Bite

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Pain blooms across my palm, sharp and hot, the slap echoing off the cinderblock walls like a gunshot. Archer’s mossy green eyes go wide– first with shock, then with fury so intense I can practically see steam hissing from his ears.

Shit. I just slapped my boss.

For one suspended heartbeat, I wonder if he’s going to hit me back. We’re locked in a standoff, positioned far too close to one another in his cramped, fluorescent-lit office. The air between us crackles, heavy with tension and the sour stink of old coffee and fried grease.

“You’re fired, bitch,” he spits. Literally– tiny droplets pepper my face like sleet, making me recoil instantly. He jabs a thick finger in my direction, shaking with rage, a red bloom already rising on his cheek in the exact shape of my hand.

I should probably be afraid right now. Archer Dunlap is the kind of man who thinks ‘power’ means grabbing whatever he wants with both fists– whether it’s control over his business, the paychecks he cuts, or a woman’s throat.

But I’m not afraid. Not yet, anyway. Fury has a way of making you feel invincible.

Or maybe that’s the adrenaline.

Either way, my heart’s pounding, and I don’t regret that slap for a second– because what the hell else was I supposed to do? Drop to my knees just because he unzipped his pants?

Hell no. I’ll swallow my pride, take garbage shifts, put up with a lot of crap just to hold down a job… but I draw the line at sucking off my sleazy boss to make ends meet.

“Go get your shit and get the hell out of my diner,” Archer snarls, his voice thick with venom.

“Fine by me,” I mutter, turning on a heel and strutting past him.

My palm still stings like fire, but it’s the only part of me that hurts right now, which is a damn blessing. I’ve taken hits before from better men.

I won’t let myself think about how much my wallet’s going to hurt, because then I might be tempted to beg to keep this shitty job, and fuck that. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I go crawling back to Archer on my knees.

Pushing through the door to the employee locker room, I grab my things, leaving my apron and name tag behind. Let them rot in the grease pit with the rest of this hellhole.

Heads turn as I make my exit, the customers’ hungry eyes following my path to the door.

Some hunger for the food on the menu, others for the blood in my veins.

Working the graveyard shift means serving all sorts of unfavorable types that prowl around after dark, the worst of which are the vamps.

Not that they require much attention since they don’t come here to eat.

They just lurk in the stained leather booths, drinking coffee and creeping everyone the fuck out.

I storm out of the diner with my head held high, flipping Archer off on my way out.

“I’d better never see your face in here again, Taylor Holt!” he calls after me furiously.

“You won’t!” I shout back.

Good riddance, dickwad.

Streetlights cast sickly yellow halos over the wet pavement outside, turning the city into a glistening maze of puddles and shadows.

The sky is bruised, tinged purple with the promise of dawn, and the cold slaps at my cheeks as I start for my apartment.

I shove my hands into my coat pockets for warmth, trying not to think about the slow-motion disaster I’ve just walked out of.

I was already living paycheck to paycheck, already behind on rent. I’d burned through my savings long before landing this gig, and now I’ve got maybe a hundred bucks to my name.

I can’t afford to lose this job. But I couldn’t afford to stay, either.

Most employers take one look at me– a twenty-four-year-old high school dropout with no real degree and no skills– and see a dead end.

But I’m a survivor. I’ve been clawing my way through this world since I was a kid, bounced from one shitty foster home to the next until I finally said screw it and ran off at sixteen.

I’ve been hustling ever since– cash under the table, food service, cleaning jobs.

Whatever I could get. Anything that paid.

I clawed my way into the crappy studio apartment I call home, and I’ve held onto it by the skin of my teeth for eight years. I’m not about to lose it now.

The diner might’ve been a graveyard shift gig off the interstate, but it paid enough to keep me afloat.

The free meal I got with every shift was also a major bonus, and usually the only one I’d eat each day.

