Bite Me by A.J. Cole (classic novels to read .TXT) 📕

"Makes sense. Your folks have it too, right? Guess it must bother you terribly sometimes."

"All the time."

Before Toby could respond, both glass doors were pushed open with the kind of violence that only those with evil intentions would employ. Two individuals in dark green ski masks rushed into the store and up to the counter, guns drawn.

"Touch the alarm button, and it'll be the last thing you ever do!" one of them yelled, peppering the sentence with more than one four-letter adjective.

Toby, eyes so huge with fear that he looked like a chameleon for a few seconds, raised his hands and backed away from the counter until he was stopped by the back wall.

"You, too," the second man said, only his demand ended with another, very nasty, word. He waved his gun at Meloria, nodding at her to move backward.

"Are you nuts?" she asked quietly. "And what do you think this is? The Jerry Springer Show? Don't you dare talk to me like that!"

They looked at each other, their incredulity obvious even with their faces covered.

And in that momentary lapse of concentration on their dirty deed, Meloria shoved Toby to the floor, hissing at him to stay down, and bounded over the counter in a single, cat-like leap. The men had been standing very close to said counter, so both of them were knocked backward to the floor with the momentum of her jump.

"Bastards!" she growled, going to one knee by their feet, and raised a hand.

To the total disbelief of the two, her fingernails lengthened into thick, black talons. "Move so much as an inch," she whispered, "and you'll both be eunuchs long before you can fire those guns."

Their only response was heavy breathing, and not the kind associated with an obscene phone call.

Satisfied, she called out, "Toby! 911! Now!"

The sound of the manager scrambling about on the floor trying to regain his feet joined the rasps of fear emanating from behind the ski masks. A few seconds later, voice shaking, he was talking to the 911 Operator.

Meloria really didn't want her boss to see the other symptom of her condition, the only one that she hadn't told him about, so positioned both hands out of view but uncomfortably close to the would-be perpetrators' family jewels, her smile wicked.

By the time the police came along, one of the men had wet himself, the other had hyperventilated and passed out. Upon the entrance of the officers, Meloria's claws retracted. She stood, glad to be done with her part, and joined Toby by the Slurpee machine.

"How can you be so calm?" the man asked, still quaking with residual fear.

"No point in wigging out."

"Well, all I can say is, I hope you never quit - you told me you could move fast, but hell! And - and you're incredibly brave. Thank you."

She turned to him, one eyebrow raised. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"I don't know, for saying that. It was nice."

The two men had been hauled out to the police cruisers by this time, and the remaining officers approached Meloria and Toby, their electronic clipboards activated and ready to take their statements. The whole process was quicker than the girl had expected, and she was back to stocking shelves in no time. Only now, as she worked, she was smiling.

It had finally occurred to her that maybe her life really wasn't irrelevant after all.

The social life of a vampire is, understandably, somewhat limited. Flirting isn’t a problem, nor is getting someone to flirt back. That part is no different for the vampire than it is for any other human being. Well, unless the vampire in question is tragically ugly, has chronic flatulence, or displays the social graces of a pissed-off Tasmanian devil. Again, the same as for those not afflicted with the vampire gene.

The real problem, alas, lies with keeping the new acquisition around once the vampire’s nature is discovered and/or explained. Sadly, most people labor under the same misconceptions about this disorder as they do about so many others that are basically harmless to them. After all, if you touch a person who has warts, you won’t automatically become warty. It’s gross, sure, but not contagious. If you kiss someone with a heart condition, you won’t get it, too (unless the experience is unusually horrendous and your own heart spazzes out in disgust). Well, the same holds true in the case of vampirism. But because of the hype in both book and movie form, most people expect to get bitten once they find out the cute whoever they’re dating is a vampire.

Really? Then why didn’t the vampire bite that person before confessing his/her true nature? Eh? That would certainly make more sense. And those who do comprehend that the vampire thing is a genetic problem, still get worried over being “turned” and start whining about how they don’t want to have to get a night job.Because of all this, Meloria wasn’t dating anyone. The last guy who’d shown any interest claimed to be fine with her condition for four dates; on the fifth one, Mel went to the ladies’ room at the restaurant/bar they were in, only to return in time to hear him telling some random guy at the next table that his poor girlfriend was a bit whackadoo, believing herself to be a vampire, and that he was putting up with it until he could get her into bed. Then she’d find out who…he muttered something that included the word “sucking” and Meloria came really close to introducing him to that other symptom waiting impatiently in her fingertips.

