Hey everyone! I'm really excited today. Like really, really excited. Guess what? It's...uh...near the last week of July. Nearish enough. Yep, made up a word there. That's how you can tell I'm excited about a story, I start making up words and bounce in my seat. Not that you can see me bouncing in my seat, but know I am doing so at this very moment. LOL
Tonight, today, whatever time it is where you are, I bring you vampires. Not just any vampires. I bring you the everyday, normal sort of vampires that don't get the spotlight with the Guardians around. Tonight I bring you the story of Greg and Trey. I hope you like it. I think you will. I even made a little cover for this story. It's simple, but I dig it. It's very me. :) So read it and enjoy, then leave me a comment and tell me what you thought or what you think will happen. Two weeks from today I'll post part 2. You can find out if you were right then.
I hope everyone is doing well. If not, I hope this story will bring you a little joy. Until next time...
Hugs,
Night
Shelter Me: Part 1
The vampires called it
the Second City, but it wasn’t. Not
really. It was more of an underground integration into New York City. It was a community that allowed the born
Royal vampires, human-turned vampires, and their families to come together and
rebuild themselves as citizens, so as not to be seen as objects of glamour or
poverty. But like all societies,
blending the two factions was hard.
Change
was hard.
However, the vampires,
Royal and not still worked together. They
had family residences, schools, a church, doctors, shelters, counselors, and
even insurance. They were trying to play human when they could never be. Nonetheless, they were good at hiding that
fact. They walked the streets like any other citizen of NYC. Only they could tell each apart. To the humans they were merely mortal.
The Prince of Blood had
given his people new hope, making the transition bearable by giving them a purpose
and restoring their love of life. They
had to watch over the humans, even if they never received a speck of gratitude
for it. They had the Original and his
brothers, the Guardians, as their sentinels against the Dealers and Assassins. But on the other side of cozy and domestic was
a seriously dark underbelly to the city.
Rush—a drug cooked with
vampire blood—now ran through dealers’ hands like smoke. Every territory had their own concoction of
the highly addictive substance they sold to humans; some vials cheap and some
rather expensive. Once a human consumed
a vial of Rush, they were sent on a physical trip they never wanted to
end. Although the high waned after a few
hours, those humans craved another taste.
Those humans who tried
to rehabilitate themselves of Rush failed.
A Rush addiction was a thirst they couldn’t get rid of. The dealers were more than okay with that,
and so were their bosses. Money was
made. Crime rose to an all-time high in
the city. The cops couldn’t keep up. For years they’d been baffled by the
mysterious Rush. No forensic scientist
understood what they were looking at.
The blood-like component within the drug would evaporate before the
police could test it; leaving them with the usual, uncut narcotics that’d been running
the streets for decades.
To most of New York
City, Rush was becoming a nightmare; even more so for the vampires now that
their food source was tainted. Those who weren’t mated to their destined
beloved were subjected to the harsh reality of poisoned, human blood. Once a human had tasted Rush, it laid dormant
in their system. When a vampire fed from
an exposed human, he or she would become feral after a short comatose state wherein
they appeared dead. When they woke up,
their violence was at full capacity; whether they killed a human or another
vampire just for their blood, the vampire victim could not help themselves.
The effects could last
for hours. They could last for
days. Their feral state could be
permanent, depending on the potency of the Rush. The only cure, aside from waiting for a cheap
Rush high to end or death, was to feed from their true mate’s blood. To the vampire community, that was like
asking feral victims to find a needle in a haystack before they lost awareness.
It was a pretty much impossible
situation by any sane person’s standards.
Only five percent of vampires who’d consumed rush in a human’s blood had
been documented as successfully being drawn to their mate under dire
circumstances.
The others were put
behind solid steel bars or killed by the Royal Guards, and sometimes the
Guardians themselves. With every fallen
vampire—no matter who they were or where they came from—they were mourned. They were mourned even if they were the enemy,
because their death meant another notch in the belt of evil wrapping around the
city.
The Royals and their
human-turned followers cherished their close-knit community. During such dark times they needed to feel a
part of something positive. A collective
relief came when the Nick was introduced to the vampires. The Royal Doctor had developed the Nick as a
small blood testing device used on humans.
Before every feeding, an unmated vamp was to swipe their human donor
into a state of tranquility and Nick them to test for traces of Rush.
A green light meant go. A red light meant run away.
Unless a vampire had
acquired a trusted and willing human as his or her permanent blood donor, then
a Nick was completely necessary. Then
again, those with a permanent blood donor were unlawful by the Queen’s
decree. Entrapping a human within one’s
household for the purpose of blood slavery was punishable by death. Those vampires who chose to go against the
Queen kept their slaves in secret. Those
who played by the rules, the ones who used a Nick and fed properly were free of
worry. They were the ones who treasured
mortal life and watched over mankind.
That is where the
Second City came into play. The
structure provided all vampires with a safe means of living if they were
willing to follow the rules. There was
the NYC manager, Oliver Caldwell, who ran the business end of things in the
city. He was the head honcho, right
under the Guardians and then the Queen and the Prince. He kept things in line with the other
managers, one for each borough of the city and other managers to both east and
south of NYC.
Each manager was tasked
with keeping their territory running smoothly, much like the alpha of a
pack. Trickling down the line, there
were also middle-of-the-road employees such as nurses and doctors, teachers and
everyday-Joes. Among other facilities, each
territory had as many as three clinics for emergency wounds, blood loss, and
the simple distribution of Nicks. But
the most important work of all, the most overlooked position within the city,
was that of the shelter worker.
Shelters popped up all
over NYC due to a growing need to house human-turned vampires who walked the
streets confused and alone. More
importantly it kept the newly turned out of trouble. Random turnings happened on a regular basis
now; for the Royal’s enemy’s entertainment or to turn a minion, to maybe
someone pretty they wanted to rough up and keep around. Turnings had become increasingly
popular. So much so the shelters were
required.
