“I’d like the blackened sirloin, baked potato, butter and sour cream, blue cheese dressing on the salad, please.” Bronson gave his order to the older waitress.
“How ya want that cooked, honey?” she asked, writing on her little green order pad.
“Oh yeah…medium rare please,” Bronson handed back the menu. “Can I also get a cup of coffee, black?”
“You got it, sugar.”
Bronson stared out the second-floor window onto Seventeenth Street. He zoned out a little as he watched the afternoon hustle and bustle of Washington D.C. This used to be a predominately gay neighborhood, especially after dark, he mused. While it was more mixed now, still mostly business people during the day, there was still a gay presence. Traffic was always hell in this city, so the black SUV double-parked halfway up the block stood out as it caused vehicles to back up.
Instantly, Bronson looked at the Washington D.C. license plate, noticing it was government issued. It didn’t have the typical ‘govt’ wording type on it, but living in the D.C. area, he’d learned long ago how to spot the special plates. He wasn’t a betting man, but he’d put money on it being a Pentagon wagon.
He devoured the salad when it was delivered, as well as the bread, always keeping an eye on the SUV. He wondered if he’d get to see who was using it. He expected it to be some high ranking military employee, And if so, will I know them?
A cute busboy came to take his salad bowl away. “Are you done, sir?” the cute guy asked with a heavy accent, flirting shamelessly with him.
Bronson grinned wolfishly, answering in the affirmative by nodding his head. He flirted right back, keeping it fairly innocent. His already good mood went up a notch.
His steak arrived and he attacked it with fervor, savoring the aged red meat. There was nothing like a good piece of meat to remind him how lousy the food was when he was out of the country.
“You must have been near starved to death, hun.” The friendly older woman smiled as she cleared his plate. “How ‘bout some dessert?”
“What’cha got, Liz?” Bronson asked, reading the name on the waitress’s name tag.
“I’d recommend the carrot cake. It’s even better than mine.” She laughed.
“Bring it on, Liz.” Bronson smiled back.
The cute busboy came back around to refill his coffee., Bronson was finally able to make out the name Fernando on his name tag. “You like it hot?” Fernando asked, holding the coffee carafe over his cup.
“Yes, Fernando, I like it very hot.” Bronson grinned suggestively at the busboy. “I like it very hot and spicy.”
Pouring the coffee, Fernando smiled broadly.
Bronson took his first bite of carrot cake. In his head he was still wondering what the deal was with that SUV. The thought didn’t leave him as he finished the cake with relish.
Bronson paid his check and flirted with the cute busboy one more time before leaving. He walked out onto Seventeenth Street, heading south to ‘Q’ Street, so he could grab a cab. Normally, he would have returned home on foot to walk off the big meal, but he was so tired he wanted to get to his bed as quickly as he could.
He stopped on the corner to wait for an empty cab. Looking at his watch, he figured he could get at least three hours sleep before he needed to get back to the barracks. It was then that he noticed the black SUV with the blacked-out windows was moving. He’d missed whoever had got in or out of it. Oh well, he thought, no big deal, this kind of shit happens all the time in D.C.
He raised his arm to flag down a yellow cab when he saw another black SUV half a block behind it. There must be something big going on in this part of town. He thought no more about it as he got into the cab. Minutes later he was in front of his apartment. He climbed the steps, already mentally asleep.
* * * * *
Sarge lay in bed alone. Damn it. It had only been two days since he had first had Bronson in bed with him. Waking up with him there had felt so…natural, enough to make him notice Bronson’s absence now. He didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing. The mutual attraction was there, that was a given, and there were a lot of common interests. But is it enough?
“What the hell am I thinking?” Sarge said in the still room. I’m a fucking vampire, and he isn't. Sarge’s internal dialogue continued as he took his towel off the hook from the back of his door. There is no way this is going to work.
“Morning, Sarge,” Cates said as Aquilar bounced up and down on his thick pink cock.
“Good morning, Cates…,Aquilar.” Sarge couldn’t help but grin as he watched Cates’ fat, pink dick disappear into Aquilar’s dark skinned ass.
