Working Class Vegas Vamp is a free urban fantasy serial, usually publishing on Tuesdays. It is unedited and subject to change. If published later, it may differ significantly, and will probably include additional material. Typos and English errors are likely; feel free to leave a comment or write me at am {AT} amscottwrites.com (revised as a standard email address. Pesky bots!) Available for a limited time only!

Chapter 2

 

After three more nights of Theoden watching me, Roger, the latest in a long string of show managers, stomped to the bar. “Char, you’ve got to do something about that guy. He’s not buying, and he’s taking up valuable real estate.” He pulled five Benjamins out of the tip jar. “Put those in the till for a shot of Pappy.”

I took the bills and rang it up as ordered. “You want him out? Get security to throw him out. Or ban him from the bar.” I met his gaze. “Not. My. Job.”

Roger scowled. “You know I can’t do that.”

”Well, I’m not doing it. Or anything else with him. And if you order me to do what he wants, I’ll take it to the cops. Want to go down for forced solicitation?” Roger was human; he didn’t know I’d never go to the authorities. I had better options.

Except I didn’t. Not with the night ruler of Vegas determined to own me.

“No, that’s not what I meant!” He held up his hands like he was surrendering, then dropped them. “But if he keeps coming in and throwing out those ‘mess with me and die’ vibes, I’ll have no choice but to let you go.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to. You’re a great floor manager, and an excellent bartender. You make my job easy. But we can’t have that kind of buzz kill at the show, and you know it.”

Like I had all evening, I kept my expression placid, but my heart sank. I’d noticed Theoden’s dampening effect; it wasn’t surprising Roger had picked up on it too. Finding a new job was a hassle I didn’t need. I’d been in this one for years, outlasting manager after manager, because I was good—no, I was great. I kept the customers happy, and solved staff and performer issues before they became problems.

But tonight, no one came to me for help. They’d assisted each other or asked security to step in. The show manager, Tanya, hadn’t even said hello. Nor had any of the performers, and they usually did. No one wanted Theoden’s attention. I sighed. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Roger. I’m not giving that man an inch.” I’d planned to stay here a couple more years, and build my emergency funds higher before I moved. But maybe it was time to leave after all. Someplace with a gloomier climate, far from Theoden’s influence.

“I don’t know either. But the big bosses will notice eventually, then you’ll be gone.” He tapped the bar. “Figure it out.”

Roger wasn’t a bad guy, but he wasn’t the brightest, either. I’d get no help from him. I checked off closing tasks, got my people clocked out, and left Roger with the final tally for the night. Matias, the security chief, escorted us to the ride share pickup. I grabbed my taser and walked away. No one bothered me. The locals knew better, and most of the drug addicts were passed out or on the Strip, harassing the tourists.

After two long Vegas blocks of crumbling concrete, flashing neon, and wary homeless, I entered my lousy Paradise Road apartment complex. I climbed three flights of stairs, avoiding the wobbly railing and the soft spots in the concrete walkways. At my door, I unlocked it and stepped inside. Nothing moved.

I closed and locked the door, then slid the heavy security bar into place and trod across the cheap, stiff carpeting to the sliding glass door. The disgusting stench of unfiltered cigarettes and marijuana singed my nose and clenched my fists. I’d have to destroy the contraband and start Clover’s detox over again. If she’d stick with the vapes I gave her, she’d be almost free of her nicotine and THC addiction—and the apartment wouldn’t stink. But someone always gave into her big doe eyes, handing her the means to keep the monkey on her back.

Time to hack the cameras at The Stage Door Bar again, because this seemed targeted; personal even. Or maybe I was paranoid.

But it wasn’t paranoia when they really were all out to get you. Theoden had painted a big shiny target on my back a long time ago and he was upping the ante. But Char Flammen was a survivor. I’d learned to hide in plain sight and connect with the right people, but I was always ready to run.

Unless the sun was up, of course. Fortunately, I’d found a unique solution to that problem.