A homeless vampire was
a person the Royals had never imagined would exist in all their long years on
earth. They were more than willing to
contribute monetary gifts to the needy, but most of them feared associating
with those men and women who had been forced into a life of immortality; those
who were poor and couldn’t hold jobs with humans because they would never age
and people would begin to ask questions.
Those who couldn’t control their hungry urges because they hadn’t been raised
to know what to expect, and those who had terrible pasts and wanted to change
but didn’t have the help they needed.
The posh Royals were afraid to set foot near the homeless.
It was up to the
generosity of the shelter workers to reach deep into their hearts, overlook the
pasts of those who had been wronged or had suffered, and give them hope and a safe
place to thrive. The shelter worker was
a different breed of Royal. They were
the younger generation who questioned the older generation’s standards and
opposed their laziness.
They were vampires who
wanted to get their hands dirty and make a difference, and not with their
pocketbooks. They wanted to better their
world and make the older vamps see the need of the world. The older generation, the ones who hid behind
their riches and fancy Guards didn’t understand why their young would put
themselves in danger every single day.
Not to say every Royal of a certain age and privilege ignored the need,
but most had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, a lifestyle that didn’t
include hard work.
The younger generation
was growing, both Royal and not, and there was nothing the world could do to
stop them from lending a helping hand.
They were the new warriors and teachers.
They were the ones who changed lives.
They were the ones who fought for a new day. And when one of them found their true mate…
it was fate’s way of saying job well done. No one deserved love more than those who
loved without asking for anything in return.
Greg Courtenay was one
of those people. He resisted hiding
behind his family’s money and power. He
turned down the chance to work with his father, the manager of Soho and
Tribeca, to work where he was needed most.
Greg was a shelter
worker, one of the best. His life
revolved around helping others, and most of the time he forgot his own needs in
the process. He wasn’t perfect. Most would think he was an asshole who needed
a dose of happiness to cure his grumpy demeanor. Most wouldn’t know where his heart was. Not even his family knew he liked to surround
himself with work because he was lonely for his other half; that he hungered to
help because work made him happy. Maybe
he would never jump for joy or start randomly hugging people when a down-on-their-luck
soul made it to his shelter, but he was happy on the inside. Where it counted.
Greg never smiled like
he meant it. He didn’t have a reason
to. He didn’t have to prove anything to
anyone. Greg knew who he was. He knew what he wanted. The only problem was he was having one hell
of a time finding the guy who made him smile.
Not forcibly. But because he was
so happy to see his mate, the one who completed his life, that he couldn’t help
it. Until he did find his one and only
Greg was content to make others smile.
It was what he did. Greg helped. He was patient.
***
Greg lumbered down
Broadway into downtown SoHo. His
scuffed, mahogany Doc Martens pounded wet pavement, courtesy of some passing
rain around midnight. Listening to his
headphones, Greg dodged people coming at him from all directions. He scowled at a man waving sunglasses in his
face; some two for twenty deal with a brand name like Kersace.
After years of walking
the Soho streets, especially on Broadway, Greg had learned to ignore the street
vendors set up outside of the high end anchor stores. No one cared they were there except for tourists
and the artsy types who wanted to keep up appearances without spending designer
prices. Even if the cops told the
vendors to hit the road, after annoying the shit out of the high end shops,
they’d just pop up two blocks away. The
vendors had to make money just like everyone else. Greg understood their need for bread and
butter. But he didn’t take kindly to
having merchandise shoved in his face as if he was about to be robbed at
gunpoint.
He ducked the guy’s
arm, growling under his breath, and carried on towards the metal scaffolding
walkway outside of a big ticket shoe store.
He stopped at the crosswalk, bouncing on his toes to the music from his headphones. The wide, painted white lines over the street
didn’t mean much to the steady stream of traffic made of cars and
pedestrians. Everyone followed a different
flow in New York City. A flow Greg
loved.
He didn’t care about an
angry honk from a cabbie as he jogged over the crosswalk without waiting for
the useless signal. Nor did he give a
shit about the middle finger he got from a guy whizzing around the corner on a
shiny Vespa. Greg returned the gesture much
like he would wave hello; full of love and a hint of animosity. Adjusting his backpack, Greg pushed up the
sleeves of his favorite flannel shirt and welcomed the sight of Dean and
Deluca. One of the standard favorites on
Broadway, Dean and Deluca had been around since the seventies, nearly sixty
years now, and was still growing from the small time hole in the wall it once
was.
Greg pulled open the
door, inhaling the aroma of freshly baked bread and just brewed coffee. The new layout had boggled him for a few
years. Upon entering the storefront
there were now two doors, one leading to the café that had moved upstairs and
one to the main floor shop. Eventually
he’d learned to go for the right door, the one that would lead him to a world
of gourmet heaven. Bins and shelves were
filled with the finest ingredients any home chef would salivate over. Greg bypassed the glass counter of to-go
pastries, breads, and other foods for the coffee bins.
They were out of beans
in the shelter break room. Greg would be
damned if he let Jaska or
Lizzy buy that cheap shit from the corner store ever again. He could still taste the bitter remnants of
the last shitty cup on his tongue. Greg
cringed at the thought of tasting another.
Luckily, he hadn’t mentioned they were out, so he could ensure they
never consumed Jaska’s idea of coffee in the future.
Fresh carafes of coffee
for sampling sat on a table near the bins.
Greg took his time tasting from tiny paper cups while tapping his foot
to one of his favorite jams streaming in through his ear buds. He settled on the Manhattan Blend, then
scooped some beans into a sealable bag.
Approaching the counter
was always dangerous. Black and white
cookies, mini meatloaves, and warm Naan bread made his mouth water. He always hated to bring stuff like that into
the shelter where the less fortunate could see.
Unless he had enough
cash on him to feed the entire lot, Greg refrained from woofing down upscale treats
around the kids. Just thinking about the
amount of kids they had at the shelter made him sulk at the cookies sitting on
the other side of the glass. He put his
bag of beans on the counter and held up a finger to the cashier. The man nodded, going back to help another
customer while Greg checked his funds on his phone.
