Vampire Eden Read online

  Vampire Eden

  Book One

  by Liz Newman

  Cover Design by Robin Ludwig Design, Inc.

  www.gobookcoverdesign.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious or used fictitiously. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Tigerlily Books

  www.lizrnewman.net

  www.facebook.com/lizrnewmanauthor

  Twitter: Liz_RNewman

  Dedication

  For those who live to the music of the night

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter One

  I ambled down the pasta and sauce aisle as I ran my fingers over the smooth labels of marinara and Alfredo sauce. The shopping cart creaked and hummed with wheels in which the sand of the desert surrounding Las Vegas had embedded their grains. I picked up a package of gluten-free pasta, carefully reading the ingredients to determine whether Kevin's sensitive stomach could digest it.

  "Hiya," a cheerful voice said. I looked up from the package. A lovely blonde woman stood in front of me, holding out her slim hand. "You live at the Montana Rose Apartments, right? I'm Christine Leavensworth. I'm your new neighbor."

  Eyeing her suspiciously, I extended my hand. "I'm Eden. Nice to meet you." I turned away and pretended to be engrossed in nutritional guidelines. Christine stood there smiling. I glanced back at her. "Do you need help finding something?"

  "Uh, no. I just thought that...since you're new to the apartments and all, I'd introduce myself. I'm a sales associate for the Tiki Towers. You know, the timeshares on McClellan Road."

  "I didn't know about those." She's going to ask me what I do. All nice and friendly like. Maybe I'll just come out and tell her and watch her face crumple up in disgust as if she just ran into a drunk pissing in the sidewalk corner on Fremont Street and glancing around just to see who's watching. I'm not in the mood to see that face again. What will I say I am this time?

  "I work out of one of the model homes," Christine went on. "In the Towers. Practically live there. Someday, if I save up enough, I can buy one and get a huge discount, since I'm an employee and all. What do you do?"

  "I'm...uh...I'm in sales." I pressed my lips together and scratched the nape of my neck.

  "You must work pretty late," she said. "I'm an early riser. Usually head out to Kaffee's Cafe around five for my morning cup. Sometimes I see you come back home. What kind of sales?

  "I sell alcohol." I tugged on my red lace shirt. Her gaze settled upon the hole at the bottom hem. I tucked my shirt into my jeans and scowled.

  "Which one?"

  "Different kinds. I'm an independent contractor. No real place of business. I just kind of drift around."

  "Ah. I know a lot of salespeople who drift. They come and go. They always have some interesting stories to tell. Especially the night shifters." Christine smiled widely. Her teeth were long and white, and her gums huge and a mauve color in contrast to her red lips. "We're both salespeople. We should have a bottle of wine and share stories about our customers. Do you like Cabernet? I just picked up this amazing bottle of Cabernet on sale. Great vintage. It'll only be me, you, and my cats. I just moved here after I broke up with my boyfriend. But I'm considering a rebound, if you know anyone." A pleasant peal of laughter rang out from between her lips. "Tell you what, I'll make us some spaghetti and you can come over tomorrow night." She pulled a bag of pasta off the shelf and tossed the box into her cart. "Do you like mushroom or Bolognese?"

  I tossed a lock of dark hair over my shoulder and twisted a strand around my finger. "I...uh…

  "It's okay. I'll buy them both and we can decide tomorrow. I'm so happy you're coming over. I could really use a friend."

  "You know, Christine, it's a little difficult for me to get out at night. I have this boyfriend who is...well, he's crippled and he had liver failure."

  "Oh, my gosh. I'm so sorry. You can bring him along."

  "Thanks, but no thanks." I turned my cart around and squeaked down the aisle, walking away as fast as I could without breaking into a run. I knew all about women like her. Maybe she knew about women like me, too. That didn't entitle her to be a part of my life. If I told her my stories, her face would fall as if I'd sucked her dry like a spider. She was a real woman with a respectable life.