Now, I’m staring down the edge of a cliff with no safety net, and the only thing heavier than my footsteps on the pavement is the dread curling in my gut.

I slip my phone out of my pocket and fire off a text message to Bex as I trudge home.

She’s my best friend– my only friend, really– and the sole person I trust enough to ask for help.

The tattoo shop she works at should be closing right about now, so I tell her to swing by my place on her way home if she can.

My building is a three-story walk-up above a shuttered laundromat.

The stairwell reeks of mold and stale piss, the wallpaper in the hallway peeling like sunburned skin.

I jog up the steps and unlock both deadbolts and the handle of my door, muscle memory guiding me through the ritual.

You don’t live in this part of town without learning to bolt yourself in tight.

Inside, the apartment is dim and musty. A curling strip of wallpaper flaps lazily near the ceiling vent, hanging on by a thread.

I slap the boost button on my dollar-store air freshener and flip on the floor lamp, bathing the room in weak yellow light.

The heater’s been off for weeks to save money, so the chill lingers, coiling around my ankles.

I grab a beer from the fridge– the only thing in there other than expired condiments– before collapsing on the futon, exhaling hard.

This place may be shitty, but it’s mine. And I’ll be damned if I let it slip through my fingers.

I work up the nerve to count the cash in my pocket. Twenty-seven dollars, mostly in ones and some sticky coins. Not even enough for groceries, let alone rent.

Dammit.

My phone buzzes, and I swipe open the screen.

Bex

Here! Let me in, bitch!

Pushing up from the futon, I hit the button by the front door to buzz her in, then step out into the hall to wait.

Her short black hair bounces around her head as she jogs up the stairs, breath puffing in the cold.

She tips her head back to gaze up at me, dark eyeliner smudged just enough to make her look like trouble. And she is– in the best way.

“Thought you had a shift tonight?” she calls, her voice echoing through the stairwell.

I hang my forearms over the rail, peering down at her with a frown. “Got fired,” I reply flatly.

A smirk curls her red-painted lips as she cranes her neck to hold my gaze, still bounding up the steps. “What’d you do this time? Spill hot coffee in another customer’s lap?”

“Worse. Slapped my boss.”

She stutters a step and blinks up at me, then jogs up the rest of the stairs faster, panting when she reaches the top of the landing. “What’d he do?”

“Whipped it out and told me to suck it,” I mutter, cringing.

Bex wrinkles her cute little nose in disgust. “Ugh, gross.”

“Tell me about it.” I sling an arm over her slender shoulders, guiding her into my apartment.

She makes herself right at home, tossing her jacket over the back of the futon and grabbing a beer from the fridge while I close the door behind us and flip both deadbolts.

Where I’m all edges and grit, Bex is fire and flash– tattoos, neon nails, too much eyeliner, and a cackle that could shatter glass.

She wears her black hair in a razor-sharp bob that angles at her chin, and one glare cut from her fierce green eyes can make a man wilt in fear.

I’ve seen it. She’s an incredible artist, picks up occasional modeling gigs, and somehow always lands on her feet no matter how chaotic life gets.

Basically, she’s a total badass, and I count myself lucky to exist in her orbit.

I make my way back over to the futon, reclaiming my spot with a heavy sigh.

“So, what now?” Bex asks, plopping down beside me and twisting the cap off her beer. “You gonna try selling your used panties online or something?”

I snort a laugh, shaking my head. “Hard pass. But there’s no way I’m gonna make rent. I’d scheduled double shifts for the next two weeks and was counting on those tips to pull me through.”

She takes a sip of her beer, tilting her head. “How much do you need?”

“I’ve got twelve hundred due next week,” I mutter, leaning forward to snatch my own beer off the coffee table. “And no idea how I’ll come up with it.”

She winces as she swallows, wiping her mouth off on a wrist. “I can float you a couple hundred, but that’s all I’ve got right now. Have my own rent due.”