He didn’t pay rent or a
mortgage. He owned the building he lived
in, which was the only monetary support he’d allowed from his family. And he’d only accepted their help after
drawing up a strict contract, certifying him as the exclusive owner of the
building, without any dealings from his parents in the future. He made money by renting out the four floors
below his to people who had completed their training programs at the shelter.
He owned his car, a
respectable, two year old Acura he’d bought straight from the dealer. The only other things he paid for were food,
utilities, and normal expenses. Sounded
great until he remembered he was a landlord of a historical building. Owning an older building meant a lot of money
down the drain for repairs and renovations, especially in a place deemed
historical by the city. Being a landlord
was a headache in itself. Always having
inspectors nosing around to keep things historically accurate and up to code,
human city employees in particular. Greg
didn’t want them getting too friendly.
He didn’t exactly age and always changing his appearance to throw them
off was a hassle.
The damn bills they
always left behind were like a knife in the back. The permit to make Greg’s two first floor
apartments into four was costing him way more than he’d intended. Then there was the cost of the fussy
contractor, who was the best at historical renovations in the city. He charged more than Greg’s soul was
worth. All in all, Greg was skating thin
with his budget. The numbers on his
phone didn’t make him feel any better.
He stared at the screen
for a good five minutes before he sighed.
Greg knew money couldn’t buy happiness for him. On the other hand, he could share what he had
and buy a few smiles for those kids. He
waved over the cashier.
“Do you have three
dozen of the black and whites? They look
picked over.”
The cashier turned to
the baking staff wearing white kitchen smocks and hats. He spoke in Spanish. The answer the cashier received made him
smile. “We can do that.”
“Cool. I’ll take those and
this.” He pushed his pricey coffee over
the counter, wondering if he should put it back. Thirty-five dollars was hell of a lot for
coffee. He closed his eyes and nodded once.
Nope. The coffee was worth
it. He would not drink tar ever again.
Minutes later Greg was
loaded down with two boxes of cookies and a full backpack of coffee. His day to day stuff was crammed at the
bottom of his backpack, cutting into the small of his back. He awkwardly pushed the front door open with
his shoulder, stepping out onto Broadway.
The sun beamed down, welcoming the morning in Soho. Consistent chatter and yelling were muted by
the ear buds he popped back into place.
Cars inched between pedestrians. An
older man promoted a sample sale, wearing a large sign hanging from his
shoulders. He smiled at Greg.
Greg smiled back out of
habit. He put up a polite hand to tell
the guy to save his speech for someone else.
Greg wasn’t very happy. He knew
he couldn’t carry his boxes through traffic like this, especially on a Saturday
morning when everyone and their mother were out for the day. His only option was to step to the curb,
maneuver the boxes into the crook of his arm, and stick his hand out for a cab.
Greg hated cabs. The way they smelled. The cabbies themselves. Fuck. No.
Dollar signs danced
through his head. With the gas hike in
the past few months, he’d avoided taking his car anywhere unless it was farther
than he was willing to walk. Or only if
he needed to be Jaska’s backup at the clinic.
Gas hikes also meant pricey cab rides; a ride he was about to take and
drain his wallet for a simple trip two streets over. Now he understood why half the cabbies in the
city had converted to the green vehicles, those electric ones that put a heavy
profit in their pockets.
A cab pulled up. Of course it was an electric car; a Kelly
green colored, compact four-door with a black and white checkered pattern
around the sides. Greg was convinced the
driver was new judging by how glossy the vehicle appeared. No dents from
traffic. Not a scratch on the
paint. The windows were spotless. He’d never seen a cab so clean in all his
life. It was as if the driver had just
attained his license and daddy let him drive it off the lot with two miles in
the bank.
Greg’s suspicions were
confirmed when the guy got out, looking fresh from nursery school with his rosy
pink cheeks and bright blue eyes. The
driver was pretty, young, and way too eager.
No driver in the city would dare get out of their car unless someone
needed the trunk popped for luggage.
These were dangerous times, even in broad daylight, armed within the
safety of the shopping district.
Almost knocking the
boxes from Greg’s hands, the driver hustled to open the door for Greg. “There you go.”
“You a chauffeur? I’m not looking to pay those prices.” Greg eyed the kid’s suave, blond pompadour.
He looked like a part-time model. Hell,
everyone was a model these days, or aspiring to be. Pretty kids did well. Greg wouldn’t be surprised if this kid was
into after hour activities with his clients.
Yep, he thought, definitely one of those
chauffeurs, aka a part-time prostitute.
“No. I swear.
Just a cabbie, but I do take calls from regulars if that’s what you
mean.”
“Regulars? You aren’t old enough to have regulars.” Greg snorted and slipped into the back seat. He was surprised to see even the Plexiglas
separating him from the front was free of fingerprints, smears, or anything
else he didn’t want to know about. The
leather backseat smelled clean and was actually comfortable. Soft music played up front as he took his ear
buds out completely and settled in.
Okay, maybe the guy was just really clean, not a prostitute driver after
all, Greg concluded, and rubbed his face.
What the hell was he thinking? A prostitute
driver? Ugh. Coffee.
The driver got in, then
turned around. “I’m Fletcher.”
“And I’m your
customer.” Greg waited. He wasn’t giving out his name.
“Okey dokey.” Fletcher shrugged, not put off in the
least. “Where to? God I love
saying that.” He bounced a little.
Greg wanted to slap
himself. “Greene Street, the SCS
complex.”
“The SCS?” Fletcher
almost licked the glass with excitement.
“Do you work there? What is it,
exactly? There’s more security there
than at the White House. Is it like a
government thing? No one knows what the
heck it is, and weirdly, no one seems to care.
How can they not care? There’s this huge building that takes up half
a city block and no one knows about it?