  The new people in town come back to Vegas, in search of a better job, an easy life, or for booze, for drugs, for cheap one-night stands and fumbling around a hotel room in the wee hours of the morning. When I came here, I came in search of a life of eternal youth. I wanted a party that would never end, and friendships where one beautiful person could easily be replaced by another. I saw a ripe, juicy, glittering apple beckoning me to take a bite, to consume it all until there was nothing left. And I did. But when I woke up this morning, I saw the old in my face. Little did I know, I had less than one day left as a human.

  * * *

  "Kevin," I called as I pushed open the door to our apartment. "The pharmacy was out of your painkillers so I picked up some Advil. They'll have them in by tomorrow. I know that stuff is crappy on your liver but it's better than being in pain…" I stopped short and stared at his overturned wheelchair. The pounding of my heart filled my ears. "Kevin." The wish that he was dead popped into my mind and I squelched the thought quickly.

  I placed the grocery bags on the counter and walked down the hall to the bathroom. From behind the door came a stifled sob. I pushed the door open. Kevin lay in heap in front of the sink, just inches away from the toilet. His hair hung in his face, matted and greasy. My hand flew to my nose to shield my breathing from the stench. "I couldn't make it," he said. "Goddamn chair got stuck in the rug." He slapped his hand against the wall. "Are you just going to stand there or are you going to get over here and help me?"

  "Of course," I murmured as I ran the hot water in the tub. I turned the cold spigot on and dipped my fingertips under the stream until the water ran in a comfortably hot temperature. Fifteen minutes and a mop and bucket full of filth later, I sponged Kevin's body off with warm washcloths. I hooked my arms under his and eased him into the tub, reeling from the sick smell of human waste clinging to his body.

  "You hid the Sominex away," he said, his tone heavy with accusation. "And the alcohol."

  "Mmm-hmm," I replied as I rubbed his back with soap. "Let's not talk about last week. Last thing I want to relive is spending the night in the emergency room while they pumped your stomach."

  "Why don't you just let me die, Eden? You don't have to go on martyring yourself for me."

  "I'm not martyring myself."

  "I wouldn't do this for you," he said with the mean gripe of someone who wallows daily in remorse and self-pity.

  "I know. Party's over." I lit a stick of incense and waved it around in the air. "Maybe I just don't want to be alone. Who would I have if I let you kill yourself?"

  Kevin thought for a minute as he sat in his wheelchair. "You could start over. Get a real job. Find some nice respectable guy."

  I snickered as I withdrew a cigarette from the medicine cabinet and struck a match. Inhaling deeply, I spoke as smoke blew out with the pressure of my words. "You're as best as I'm ever going to get. I'd rather have you than no one."

  "If I had the guts to slit my wrists, I would."

  "Guess I'd better go put away the knife set. Give me a holler when you're ready to get out of the tub."

  "I wish I could cut yo
u. Or beat you. The way I used to."

  I guffawed at his menace. "Same to you, Kev. I'm going to get ready for work."

  Chapter Two

  "Slow night tonight," muttered Daisy in a croaky voice. Her springy red hair reminded me of Little Orphan Annie. With her garishly painted face, she could be mistaken for a performer at Circus Circus. She inhaled an unfiltered Camel cigarette and blew thick smoke into the air. The smoke coiled around the glasses hanging down from a rack over the bar, snaking up into the ventilation where it would blow all around this casino colored with purple, gold, and green carpets and walls.

  "The night should pick up soon," I said. "Mardi Gras everyday in here, just like the sign says."

  "You're from the South, right, Eden?" Daisy said. "I always hear a little Southern twang in your voice."

  "South Carolina, born and raised. Everything's slow out there. Hell, for what you make with one customer here, you could survive for a week. Or at least pay your mortgage."

  "For what we used to make, you mean." Daisy's lips puckered as she took a swig of her Bud Light. I shuddered to see the deep marionette lines that formed around her mouth as she pursed her lips together.

  "I hear that." I sipped my margarita and stirred the ice around, trying to make the drink last longer. The bartender kept glancing our way, his brows furrowed as if he were irritated by our presence. "These new guys aren't very accommodating," I muttered.