“Sarge.” Aquilar huffed in greeting without turning around
In the shower room, Sarge saw Johnson and Saunders jacking each other off as they shared a shower head. Off in the corner Burrows was standing with his back to the room. Sarge could feel the surliness wafting from him. He sighed heavily. I don’t want to deal with his shit today. Sarge turned on the water as hot as he could stand it and washed himself, thinking of Bronson.
He wasn’t at all comfortable with the idea of Bronson accompanying them on the raid tonight, but couldn’t figure out how to keep him from coming. This wasn’t like Iraq. These were vampires they were dealing with. They’d be able to smell Bronson a hundred feet away. There was no way he would be able to protect him.
While drying off, it finally occurred to Sarge that he must be slipping. Duh—why didn’t I thought of it sooner? He could use mind control on Bronson and make him stay here. Feeling better, he dumped the used towel in the hamper next to the shower room door and then he strode off, his heavy-feeling dick swinging out in front of him. When he got back after the mission, he intended making it up to Bronson. He smiled to himself as his dick got just a little bit heavier.
* * * * *
“Okay guys, let’s come to order here.” Sarge walked into the command center, pushing aside his lustful thoughts of Bronson. He nodded to Woody, noticing he was dressed in black leather from head to toe. Woody stuck out, but not as much as Bronson, who was smirking at him as he sat there in dessert cammies, complete with cover. As instructed, the rest of the platoon was in Urban Tiger BDU’s, complete with face paint. They would blend into any night-time background.
“Corporal Cates…., graphics, please.” Sarge dimmed the lights so the images on the large LED flat screen behind him appeared brighter. “I just want to go over this quickly one more time, so it’s fresh in our minds. As you can see, this building in particular is isolated from the more modern buildings. It’s been used as a dumping storage facility, according to our the intel.” Using the laser pointer, he pointed to the building. “There are four entrances but one is completely sealed off, so that just leaves these three.” He pointed them out. “Everyone has their directives, so let’s get in there and get out. Everyone clear on where they’re supposed to be?”
The room was silent as every man nodded in agreement, except for Bronson. He had missed the setup portion that Cates and Johnson had already done.
“Anyone have any questions?” No one said a word. “Okay then, let’s move out.”
“HOO-RAH!” The sound of over twenty men shouting reverberated off the walls as the men stood up and left the room.
“Am I to stick with you, or what?” Bronson asked as he approached Sarge.
Sarge looked deeply into Bronson’s dark emerald-green eyes. “You are going to sit in the common room and watch CNN while we are gone, do you understand?”
“I am going to sit in the common room and watch CNN while you are gone,” echoed Bronson flatly, his eyes never blinking, a blank stare on his face.
“Now kiss me like you mean it.” Sarge smirked, unable to resist the reporter’s full lips.
Bronson grinned almost evilly as he put a lip-lock on the Lieutenant. Sarge knew he had better take advantage of it now. There was no doubt in his mind that Bronson was going to be pissed as hell when he realized what had happened.
Pushing Bronson away, Sarge whispered in his ear, “Go to the common room, Bronson, and watch the news like a good little reporter.”
Without a word Bronson smiled and left the command center.
Sarge was still smiling as he walked into the night air.
“I was wondering how you were going to coerce him into staying behind.” Woody chuckled as he and Sarge got into the dark-red tourist bus, where the rest of the men werealready on board.
“You didn’t think I was going to let him near a lair of rowdy, hungry vamps, did you?”
“It is for the best,” Woody said quietly as the two men sat in the first row seats that had been saved for them. “He would be a distraction for you, and his scent might have alerted our targets.”
“I know, but he is going to be royally pissed at me when he figures out what I did,” Sarge whispered back.
“I figure you’ll be able to make it up to him later.” Woody grinned.
“Just what I had in mind.” Sarge ribbed Woody with his elbow.
It didn’t take long for the tourist bus to make it to their drop-off point, a few blocks away from the depot. No one paid attention to busses like this in D.C. They were so commonplace, no one would have given it a second thought, except maybe express mild irritation at having to get around the slow-moving behemoth.
Hopefully, they had gotten there early enough to get the drop on them. From what little information they had, these vamps were not exactly in any hurry to get moving early in the evenings. If that held true, they should be able to get most of them quickly. If any had already left, Sarge planned on leaving a few men behind to watch over the cleaners and to take care of any stragglers who might return. Then it would be a wait and see game to see if they had gotten them all.