Weird, right?”
Greg growled. He kept
his fangs in check. He wanted to duct
tape the kid to his steering wheel and get the heck out of dodge. “It’s a non-profit. That’s all you need to know. Now are you going to get going or do I need
to get another cab?”
“Oh, right, I’m sorry. I know I talk a lot. It’s why I love this job. I meet people from all over and I hear the
most interesting things. My dad drives
for another company. He got me into
this. I used to go to NYU. I wanted to be a movie producer. That flopped.
Turns out college is a lot harder than high school.”
“And that was, what,
last year?” Greg rolled his eyes.
“Three years ago,”
Fletcher chirped. “So, where are you
from?”
Greg stared at the
rearview mirror, wishing he could swipe Fletcher into silence with his vampire,
Jedi mind tricks, but that was forbidden and the guy was now driving down
Broadway. Probably a bad idea to swipe
Fletcher while he was operating a moving vehicle, Greg thought.
“Mysterious and silent,
I like it,” Fletcher continued. “I used
to be shy, too, back in the day.” He
giggled.
“When you were in
diapers and couldn’t form words, that kind of back in the day?” Greg put his hand to the window when Fletcher
made a sharp left onto Spring Street headed towards Mercer. “Jesus, kid, easy does it. I’d like to get there alive if you don’t
mind.”
“Oh, don’t you worry
about a thing. I passed my test with flying
colors. Sit back and relax.” Fletcher bobbed his head to the music,
grooving along to some remix of The Spencer Davis Group. His seat-bound dance moves were worthy of a
few dollars and his jovial smile probably lit up a room…or a cab when his
customer was enjoying themself. Greg was not.
Greg flopped against
the seat, holding a hand on his boxes next to him. He rolled his eyes for the hundredth time. His mouth sprung open when Fletcher jerked to
the right to avoid a group of fashionable, artist groupies moving boxes into a
newly opened gallery across the street.
“Will you just—oh my god!”
The cab swerved again,
dodging an oncoming delivery truck and a bike messenger holding onto the
truck’s back handle. “Are you fucking
kidding me?”
Fletcher drummed his
hands on the wheel at the stop light. He
flicked his eyes to the mirror. “About
what? I didn’t say anything. And I’m not great with jokes, either, if that’s
what you’re doing. I’m lucky if I
understand those stupid ones on the back of Laffy Taffy wrappers.”
Greg gaped. His heart hammered while he caught his breath. “I didn’t…I just—are you mental?”
Fletcher’s brows
screwed up. “You’re weird, you know
that? At first I thought you were a
little stressed, but you’re just weird, aren’t you?”
“I’m the weird one?” Greg
blinked. He contemplated making a run
for it. His plans were dashed as the
light turned green and Greg zipped back into the traffic. “Yeah. Right.
Can we just not talk anymore?
That would be great.”
“Whatever you say,
whatever your name is. How about
Steven? That’s a nice, respectable
name. You look like a Steven, although
I’m not sure I’ve ever known a redhead named Steven. There’s always a first time for everything.” Fletcher slowed for a pair of elderly ladies
holding armfuls of flowers. He waved at
them as they crossed Spring Street from a flower stand right in front of Greg’s
building.
“I’m amazed you didn’t
just run them over, and for future reference I hate the name Steven. It’s Greg.
I mean, I’m Greg, and I thought I told you I didn’t want to chat
anymore.”
The cabbie’s eyes went
right to Greg’s building, the historic 101 Spring Street address. It was the last original cast iron building
left in SoHo, and his parents had paid a pretty penny to buy it from an art
foundation. The man who’d owned it had
been a preservationist and an artist. He’d
left it to a foundation upon his death, and when they couldn’t afford the
upkeep, being a non-profit, they’d put it up for private sale.
Greg and his family had
pounced on the buy. 101 was the most
beautiful building Greg had ever seen.
He cringed at the thought of this lunatic ever knowing where he lived. He was lucky Fletcher would never ruin his
secret haven, with its beautiful geometric windows, wide, open floor plans, and
rooftop garden he’d installed a few years back.
As confident as Greg felt with that knowledge, he was disturbed to find
Fletcher still parked in the lane, staring at his building.
“I applied to the owner
for an apartment here one time. I’d
heard he offered low income plans and I’d always been drawn to this place
because of its history and how perfect it is.”
Fletcher wistfully exhaled and shifted into drive after a few honks urged
him on.
Greg squirmed. “Oh yeah? What happened?”
“I received a call the
same day, after I’d dropped the app in the mail slot. Said he wasn’t interested and to stop
bothering him, and that’s putting it nicely for you. He wondered how I got an application in the
first place. He called me a dumbass then
told me I was probably a crazy person on crack.” Fletcher shrugged. “I mean, I made the application on my
computer. I got a bit desperate when I
couldn’t find anything online. Wasn’t
meant to be I guess. A studio apartment
was. God, it’s like living in a closet
sometimes.”
A twinge of guilt
grabbed Greg. Had he really been so mean
to the poor human? He hated having a
conscience sometimes. “Maybe he was
having a rough day. Or maybe he just
didn’t want a bunch of people hounding him for apartments all the time. It is a private residence after all. That was kind of silly of you to push him an
application if he wasn’t advertising.”
“Yeah,” Fletcher
sobered. “You’re right. It was pretty stupid.”
He stared out the
windshield, keeping his eyes on the recently laid cobblestone street; it was
part of the SoHo Renovation Project. They’d
been restoring bits and pieces of the area for the past year. Colorful,
cast-iron facades, all smashed together, lined either side of Spring
Street. Someone like Fletcher would take
notice of the artistry in their Corinthian columns and pediments, and the
network of fire escapes, but Fletcher seemed shut down. Greg felt like an absolute shit for killing
his sunny smile.
“Look, you should put
your application in at the CityTwo high rise in the village. They haven’t opened yet, but a friend of mine
is managing the rental of those condos to…” Humans. “He’s renting to low income applicants. They haven’t spread the word yet. You should stop by and tell Arnie Greg sent
you.”
