out a credit card. Charlie read the name on it. Simon Hale.
The payment went through.
"Thank you for your purchase," Charlie made himself say.
The hunter—Simon—pocketed his card, but he didn't move to leave. He just stood there, studying Charlie with those sharp eyes that seemed to catalog every detail. Every weakness. The kind of focused attention that made Charlie feel stripped bare.
A bone-deep shudder went through him.
This man had definitely come here for Charlie.
Why, though?
Charlie wasn't dangerous to anyone but himself.
"You work here long?" Simon asked.
Charlie tried to remember how to speak. It wasn't easy, caught in this man's dark gaze. "Few weeks," he finally got out.
"Night shift must be rough."
"It's fine."
"Lot of weird people come in at night, I bet."
Charlie's jaw clenched. "Some."
Simon smiled. It wasn't friendly—but stupidly handsome in a way Charlie shouldn't notice. "Like vampires?"
Every muscle in Charlie's body locked up. He forced himself to laugh, though it came out like a dying wheeze. "Vampires aren't real."
"No?" Simon tilted his head. "You sure about that?"
Charlie couldn't find the words to say.
He was going to die tonight, wasn't he?
Simon reached into his pocket.
Charlie tensed, ready to run, ready to—
Simon pulled out a pocket knife.
"You mind?" He gestured at the energy drink. "These tabs are impossible."
Before Charlie could respond, the hunter popped the tab with the knife's edge. The blade slipped—deliberately, Charlie was sure—and sliced deep across his index finger.
Blood welled immediately. Rich, red, alive.
The scent hit Charlie like a sledgehammer.
Simon watched the vampire's entire body go rigid.
The reaction was immediate, primal. Charlie's pupils dilated until his eyes were almost black. His hands gripped the counter hard enough that Simon heard the laminate crack. Every muscle tensed like a predator about to spring.
There it is.
Simon kept his expression neutral, letting the blood drip onto the counter. Three drops. Four. The metallic scent filled the space between them.
Charlie took a step back. Then another.
Interesting. Most vampires would have lunged by now.
"You're bleeding," Charlie said, voice strangled. His gaze locked onto Simon's finger with the kind of desperate focus that confirmed everything Simon needed to know.
"Am I?" Simon looked down at his hand with fake surprise. "Damn. Deeper than I thought."
He lifted his finger, letting Charlie see the blood run down toward his palm. Testing. Pushing.
Charlie's back hit the cigarette display. Packs cascaded to the floor.
"There's—" Charlie's voice cracked. "First aid kit. In the back."
"I'm fine." Simon stepped around the counter, closing the distance Charlie had tried to create. "It's just a little blood."
A sound escaped Charlie's throat—half whimper, half growl. His lips parted, and Simon saw them. Fangs. Fully extended, pressing against Charlie's lower lip.
Gotcha.
Now Charlie would reveal his dangerous side, but Simon wouldn't let him.
His hand moved instinctively toward the stake in his jacket. One fluid motion and this would be over. The monster was cornered, revealed, nowhere to run—
Charlie's eyes rolled back.
His knees buckled.
He went down like someone had cut his strings, crashing into the cigarette display on his way to the floor. Packs scattered everywhere. His head made a disturbing thunk against the linoleum.
Simon stood there, blood still dripping from his finger, staring at the unconscious vampire sprawled behind the counter.
This was most definitely not what he had expected.