Or I thought I’d had. But Clover looked less and less reliable with every passing day. Time to have a talk, but not tonight.

I stomped across the room, taking my anger out on the floor. The sliding glass door dragged through the oxidized track with a whoosh, mixed with the rumble of the inevitable desert grit, and banged against the frame. The grumpy woman downstairs was likely to leave another note on our door, but I didn’t care. I paid extra for the top floor just so I didn’t have to listen to an upstairs neighbor. She could do the same. My ass hit the canvas chair on the tiny balcony, and I unzipped my thigh-high platform boots, kicking them off to land with a one-two thump on the living room floor, then loosened my corset. I could breathe deeply again—too bad that myth, along with the perfect face and superhero strength, was wrong.

Being a drag show bartender paid well, but the required costume wasn’t comfortable. My feet ached, my wrists ached from tossing bottles, my ears rang from the loud music, and my body was stiff from walking the length of the bar over and over. If only I’d been turned in my twenties, rather than mid-forties. But I’d be dead, because like many escaping their small towns for the city’s bright lights, I’d been a fool. Older and wiser Char had learned from her early mistakes, and that helped me survive my new life, or facsimile thereof.

Flicking on the fan in the corner blew away the fumes of Clover’s failings, replacing it with cool desert air and vehicle exhaust. Pulling a blood box from my oversized tote, I stabbed the straw through the foil, sucking down the thick, lukewarm, life-sustaining brew, and ignored my craving for the good stuff straight from the source. I sympathized with Clover’s addictions, because I had my own.

Unlike hers, not indulging mine would kill me quickly because it wasn’t so much an addiction as a necessity. But I could, and did, choose how to fulfill my needs, minimizing the harm my survival created, no matter how my inner darkness fought the chains of will I’d forged.

With the flick of a fingernail, I shredded the box’s seam and licked the last traces of blood from the foil. I craved that taste—and hated my desire. Even the boxes–a mix of herd animals with a little human, the equivalent of a protein bar–were delicious.

Sated for the moment, I returned to the living room, closing the sliding glass door and pressing the room-darkening cover firmly into place. Then I pulled the heavy shades, enclosing the room in darkness. Deepest night to human eyes, but in mine, electricity shimmered and the living plants fluoresced green, lighting the room effectively as the neon of Vegas.

I shoved the flat box in the garbage, filled my water bottle from the filter pitcher in the refrigerator—chlorine was bad for vampires, too—and retreated to my sanctuary, where’d I’d sleep the day away.

Or die the day away, depending on who you believed. Since I’d left Theoden’s lair early, I didn’t know which was true. Nor did I care. Over the decades, I’d learned the difference between many of the myths and truth on my own, and I was better off for it. So many vamps believed everything they were told, forging their own chains.

Inside my room, I turned the three deadbolts set low, middle and high on the steel door. Then I placed the two steel bars across their welded brackets and pressed the rubber seals tight over the tiny seam. A clever invader would attempt to go through the walls instead, but one of the most attractive parts of this barely working class apartment complex was the abundance of concrete block walls. The only flimsy wall in my suite was between the bedroom and bathroom. I’d placed metal bars across the only window, then laid bricks, and another set of bars, making my lair secure.

In a fire, I’d die, but I wasn’t really living anyway.

A jet thundered through the sky above the apartment, the first of many taking off today. At zero-three-fifty, it was almost certainly cargo jet. The fleeced tourists would sleep through their takeoffs from just before six that morning all the way until eleven tonight.

Vegas never slept, it was true. But every thinking being had to at some point, for mental health if not bodily. I threw the sheet back, flopped on my ridiculously expensive, but supportive mattress, and meditated until the sun rose at five twenty-seven. Then I dropped into a darkness that Vegas visitors never saw.

***To be continued***

Working Class Vegas Vamp Copyright © 2024 by AM Scott. All Rights Reserved.