Instead, she found their waiter, told him that her date was also paying for everyone’s bar tabs, and snuck out the back door while he was still regaling the random guy with his plans for her.

The guy before that had been way too enthusiastic about her condition, making it clear that he really didn’t get that she wasn’t a Hollywood-type vampire. He started to get obsessive about her, so she decided to dump micro-glitter all over herself, purchase fake vampire teeth, and go to his apartment at four in the morning to scare the living snot out of him. He might have laughed at her efforts had her eyes not been glowing, but since she didn’t realize that was happening, was convinced her vampire get-up had been what caused him to pee himself and then scamper out of the room on all fours, totally unable to find the strength to simply run away.

Had she owned a social calendar, it would have emitted the lonely sound of crickets every time she opened it. But did she mind? Did the lack of a love-life even remotely disturb this strong-willed, self-assured young lady? Did the fact that her friends were numbered in single digits, or that she could only see them for brief intervals after the sun went down, mean anything of any significance to her? Uh, yeah. A whole lot more than she was willing to admit, actually.

Out of necessity, her parents had home-schooled her (she was the only kid she knew who took classes at night). The obvious consequence of this was loneliness. Her parents did their best to keep her entertained, but there was wasn't much they could do with a child at night without getting investigated for having her up and out so late.They’d tried taking her to the park so she could play on the swings and such, but a policeman had come by the first time, wanting to know why she wasn’t home in bed. After convincing him that they were trying to wear her out so she’d fall asleep, they decided they probably couldn't pull that excuse off a second time. So they’d gone to a different park about a week later, but discovered that it became a recreational club for stray dogs once all the humans had abandoned it for the night. The only way they'd been able to scramble back over the fence without getting torn apart, was by all three of them snarling insanely at the beasts while threatening them with terrifying objects like Mel’s shoe and her mother’s purse. After that, they confined themselves to the back yard and hoped none of the neighbors suffered from insomnia.

Currently, her life mainly consisted of work, food, and sleep. She did have that small group of really good friends, though, which while few in number, were greatly supportive. They were “night people,” individuals who were more alert during the wee hours than they were during the day. Most of the year she was okay with the way her life was going, but several holidays that were on her Days I Could Do Without list caused her to dread certain seasons. Halloween was one, because to her deep chagrin, all of her friends made a gigantic deal about her condition, saying it was “her night” and that she could not only dress the part, but play it for real. What the hell did that mean? she found herself wondering on a yearly basis.

Another was Valentine’s Day. Why? Obvious. She’d never been anyone’s “valentine,” and wasn’t even sure she understood why the stupid holiday existed in the first place. Who in blazes was this St. Valentine, anyway? Did he invent those dumb little cheapie cards with their inane sayings, or maybe the chalky, gross heart-candies printed with sentiments that made less sense than the nonsense found in a fortune cookie? No, he was from a long-ago time when people didn’t send each other useless crap, sign it “Your Secret Admirer,” and hope the person would figure out the identity of the borderline stalker. She was pretty sure this Valentine character had had no idea that an entire day would be named after him, much less predict the silliness that would go along with it.

The evening after the attempted robbery, she stood in front of her mirror checking for zits. Since her complexion was always perfect, this was simply an attempt to find something about which to go “aha!” As always, only flawless skin peered back at her, and she sighed. Impulsively, she smiled a fake coquettish smile and batted her eyes at her reflection. “Be my valentine?” she asked in a simpering voice. Then she blew a raspberry at herself, muttered, “Stupid girl,” and turned away. She was already dressed for work, but really, really, really didn’t want to go. She’d signed on for a seven-night shift schedule because she literally had nothing else to do, but this one night she didn’t even feel like working. Toby was a cool boss, some of the customers – her regulars – were always nice for a quick chat, but overall, a long, horribly boring night stretched ahead and was sneering at her. No boyfriend again, eh?

She dragged herself into the kitchen and took her “breakfast” out of the fridge – a few slices of raw, organic veal pounded into thin cutlets that she’d rolled up with chopped apples in the middle. Orange juice and a cup of black coffee completed her repast; she munched without enthusiasm, washing it down with alternating sips of her two beverages. As her mind wandered around humming tunelessly to itself, it got careless and tripped over an image of her parents kissing.

They always had a good Valentine’s Day, didn’t they! she