Fletcher’s eyes came to
life. He grinned wide enough to show his
pearly whites. “It’s not SoHo, but
CityTwo is classy. Thanks for the drop. I’ll, um—I’ll stop by.”
“Sure,” Greg muttered,
scratching his prickly chin. “He’s there
pretty late. You could probably catch
him tonight.”
“Maybe I’ll do that
after my plans this evening.”
“Plans?” Greg sniffed to hide his laugh. “Catching up on your DVR cartoons with some
Laffy Taffy?”
Fletcher reddened. “I have a date.”
“Right.” Greg swallowed. He looked out the window. “Good luck, kid.”
The cab jerked to a
stop in from of the SCS complex. Greg
looked at his phone, bewildered at the time.
“You made it here in five minutes.
That’s a record somewhere.”
“I told you I’m
good.” Fletcher winked.
“Uh huh, well…” Greg
pulled his Smart Wallet up on his phone and put it to the small scanner on his
side of the glass.
“No, no, no. First ride is free in my cab.” Fletcher slipped a business card through the
slot in the glass. “Here’s a free punch
too.”
“You’re giving me a
punch card…in a cab?” Greg turned the
thing over, noticing the heart punched out in the first of seven boxes.
“Mm hmm, the eighth ride
is free. Call me whenever you like. I’m around pretty much all the time, except
for tonight, of course.” Fletcher bit
his lip. “I hope it works out. I’m tired of the dating scene.”
Still kind of caught up
in the whole punch card deal, Greg nodded. “I feel you there, dating fucking sucks.”
“Single?”
Greg’s face fell. “No,” he lied.
Confusion ran though
Fletcher’s eyes. He recovered quickly. “Call me anytime, cool?”
“I’ll hold onto
this.” Greg pocketed the card, drawing
out a twenty from behind his phone. He
slid the tip through the slot. “Good
luck on your date.”
Before Fletcher of
Dazzling Cabs could dazzle him with another word, Greg hopped out of the cab
and took his boxes with him. Nodding to
Fletcher, Greg went to the locked gates of the complex and held up his
phone. His information registered. The
gates split down the middle, allowing him entry to the other side of the
concrete security wall.
To humans the SCS
complex looked like a hotel slash prison.
Its ultra-modern exterior and graffiti sprayed security wall blended in
with the vibe of Soho; a mix of new and vintage; a throwback to the eighties
and eight hundreds with a slick splash of technology and chic. The first floor façade was wrapped in a
sleek, light metal finish, bordering the otherwise white brick building. Tall windows gave residents and staff a great
view of the manicured courtyard between the building and the security wall from
the inside.
The front entrance
required yet another employee check in.
Greg flashed his phone over the scanner and waited for the green light.
Looking at the SCS complex
was surreal to him, having come from the old building three blocks over not
even two years ago. The first SoHo
shelter, Oliver had given to his friend Jaska to run and then to Jaska’s girl Nanette
once they were mated. After the couple’s
wedding and a string of attacks on the shelter from local vampire gangs, Oliver,
and Greg’s father Flynn, bought out half a city block on Greene Street to
convert into the SCS complex. They wanted
big. They wanted secure. They got it.
Greg had no idea the
place would be this big, and he’d
been involved in the design plans since day one. When Jaska had asked him to take the job of
co-coordinator at SCS, Greg’s jaw had almost dropped. He’d be in charge of hundreds of homeless
vamps. His responsibilities would be
many. His life would be hectic. He’d accepted immediately. His heart was in this place. Greg wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, no
matter where his father wished he would be; by his side as some kiss ass assistant
until Flynn retired on a tropical coast, leaving Greg as the manager of SoHo.
No fucking way, Greg
thought, walking into the synthetic cool of the SCS lobby. Lizzy looked up from the front desk with an
unsure smile. “It’s your day off, isn’t
it? Crap. Is it Friday? Did I miss a day? They all blur together. I swear.”
Lizzy frowned at the touch controlled, smart-board calendar behind
her. “No…it’s Saturday. What are you doing here?” She eyed the Dean and Deluca boxes. “Tell me that’s chocolate.”
Greg held the boxes away. “Only if you don’t tell Jaska I’m here. I need to check my schedule for next week and
see if I can’t work in a one-on-one with that Henry kid. He’s trying to show his ass, but all he really
wants is to be noticed. I thought if we could talk out something, maybe give
him some part-time work around here, he would settle down.”
Lizzy’s russet colored brows
waggled, accentuating her striking blue eyes and playful stack of tight blonde
curls. She leaned over the counter,
reaching for the boxes. “I don’t think Henry
was trying to get your attention.”
“Oh, you’re the expert
now?” Greg shifted the boxes away from
her grabby hands. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I was a
sixteen-year-old girl at one time. A
very long time ago, sure, but I was.”
She smiled longingly. Greg caught
her zoning out and waved a hand in her face.
Lizzy snapped back to attention.
“Teenage girls like bad boys. Henry
seems to have caught on to that fact, but he’s really lousy with his
execution. You can’t exactly be bad when
you’re an awkwardly cute, hormonal ball of nerves with a short temper.”
“A girl? He broke into the kitchen, stole half a dozen
cupcakes, freaked out on the night watch when they caught him, and disappeared
from the facility somehow for two days—because of a girl!” Greg set the boxes
down, eyes narrowed. He’d come in on his
day off to see about helping a wayward, teenage boy. He’d felt sorry for Henry. Now? Not
so much.
“Her name is Ariel, and
before you start pelting those delicious baked goods at Henry’s head, you
should hear me out.” Lizzy walked around
the desk, showing off her long legs and worn-in purple sneakers. “You know Henry is a runaway. He came from a pureblood family on the Upper
East Side before his parents were killed by taking in a Rush-infected blood
donor.”
