Vampires Never Say Die (Slaying It #2)

Chapter 1

“What can I get you to drink?” I ask.

Nope. Too perky.

“What can I get you to drink?” I ask.

Nope. Too serious.

“What can I get you to drink?” I ask.

“Shouldn’t you be asking the customers?” asks Nick, a.k.a. the most annoying guy in Los Angeles and quite possibly the world.

I keep my eyes on the cash register and continue to ring up my sale. “I’m rehearsing,” I tell him, not that he even cares. “I have an audition tomorrow. For the role of Bartender.”

“Carrie,” he says, “you don’t need to rehearse. FYI, you are a bartender.”

That’s it. Now I have to look at him.

I’m not short, but he’s so tall I need to look up. It’s something that’s always kind of bugged me, but tonight, for some reason, it bugs me way more than usual. He’s standing there in his rumpled black jeans and his wrinkled black tee that he probably just picked up off the floor where he shed them last night. Wherever he shed them last night.

“Okay, first of all, I’m not a bartender,” I tell him. “I’m an actor who works as a bartender. And second of all,” I continue, “the role isn’t just some bartender here at Pete’s on Melrose. It’s Bartender in a Jennifer Lopez movie. It’s only one scene, but it’s a pivotal scene, so they won’t be able to cut it. It’s when J.Lo realizes that she doesn’t want a drink at all. And she doesn’t want to marry the heart surgeon. Because what she really wants is to follow her own heart and—”

“Heyyy,” says Nick, totally bailing on our conversation when he spots a pretty brunette taking a stool at his end of the bar. He walks over to her and leans casually across the counter, and his long, black hair flops seductively over one of his nearly black eyes. With a glance back at me and a smirk that brings out his dimples, he asks her, “What can I get you to drink?”

His delivery is perfect.

I slam the cash drawer closed.

He tries—and fails—to smother his laughter as the woman probably wonders what’s so freaking funny.

Most annoying guy in the world . Definitely.

***

I’m at the taps, pulling a Molson. Nick comes up next to me to get a Sam Adams. He totally crowds me, invading my space with his big, broad shoulders and his stupidly long arms all ridiculously buff with muscles.

I tuck in my elbows and try to ignore them—or rather him . I try to ignore him .

I go slowly, tilting the mug so the beer runs down along the inside of the glass, pausing periodically to give the foam a chance to dissipate. He just pours and lets the Boston lager slosh over the rim until the head is an acceptable size.

I can’t ignore him.

“You’re wasting beer,” I tell him.

“You’re wasting time,” he shoots back. “The quicker the service, the better the tips.”

As he starts to go, the bare skin of his forearm, the one with the intricate guitar tattoo on its underside, brushes lightly against me.

I gasp, flinching from the contact. Because Nick’s skin is freezing. Not just cold. Like absolute ice .

I look sharply up at him, and he’s staring down at me with an expression I can’t quite read. Our eyes lock.

Then he looks past me. “You’re wasting beer,” he says with an almost imperceptible nod.

I turn, following the direction of his gaze. I see that my hand is still on the tap, and the Molson is overflowing the mug.

“Oh crap!”

Quickly, I let go of the tap, put the glass aside, and reach for a bar rag to clean up the mess.

When I turn back a second or two later—literally two seconds at most—Nick is somehow all the way down at the far end of the bar.

***

We’re getting a little low on limes, and there aren’t any in the bar fridge, so while things are quiet, I head on back to the storeroom to grab a few more to slice.

I pass by the alcove where the restrooms are, and there, in the shadows, I spy Nick and the brunette. Their bodies are joined in an embrace, his face buried deep in her neck.

I stop. Backtrack.

All at once, I have the overwhelming urge to rescue her.

And to…well… kill him.

Yup. Kill. As in…uh… kill .

Which is ridiculous on so many levels. For starters, it’s not as if the woman looks like she needs any rescuing. She’s obviously enjoying their little make-out session. Her head is thrown back, and her eyes are glazed over with something like ecstasy.

Something exactly like ecstasy.

Gross.

And by the way, it’s not as if I give a damn about Nick’s love life. It’s nothing to me if he wants to hook up with a different woman basically every night of the week. As long as everyone’s a willing participant, I really couldn’t care less.

Except tonight, inexplicably, I do care. I find that I care very much.

Maybe I’ve just hit my limit with my coworker’s complete and utter lack of professionalism. I mean, the guy is on the clock. He’s supposed to be working, not canoodling. Plus, we serve people here. There’s a health code, and this behavior has got to be some kind of a violation or other. Doesn’t he have any sense of responsibility at all?

Just then, Nick lifts his eyes, they meet mine, and my vision goes red.