“Thanks,” I breathe, shoulders slumping. “Just need to figure out how to get the rest, or I’m out on my ass.”

Bex pokes her tongue against the inside of her cheek, squinting at me. “What about blood donation?” she asks tentatively. “With all the vamps around the city, it’s always in demand. Easy money.”

“Yeah, but it’s only fifty bucks a pop, and you have to wait forty-eight hours between donations,” I scoff. “There’s no way I’d make enough in time.”

She hesitates for a beat, taking another pull from her beer bottle. “Well, that’s through the blood banks. There are other ways,” she says cryptically.

I narrow my eyes on her. “What do you mean?”

“There are… services,” she replies, picking at a loose thread on the hem of her sweater. “Private ones. The safe kind. You set boundaries, get screened, get paid a hell of a lot more…”

“You mean live donations?” I choke, nearly spitting out my beer. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I’m not,” she deadpans. “I’ve done a few. Just when I was desperate. And it was fine. Safe, even. I did it through an agency. They vet the clients, and everything’s completely confidential.”

“You’ve been letting vamps feed off you?” I gasp, blinking at my friend in disbelief. “Are you out of your goddamn mind, Bex!?”

“See, this is why I didn’t tell you,” she tuts, rolling her eyes. “I knew you’d judge. But you said you were desperate, so…”

“I’m not that desperate,” I fire back, shaking my head. “It’s illegal, Bex. And for good reason. It’s not safe.”

“It is if you go through the right channels,” she insists.

I shake my head again, still reeling from her admission.

Bex Hamilton, the chick who’s known for kicking asses and takes names, is letting vamps bite her? My brain can’t even picture it, let alone rationalize it.

“Fine,” she sighs, folding forward to set her beer down on the coffee table and digging a hand into her purse.

“But if you change your mind…” She fishes out a business card and hands it to me– matte black with glossy red numbers embossed in the center.

I flip it over, and there’s a single word on the other side in the same lettering: bite.

Subtle.

I turn it over in my hand a few times, lips drawn into a frown. It feels heavier than it should, like it’s already soaked in the blood I might give.

“You get a referral bonus if I sign up?” I ask dryly, flickering Bex a sideways glance.

“Damn right I do,” she replies with a shameless grin. “But most importantly, you get to keep your apartment.”

I stare down at the card again. For a moment, I try to picture it: sterile white rooms, reclining leather chairs, cold fingers on my skin. Fangs. A bite. A rush of pain and money changing hands. Rent paid, worries gone…

I toss the damn thing onto the coffee table like it’s on fire. “No thanks,” I grit out. “I’ll find some other way.”

I can peruse the job ads tomorrow– there’s gotta be something better for me out there.

Then again, that’s what I always tell myself, and every job I land feels shittier than the last.

“Suit yourself,” Bex replies with a shrug. She takes a last swig of her beer and sets the empty bottle down, digging into her purse again and pulling out a wad of cash. “Here’s what I can float you for now.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly as I take it, hating that I even had to ask. “I’ll pay you back, I swear.”

“I know,” she replies, lips curving in a sympathetic smile. She squeezes my arm, grabs her jacket, and makes me promise to call her in the morning before heading out. I lock the door behind her and sink back onto the futon, finishing my beer in silence.

The card’s still sitting on the coffee table, the glossy red numbers gleaming faintly under the lamplight like a taunt.

Maybe I should’ve just sucked it up and given Archer that blowjob. It probably would’ve been the worst five minutes of my life, but at least I wouldn’t be considering putting my actual life on the line to pay my bills.

Then again, Bex has done it, and she’s fine. Maybe it’s a viable option in the short term; a little something to float me until I find an employer willing to throw me a lifeline.

I pull out my phone and start flicking through the job ads, trying to pretend I’m not tempted by that card. But deep down, I know.

There’s a road opening up in front of me, and I’ve already mentally taken the first step down it.

Now I just have to decide whether or not I’m desperate enough to take another.