“I know where he came
from. I know everything about him,
Lizzy.” Greg started to pace. “His parents made a name for themselves after
what they did, taking in a human blood donor like some fucking merry maid.”
“No. You don’t know if you don’t remember he went
to school and had friends before he came here.
That poor kid refuses to let Ariel’s parents take him in because he’s
ashamed his parents broke the Queen’s law and took in a blood donor. That’s blood slavery, Greg.” She frowned.
Her pouty blue eyes strayed towards the window. “And in a karmic twist of fate they both went
feral and killed each other and the human.
That’s rough on a boy, Greg.
Ariel is the only one he’ll talk to.
I know what he did in the kitchen was wrong, but he wanted to give her
something for her birthday. He didn’t
have any money and he was so embarrassed when he was caught that he got angry
and took off. Anybody in his place would
have hit the road. He was terrified. And when he realized he didn’t have anywhere
else to go, he came stumbling back for help, hoping like hell he still had a
place here.”
Greg’s heart
clenched. The nurture part of his brain
duked it out with the rules he knew he should enforce. Stealing was punishable by eviction from the
shelter. However, in the case of a
struggling teenage boy who’d found his parents ripped to pieces by their own
hands, Greg had to wonder if the rules applied.
“She come here?”
“She’s here right
now.” Lizzy put her hands up. “Don’t wig out, okay? I told them she could visit for an hour in
the common room before group sessions started.
They have a guard with them.”
“No visitors from the
outside until they’ve completed training, Lizzy,” Greg growled. “You know that.”
“He’s not one of them,
Greg. He knows where he came from and
how to behave. He hasn’t even turned,
for crying out loud.” She pushed him
from behind, urging him across the lobby.
A resident ducked with a weak smile from behind a cleaning cart. The female continued to wash windows, one of
her chores as part of her housing agreement.
Everyone had to work together to make the SCS run. The work was also good to give the residents
structure. They appreciated being
helpful wherever they could.
Greg pitied her. He slipped
a cookie onto a fresh square of paper towel on top of her cart. He put his finger to his lips, hushing her
radiant, yet silent thank you. He winked,
letting Lizzy push him into the first floor, common hall. The cafeteria was to the right through large
picture windows; nothing special except a dozen long tables and bench
seats. In front of him was a set of
double doors leading into the gymnasium covered in resident graffiti. The artwork was part of the head therapist
Quinton’s art therapy program. Residents
seemed to get a kick out of it.
Truthfully, so did Greg. It
brought a bit of the street inside, taking away the clinical atmosphere of the
place.
To the left was the
open common room. Overstuffed armchairs,
sofas, and loveseats in vibrant colors were mixed around the room, some even
situated in front of built-in flat screen televisions. A wall of bookcases sat underneath one long
window to let in adequate natural light.
This was where residents held their group therapy sessions and chilled
during designated free time.
At the moment it was
being used for an unprecedented visitor get-together. Greg was trying to keep a smile for the
girl’s sake. She hadn’t done anything
wrong. Henry had. He was in for a talking-to-and-a-half later
on. Greg approached the scrawny teenage
boy and put the boxes down on the table between Henry and Ariel. The pair of them were like night and day. Henry was pale and lanky, with a stupid
haircut and thick bangs like some skater boy.
His coppery eyes stayed on the table like a guilty dog.
Ariel on the other hand
was a beautiful girl. Her café au lait
complexion was smooth and radiant. A bright blue headband tamed her naturally
textured curls away from her face. Her chocolate
mane spiraled out of control around her head.
Her eyes were the same color as her skin, a dark honey so sweet Greg
couldn’t help but smile. She was young
and cute and Greg understood Henry’s situation immediately. If she was as nice and caring as she looked,
Henry would probably do anything to keep her around. That was the way of boys, Greg thought.
“Hi.” Ariel stood up immediately and offered Greg
her hand. “I’m Ariel Garhart, Henry’s best friend. You must be Greg.”
Greg shook her hand
with a loose grip. “How do you know
that?”
“Henry said to watch
out for the angry redhead, but you look pretty harmless.” She smiled sweetly. “Trust me.
My dad has angry on lock when I get in trouble. In fact, he’s pretty angry Henry here won’t
agree to stay with us. We’re his family,
too, you know.”
“Ari,” Henry hissed,
hiding his face in his hands. “Stop.”
Greg enjoyed Ariel’s matter-of-fact
attitude and confidence. He dropped his
hand to open the cookie box. The white
and black cookie couldn’t have been a more perfect choice, he thought, looking
between the two teens. Kind of like
fate, he added. “Hungry, Henry?”
“Are they
poisoned?” Henry cut his eyes up,
scowling.
“Yeah, that’s what we
do here. We poison cookies for kids to
eat so we can turn over beds to more unfortunate souls for slaughter,” Greg
snapped back.
“Alrighty.” Lizzy clapped her hands. “I’m going to have one. Then we should all sit down and have Greg
explain the volunteer program to you, Ariel.”
She nudged Greg, simultaneously stealing a cookie from the box.
“Volunteer? Her?
Oh no, I don’t think so. Not with
his highness the King of Hormones over here.”
“Are you serious? Henry is my friend, not my boyfriend, and my
dad would totally combust if he heard you say that. Maybe red is an asshole,” Ariel commented to
Henry, seating herself again.
“Jesus, Ari. Why don’t you just punch me so he doesn’t
have to? Look, just go home. I’m not coming with you. I don’t belong there anymore. The others wouldn’t like it.” Henry put his head down. His depression hit everyone in the room like
a ton of bricks.
Ariel reached out,
touching his arm. “Henry, please. Screw those douchebags. Mom said we could enroll you somewhere
else. I’d go with you. I don’t care about those idiots enough to
stay. I care about you, H. This isn’t your
home. You don’t belong here.”
Greg took a seat from
Lizzy and sat down. He wanted to rip the
kid a new one, but Henry’s heartache was evidence enough to shut it down. To think of his own parents killing each
other, leaving him to fend for himself in a world of snotty, aristocratic
vampires was enough to make Greg want to puke.