  "No one wants to see old dinosaurs like us peddling ourselves, Eden. I'm thinking it's about time I get a real job. As a checker at a liquor store. Or even open up my own housekeeping service."

  "You're going to clean toilets for a living?" I shuddered. "That's disgusting."

  "What we do is disgusting, Eden. You ever realize that?"

  "Not as disgusting as cleaning toilets."

  "My most recent clients would change your mind about that the minute you laid eyes on them naked," she groaned. A greasy man with a swarthy complexion sitting at one of the lounge tables beckoned Daisy over. "Look at him," she said. "Disgusting. I think after tomorrow you won't see me around here anymore."

  "You said that last week. And the week before that."

  She dropped her cigarette into her empty glass. The ash hitting the ice made a sizzling noise barely detectable above the ching ching of the slot machines. The bartender shot her another scathing look.

  "I mean it. I'm getting out of this town. Before I become one of them." She gestured to an ancient cocktail waitress hovering around the penny slots, wearing a bright blue wig. By the way the waitress smiled when someone gave her a handful of coins, she looked as if she imagined herself as young and beautiful as a teenage pop star.

  "I'll call you if I ever need housecleaning."

  "Stop kidding yourself, girl. You can't afford a housecleaner anymore." She slipped off the barstool and sauntered over to the greasy man. Her thighs rubbed against each other in her short skirt with that voluptuous weight that looks enticing on a benevolent married woman and disgusting on an old whore. I sat at the bar alone as Daisy rose and left with the man. Another hour passed by as I waited and prayed for the first job of the night to materialize.

  My cell phone buzzed with a text message. Can you pick up some cranberry juice on the way home? The message was from Kevin, whom I left wheeled in front of the television watching reruns. I could see him in my mind’s eye, his body plugged into machines, his kidney dialysis monitor beeping. Our health insurance bills were sky-high and rent was due tomorrow. Another reason why tonight had to be a good night. I smiled at two men who sat down at a table. The dark-haired one reminded me of Kevin six years ago, with glorious muscles, shorn hair, and a tight T-shirt on. He looked past me, disregarding me as young, good-looking men tended to do these days.

  A group of giggling women strutted into the bar, wearing matching pink shirts and fluffy hats. The bride-to-be wore a tiara adorned with fake gems and lace. They sat down and called out their drink orders to a waitress. "Raspberry Cosmo!" "Cuba Libre!" "Sex on the beach!" They reminded me of better days, those drinks. The bridal party girls turned to the two men and smiled, laughing and flirting.

  “Take your shirt off! Take your shirt off!” they chanted, becoming louder and louder until finally the man who reminded me of Kevin of years past lifted up his T-shirt and rippled the muscles on his stomach. The girls screamed and brought the bride forward, who placed her hand on his washboard abdomen. She ran her fingers down his smooth, waxy skin, closed her eyes for a second, and pulled away, shrieking and laughing. The girls ordered the men a round of drinks, and after a few minutes they all left together.

  The bar was quiet again, except for the musical sounds of the slot machines. I lowered my head, sipping the last of my margarita as the bartender glared at me. Rifling through my purse, I searched for my cigarettes and came up with an empty pack. My fingers pulled open my wallet. An empty billfold stared back at me. I cleared my throat and put my personal belongings away as I gathered my bag to leave.

  “Your hair stands out in this world of tacky colors,” said a man sitting next to me. I turned sharply, unaware of his presence only a moment ago.

  "I'm sorry?” I stared at him.

  “I meant, you have very beautiful hair. Didn’t mean to scare you. My name is Patrick.”

  “What bring you to Vegas, Patrick?” I smiled coyly at him, picking up my empty glass and putting my mouth seductively around the straw, gazing up at him beneath heavily painted lashes.

  “Fun, fun, fun. What else? Actually, I work here. I’m a craps dealer. This uniform makes a dull Halloween costume.”