“North set and covered,” the low voice crackled over the earpiece in Sarge’s ear.
“Copy,” Sarge whispered into the mouthpiece angled close to his mouth.
“East in position.”
“Copy,” Sarge repeated. “Remember, in and out…go!”
Sarge wasn’t too concerned with any of the vamps inside hearing them. The heavy-metal rock pulsing from the building would prevent those inside from easily hearing their approach.
Each man had their M4 Carbine rifles locked and loaded with the specially made fluoro-sulfuric acid filled bullets. The acid would react explosively to water, which made up most of the body, putting big burning holes in the vampires. It wouldn’t kill them, but it would put them down, and in excruciating pain. Then they could be decapitated and or staked easily, which would kill them.
The east-side team burst into the large room, seconds after Sarge’s south side entrance, followed by the north. In short bursts of fire, each squad sprayed the specialized bullets into the crowd inside the room. The screams of pain instantly overshadowed the music. Explosions of blood and guts splattered all around, coating the floor, walls and those in close proximity.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sarge saw a shadow drop down from the open rafters. Before he could call out a warning, a rogue vampire, brandishing a samurai type sword, took off the head of one of his men. The rogue’s victory was short-lived as Aquilar took him down in a fury.
The chaos lasted less than two minutes, leaving the room filled with writhing, screaming bodies. The Marines pulled their own swords and systematically started going through the bloody carnage, beheading the downed vampires. Sarge lifted his sword above a squirming vamp when the vampire looked up, pain etched across his young face, several wounds smoking from his chest and abdomen. The kid couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen at most.
“Please…” the scrawny looking kid begged.
It tore at Sarge’s heart, but he had no choice. “It’s better this way, kid.” With a hard swing, he took the kid’s head off, where it rolled to the side, eyes open but unseeing. “Fuck,” he yelled, feeling a tear slide down his unshaven cheek, before moving on to the next one. This time it was a female, who openly hissed at him.
From the moment they busted in, until the last head rolled, only ten minutes had passed.
“Corporal Johnson, get a count.” Sarge spoke into the mouthpiece.
“Copy.”
Woody was sprayed with blood. Sarge crooked his head toward the door where they had entered. Once outside he looked at Woody. “Think we got them all?”
“I do not think so, but the majority, I would say.” Woody sighed heavily. “Most of them were only kids.” His voice was soft.
“Fuck, I know it.” Sarge looked at his own blood covered BDUs. “One kid couldn’t have been more than fifteen, I swear. He begged me.”
Woody put his hand on Sarge’s shoulder. “This isn’t our fault, David. Whoever did this is a monster.”
“I only hope I’m around to see justice done for this asshole.” Sarge looked into his friend’s eyes, seeing his own sadness reflected there.
“It had to be done, David.” Woody seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as Sarge. “We had no choice.”
Sarge only nodded his understanding.
Sarge went back into the building and sought out Johnson. “How many?”
“I counted forty-one, Sarge,” Johnson answered. It was painfully obvious from the silence in the room that most of the men felt the same as Woody and he. “This really blows, Sarge.”
“Yeah, man, I know. It fucking sucks,” he readily agreed. He looked around the room and saw Burrows nudging a headless body with his boot. “Burrows, get four other men and stay behind for follow-up.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
At least he isn’t giving me shit, Sarge thought as he took in the sight and smell of blood that permeated the large room. Thankfully, someone had turned that infernal music off. It was one of the saddest days he could remember.
“The rest of you, let’s head out,” Sarge ordered.
Quietly, the rest of the platoon filed out the south side door onto the loading dock. The cleaners were already there, dressed in black paper coveralls, their faces hidden by black surgical masks which concealed their identity. No one said a word to them, but only nodded as they passed.
The bus ride back to the barracks was completely silent. The smell of putrid blood hung in the air from their soiled uniforms.
Sarge turned to Woody. “God I hope we don’t have to do that again.”
As soon as they all arrived at the barracks and after storing their firearms, everyone, including Woody, stripped in the shower room. They each dumped their uniforms in the communal hamper. The mood was somber. For the first time since Sarge could remember, there wasn’t any horseplay. Each man seemed to be lost in their own thoughts. The scene they had just left was disturbing at best. The men and women, most of them in their early twenties, or younger, were all Americans, who might have had a bright future. Killing fellow Americans was a bitter pill for them to have to swallow.