Damn it, Henry, he
thought, take your girl up on the offer.
“Do you really want to stay at a shelter until you turn, Henry? This isn’t somewhere people come by choice, although,
we try to make the best of it for them.
You’re young. You have people who
care about you. You’re smart. This isn’t the place for you, man. You should go home, get a fresh start, and
start to live the way the rest of these vamps dream of. Don’t throw it away.”
“See? Even the asshole agrees, so he can’t be that
big of an asshole.” Ariel smiled at
Greg. “No offense.”
Lizzy stifled laughter
behind her hand. “Oh, he can be an
asshole. No offense taken. Just watch the language, young lady.”
Henry wasn’t so
amused. He ignored Lizzy, targeting
Ariel instead. “When your parents chew
each other to death and you come home to find a human bloodbath in your living
room, you come back and tell me I should feel great about myself. That I should be man enough to say fuck it
and move along. My last name is a
fucking joke, Ari. Even if I did come
back with you and try to pretend everything’s great, it’d be a lie. I’d be miserable.”
“I’d make you
miserable?” Ariel’s smile faded so abruptly it looked as if she’d been stabbed
and was fighting shock.
“No, I didn’t mean it
like that.” Henry’s eyes widened. “Ari, I’m so sorry,”
“I’m not being selfish
here, H. You are. You’re hiding from the rest of our race like
some coward. You’re letting them continue
to spread lies that you’re just like your parents. You
are the one shaming your family by staying here. They made a terrible decision and they fucked
you over. But my family has always loved
you like their own and you know that.
You know how much my parents miss you.
“They’re hurting. I’m hurting.
And yet you continue to stay here and let it get worse. These people here seriously have nowhere to
turn. They aren’t lucky like you to have
a family waiting back at home. Their families
were that human you found in your living room.
They were the men and women and children who were forced into this life
with violence and no instruction manual.
These people need real help. You
already have it, yet you basically tell me to fuck off.”
“Ariel, language,”
Lizzy murmured.
“No. I don’t care.
I’m sorry, but I don’t.” Ariel
grabbed her backpack from the floor.
“Hopefully I’ll still be around when you’re done doing whatever is more
important than us. I hope you find
whatever you’re looking for that isn’t me.”
Her eyes misted over. Greg almost
groaned, wanting to hug her tight.
“Goodbye, H.”
“Ari, please don’t
go.” Henry stood, knocking over his
chair.
She sniffed, walking
past him. “I can’t stay here. I’m just a visitor. I have to get home,
where you should be.”
Greg could taste the
salt of her tears in the air. Her
shoulders shook a little as she escaped from the common room with Lizzy hot on
her heels. To be mad or not to be, Greg
pondered, looking at Henry. That was the
question. Should he really cut the kid with
some verbal bashing when Henry was still tender? Or should he take the safe approach and show
Henry he gave a shit?
“What are you gonna say
this time, Greg? You gonna tell me how
worthless I am like last time? Trust me,
I already know.” Henry ruffled his hair
to situate his bangs over his leaking eyes.
“I love her, man.”
“No shit, kid.” Greg rubbed his knees. “She pretty much loves you, too.”
“She shouldn’t. I don’t want her near me sometimes. I don’t want the others to see her with me
and start hating her, too. She has
really good friends. She’s popular and
her dad runs the church. He’s a big
deal. Her family shouldn’t have to deal
with my problems and those stupid fucking haters. They don’t deserve that.”
Greg checked over his
shoulder, glancing at the Guard trying his best to blend into the furniture
across the room. Greg nudged his chin at
the door. The Guard promptly retreated
to give them some alone time.
“Sending him off so you
can beat my ass?” Henry rubbed his face,
desperate for Greg not to see his tears.
“I think you’ve beat
yourself up enough.” Greg took to his
knee next to Henry’s chair and hugged him.
He poured every ounce of his heart into the embrace, reminding himself
that people like Henry were the ones he’d dedicated his life to helping,
homeless or not. “You’re not worthless
or else that girl wouldn’t care so much about you. I wouldn’t let you stay here if I thought you
couldn’t turn it around. What I do think
is you need to do some soul searching.
Who do you want to be when you grow up, Henry? Do you want to be the guy everyone thinks
will be like his parents? Or do you want
to be different and set an example for everyone else to live up to?”
Henry sobbed, clinging
to Greg, who was pretty sure this was the first time a stranger had shown the
boy any affection since his parents’ violent end. Greg rubbed Henry’s back, staying put. “I love my dad, but I don’t always agree with
the things he does. That doesn’t mean
he’s a bad person for making mistakes.
It doesn’t mean I have to follow in his footsteps. I don’t have to be
the same man because that’s what everyone else believes I’ll do. No one else can tell me who to be except for
me. Do you understand, Henry?”
“I’m not like them,”
Henry whispered. “I can’t hate them,
though. They were my parents.”
“Exactly.” Greg squeezed him, then let Henry go. “You’re welcome here for as long as you like,
but you need to get it together. This
isn’t a place I’d want my kid to grow up.”
Greg thumbed away a tear from Henry’s cheek. “Give her some time. Then you can call her from my office, cool?”
“She won’t talk to me
again. She thinks I hate her and now she
hates me.”
Greg shook his head,
smirking. “Dude, she’s got it bad for
you. She’s your best friend and although
not an ideal situation to mess around with, she’s got your back no matter if
you love her like that or not. I had no
idea she was Pastor Garhart’s kid, but I do know Edwin, and he’s a good
man. He and Sharlene would take you in
no questions asked. They’d raise you
like their own because they’re good people.
Don’t worry about what everyone else thinks, Henry. Worry about yourself and let the rest fall
into place.”
“You’re wrong. I—”
Greg put a hand over
Henry’s mouth. “Right now you have to
help me carry these boxes of cookies to the classrooms. We’ll save the rest of this chat for later
when you’ve had some time to cool down.