I’ve always thought “seeing red” was just an expression. A bit of a cliché, really. But for a split second, I’m literally seeing everything through a blood-colored filter.

I blink a few times, figuring something must be wrong with my contact lenses.

Only now, something also seems to be wrong with Nick. He doesn’t move. His dark eyes go big and round in surprise. Or could it be… fear ?

Is he scared I’m going to narc on him to the owner? I wonder. Worried I’m going to tell Pete about tonight’s little on-the-job dalliance?

I have to give that idea a moment to settle and take root in my brain. More than a moment, if I’m honest.

See, I don’t usually find myself in situations like this, where I have the upper hand. More often, I’m at the mercy of others. As an actor, I’m totally dependent on casting directors who barely glance at my headshot or my comp card, deciding in a blink whether I’m pretty enough or thin enough or whatever-they’re-looking-for enough to even give me a chance to read for a role. And here at Pete’s? Well, night after night, my livelihood is in the hands of customers in various states of inebriation who don’t always tip and never bother to stop and consider that their 15 or 20 percent might be the difference between me paying rent on time or not.

But now, for once…

Advantage Carrie?

Hmm…

Having stopped with the deer-in-the-headlights routine, Nick is gently disengaging himself from the brunette. As she stands up straight, her eyes flutter a bit before her gaze lands on me. She doesn’t seem at all embarrassed about being discovered like this, although she does raise her hand to cover what looks like a serious hickey blooming on her throat.

Double gross.

“Hey, sweetheart,” interrupts a loud, slightly slurred male voice, calling to me from the bar area. “Can I maybe get a little service out here?”

It’s my regular Tuesday-night drunk with his regular Tuesday-night BS. The condescension in the guy’s tone, in his word choice, makes my insides curdle. Still, it’s my job to serve him.

Unless maybe I play this unexpected advantage…

“Break’s over,” I decide to tell Nick. Like a boss. “Sounds like somebody needs you out front. Sweetheart .”

Then, without bothering to wait for his response, I pivot to go.

And it’s silly, I know, but as I continue on back to the storeroom, I find that I can’t stop grinning. A little swagger makes its way into my step. I swear, I even feel a surge of power coursing through my body. A surge of power that’s wildly disproportionate to my teeny-tiny act of assertiveness.

***

By the end of my shift, I’m starting to worry that I might be coming down with something. I’m sweaty and flushed and my skin is hot, like I’m spiking a fever. Earlier, when my arm brushed up against Nick’s, maybe his skin wasn’t so cold after all. Maybe mine was already burning up.

Crap , I think . I can’t be sick for my big audition tomorrow. I just can’t be.

Luckily, it’s Nick’s night to close. Usually, I offer to stay and help, even though on my late nights, he always has band practice or some other convenient excuse for why he has to rush right off. But tonight? Sorry, dude. I’m out of here. I need to get home, pound some Extra Strength Tylenol, and sleep off whatever this is.

In the back room, I clock out and collect my stuff from my locker. But then, since my Prius is parked out front, I have to go back through the bar area. While I make my way through the maze of empty tables, I see that their chairs are somehow already stacked neatly on top.

Or maybe they were that way before?

I also notice that the soles of my sneakers are squeaking. I look down, and what do you know? The floor is all wet, like it’s just been mopped.

That was awfully quick work , I think. Nick isn’t usually so efficient. Probably did a slipshod job, just to get it over with, but nope. Not worth dwelling on. Right now, I need to make self-care a priority.

“G’night, Nick,” I call over my shoulder. You know, just to be polite.

“You take it easy, Carrie,” says Nick. Only the way he says it, it sounds more like a warning than a casual goodbye.

So at the door, I turn. Nick is sitting on the only stool that isn’t upended on the bar, getting down to the business of balancing the night’s receipts. He’s staring at me a little strangely.

From where I’m standing, I can see myself in the mirror that stretches the length of the wall behind the shelves of liquor. But I can’t see Nick in the glass.

I squint to try to focus my vision.

Still, as far as I can see, the guy has no reflection whatsoever.

Is it my contacts again? I wonder. Or some trick of the light? Or is this damn fever maybe starting to mess with my eyesight?

“What is it?” asks Nick, his dark eyes narrowing at me. “What’s wrong?”

I look from Nick to the mirror and then back to Nick. “It’s just—” I start to say, but no. It’s dumb. Plus, it’ll give the guy yet another reason to mock me. I shake my head dismissively. “It’s nothing,” I say instead. “Nothing at all,” I repeat, mostly to convince myself.

Then, turning to the door again, I twist the bolt to release the lock. But as I head out, I can’t stop myself from tossing one last glance back at Nick. Still watching me, he raises his eyebrows in question.

“Don’t forget to lock up behind me,” I mutter.