  My eyes crinkled as a lilting laugh escaped my red lips. “I think my uniform is far more exciting.”

  “I really like your uniform,” he said. “May I admire it?”

  “Look all you want,” I said. "Looking is free."

  "I suppose that answers my next question." He looked me up and down, from the lace choker to my breasts cascading over a velvet scoop neckline, down to my skin-tight pants with a low-slung silver belt, and five-inch heels.

  “Nice,” he smiled. "And your name is?"

  "Eden Sayers."

  "Stage name?"

  "That's my stage name. And my real name. I gave up on using a stage name a long time ago."

  "Pretty, pretty Eden Sayers. The belle of the Mardi Gras bar."

  I batted my eyelashes at him. I could play his little fantasy game. "To what do I owe this honor?" I said, accentuating my Southern accent. Honor came out as honah.

  "What honor?"

  "The honor of a fine gentleman like yourself speaking to a little old gal like me? Well, not that old."

  "About as old as me." He surveyed me with a sensual gaze and my heart jumped a little. I inhaled deeply as a feeling of nervousness overtook me. "Maybe a couple of years younger." He scraped a match across the surface of the bar and watched the flame dance before shaking it out. I laughed at this meaningless action. "You in need of a smoke?" I asked. "Not that I can give you one since I'm out. I think you can buy a pack from the bartender."

  "I don't smoke. Smoking's no good for you."

  "Guess that means you're not going to buy me a pack, huh?"

  "Nope. I don't want you to ruin your lungs. That tobacco will get into your bloodstream, too. Bad stuff. Causes cancer."

  "Wow, the surgeon general over here. You just like carrying matches in your pocket?"

  "I like fire. And the need for it. Without fire, we earthly creatures, both human and inhuman, would never be able to think of new ways to torture each other. We'd be shivering in a cage somewhere, huddled together singing woebegone songs."

  "Maybe we'd be better off that way," I said as smiled.

  "I think so. One thing I've always liked about you is your smile. Your eyes crinkle together in the corners. If I watched you from far away, which I have, you look for a second like you're about to cry. There's something about your smile that's very pretty to me. Something sweet."

  "I'll smile f
or you any day," I gushed, trying to pour on the charm even though my face was flushed and my heart pounded with fear at his stalker-scary words. Handsome men never talked to me and here was Patrick, a vision of buttoned-down charm with a good-natured smile. He probably has a morbidly obese friend in a hotel room upstairs, waiting to slap a choke collar around my neck and order me to bray like a donkey. A similar situation had already happened to me last month, which was gravely humiliating but did enable me to pay the rent.

  We fell into silence. A heavyset walrus of a man at the high-limit poker table stood up and cheered, his thick arms jiggling like baby pigs wriggling away from the slaughterer's clutches. The dealer pushed a pile of pink and black chips toward him. The fat walrus man spied me at the bar, then glanced at Patrick and sat down to play another hand. He kept his eyes on me and lifted up his red five-dollar chips, letting them drop back into a stack slowly. I knew he was waiting for Patrick to leave. I smiled at him, just in case this deal fell through, and turned back toward the mirror behind the bar, feeling the walrus man’s eyes on my behind.

  "So what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?" Patrick asked with a wry smile.

  "Slumming. What else? You have a dealer's uniform on. Aren't you supposed to be working right now?"

  "Nope. Off for the night. Making myself a part of the decor here at the old Mardi Gras Saloon."

  "Aren't there rules here in the old Mardi Gras Saloon for employees?"

  "Rules like what, Eden?"

  "Rules about talking to hook-...women like me."

  "I'm a good enough dealer so I don't always have to follow the rules. I come to work on time, keep the customers happy with a little East Coast charm. I like the way you wore you hair today. It looks really nice down."

  "Thanks. Shouldn't a handsome guy like you have some sweet little kindergarten teacher of a wife to go home to?"

  "I spent so much time away from home, she didn't want me at home anymore. Hence, the move to Vegas. Where there's no home to go home to."