No pressure.” He pulled his hand
back.
“When I want to call
her?” Henry looked at the table.
“I’ll have Lizzy let
you use my phone. For now let’s get
these boxes to the kids.”
Greg stood, waiting. He smiled at the
nod he received, feeling a little better himself.
Ten minutes later, Greg
was gently fighting off two dozen children.
He held the box above his head, addressing the group ranging from ages
three to twelve. “Whoever doesn’t get
into a line and be quiet doesn’t get a cookie.”
Henry put the other box
down on a desk. He allowed the youngest
boy in the room, three years old, to grab his hand. The small boy held on, patiently waiting for
his cookie. He had finger paint on his
cheek and nose and some on his basic white shirt given to him by the
shelter. Greg took in the pair; his
heart was about to spring free with one too many warm fuzzies.
“You got this?” Greg challenged Henry.
Henry looked down at
the small boy. He seemed to fall in love
with his eyes and crouched down. “Yeah,
Greg, I got this.”
“Wrap it up before your
appointment with Quinton at eleven, cool?”
“Sure, Greg.” The small boy wrapped his tiny arms around
Henry’s neck. The tot didn’t say a word.
He was content in Henry’s arms, drinking up any affection he could.
Greg grunted. He sniffed back his emotions, nodded at the
teacher hovering nearby, and made his exit.
Rascal, the little boy, was the son of a dead dealer. He’d been found in an alleyway dumpster not
too far from the shelter. The kid never
liked to be touched, even when he cried for no reason. He’d never willingly let an adult hold him
like that before, nor had he said a single word since arriving at the shelter
six months ago.
It was as if Rascal
could sense a kindred pain in Henry. He
was a little soul far too old for his age.
And as Greg watched Rascal continue to hug Henry from the hallway, he thought
the teen might have found his calling. Broken
people had a strong voice and a need to fix the wrongs of the world. The only problem they had was healing
themselves enough to grasp onto their purpose and never let go.
Henry didn’t want to
make the same mistakes as his parents.
He wanted to be someone better; someone who set an example. And Greg was pretty damn sure Rascal would
play a major part in Henry’s journey to recovery. The smudgy faced tot was a heart jerker.
Satisfied all was
running smoothly in his shelter, his good deed done for the day, Greg rejoined
Lizzy at the front desk and collected his backpack just as the head therapist,
Quinton, came out of the private therapy room from the other hallway.
Quinton was tall and
graceful, slender, yet powerful as he walked up to the desk. He only ever wore black, from his crisp dress
shirt down to his polished, Italian leather shoes. Even his inky hair set the tone of his
wardrobe; dark, a little wavy, falling to his chin with a stray tendril or
two. His coal black eyes would seem
arrogant and plotting to some, but everyone who knew Quinton distinguished the
difference between his outside appearance and the heart of gold he held on the
inside.
Quinton relaxed against
the front desk, holding his briefcase and jacket against his chest. “You weren’t supposed to be here today,
Greg.” His smoky voice curled from
between his lips, tempting anyone near to come closer; to listen; to open up
about their darkest fears and desires. Man
or woman, it didn’t matter. Everyone
wanted to get a little bite from Quinton. “It’s unhealthy how much time you
spend here. You have a home and a life outside
of this shelter. I find it unfortunate
how much you let slip away, when you know very well how capable the staff here
is at managing things when you’re gone.
Some would probably find your presence here on your day off offensive.”
“Hello to you, too,
Quin.” Greg smirked. “I was just leaving before I offended
someone.”
The therapist gave Greg
a sly smile. “Mm hmm. Are you sure we won’t have to have security
escort you away from the windows because you just can’t handle leaving for
twenty-four hours? Or are you nervous about
tonight?”
Lizzy perked up. “Ooh, do tell. What’s happening tonight?” Her eyes dazzled, looking between the men.
Quinton licked his
lips, building up the anticipation while Greg threw him a glare. “Gregory has a date tonight.”
“A what?” Lizzy bounced behind the counter. “With who?
Is it someone I know?”
“It’s a blind date actually.” Quinton sniggered. “He signed up with a dating service two weeks
ago.”
“No.” Greg pointed his finger at Quinton. “You signed me up without telling me and gave
me some psychobabble speech about how I was wasting my time with hookups that
weren’t going anywhere. You made me feel
like shit, so I agreed just to shut you up.”
“And now you have a
date, don’t you? A proper date, with a
nice guy, set up by the city’s finest vamp dating service, at one of those cozy
little dives you like. Couldn’t have
planned it better myself.”
“Greg is gonna go on a
date with a boy,” Lizzy teased. “He’s
gonna get lucky tonight. With a vamp,”
she gushed.
Walking towards the
front entrance, Quinton said, “Let’s hope so.
Maybe someone can loosen his screws a bit.”
“Shut up, Quin. I
thought I wasn’t supposed to hook up with anyone except my mate?” Greg pulled the coffee out of his bag and gave
it to Lizzy. “How about you go grind
some of this up for tomorrow and stop putting your nose in my love life, huh?”
“Touchy.” Lizzy giggled, taking the coffee. “Good luck, Greg. I hope he turns out to be the one.”
“We can only hope,
Lizzy,” Quinton called. “I’ll be back in
an hour for my appointment with Henry.
Make sure Lucia gets the group session started before ten. We have a double session after lunch and I
don’t want to throw off my schedule.”
“A double
session?” Greg scowled. “You’re gonna start some shit, Quin.”
“I have to double
up. I start going back and forth between
here and the village this week. Deal
with it, big guy. Call me later. I want all the details.” Quinton winked and stepped through the double
doors with a swipe of his phone.
“That guy…” Greg narrowed his eyes.
“Is your bestest friend
in the entire world.” Lizzy stuck out
her tongue and left Greg stewing in the lobby.
To be continued...
.jpg)