Someone loaned Woody some civilian clothes to put on. The rest of the men also dressed for the street. Some of them were going out to do their own thing, including feeding, while others stayed behind, clearly unable to face the world at that moment.
When Sarge and Woody walked into the common room, Bronson looked up. The vacant stare on his face faded. “What the hell…?” Bronson shook his head. He jumped up and got right in Sarge’s face. “What the fuck did you do?”
“It is my fault, Mr. Rudan,” Woody stepped in. “I was the one that had to insist that you be left behind.”
“And may I ask why?” Bronson snarled.
“There was no way for any of us to protect you, and quite frankly, sir, your smell, more than likely, would have alerted them,” Woody stated matter-of-factly.
Bronson pulled up short when he saw the look on Sarge’s face. “David? What’s wrong?”
“It was bad, Bronson, real bad.”
“Let us go into your conference room,” Woody suggested quietly, indicating that the rest of the men in the room might not want to hear the rehashing of the evening.
Both men nodded before leaving the room.
“Okay, give…” Bronson started. “Tell me what happened?” He stared at the two men sitting at the large table.
Sarge opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“There were forty-one of the rogues there,” Woody said. “Most of them were hardly more than children. Barely in their twenties, I dare say.”
“Shit, are you kidding?” Bronson breathed heavily in disbelief.
“One of them couldn’t have been more than fifteen.” Sarge had his head in his hands. “He begged me, Bronson. He fucking begged me, and I took his head off.”
Bronson let out a long breath. “What kind of fucking monster are we dealing with?”
“A mother-fucking bastard who’d better hope I never get my hands on him, is who,” Sarge yelled. He stood up and began pacing the room. “God-damn-it-all-to hell, I need a fucking drink!”
“I’m with you on that one,” Bronson added, standing. “Come on…I’ve got a hundred-year-old bottle of cognac that I’ve been saving. I think it’s time to crack that puppy open.” Bronson looked at Woody. “Come on, you too.”
The three men donned jackets and left the barracks in silence. The men had walked barely two blocks when a large black SUV pulled up. All its doors opened before it came to a complete stop, and out jumped four men dressed in black suits and sunglasses, even though it was dark.
“Master Sergeant Farragut, you and your friends here need to come with us,” one of the men commanded.
Sarge had the guy backed up on the hood, his hand around the man’s throat.
“You tell whoever sent you that I am not in the mood for any meetings tonight,” Sarge yelled into his face. The man tried to scream but Sarge’s huge hand kept any sound from coming out of his throat.
Two of the other men started to come to the aid of their partner when Woody suddenly appeared in front of them, also hissing, the same look and fangs showing prominently, stopping them in their tracks. After a brief pause, they each stumbled backward trying to get away from the monster standing directly in front of them.
Sarge had the guy backed up on the hood, his hand around the man’s throat.
“You tell whoever sent you that I am not in the mood for any meetings tonight,” Sarge yelled into his face. The man tried to scream but Sarge’s huge hand kept any sound from coming out of his throat.
Two of the other men started to come to the aid of their partner when Woody suddenly appeared in front of them, hissing, eyes blazing red, the veins on his face standing out, his fangs showing prominently. They each stumbled backwards trying to get away from the monster.
The man Sarge held had pissed his pants, and Sarge let him up from the hood of the vehicle. “Not. To. Night.” He punctuated each word with a severe poke in the man’s chest, forcing him back a step each time. Sarge’s fangs retracted. “I don’t care if it’s the President of the whole fucking United States of America. Not. To. Night.” He finished by shoving the man back inside the SUV.
The other men jumped quickly into the SUV. The wheels squealed before the last door slammed shut and it took off at speed.
Sarge turned and saw the look on Bronson’s face. “Oh baby…I’m so, so sorry you had to see me…like…fuck!”
Bronson took a step closer to Sarge. “David, I’m…um, I’m not sorry. I was just…not prepared for it.”
“Come, let us have that drink, shall we?” Woody prodded them both into moving.
As soon as they rounded the corner, Woody hailed a taxi. No one protested. The cab dropped them off in front of Bronson’s apartment.
Woody sat in the one side chair in Bronson’s small living room, while Sarge sat on Bronson’s leather sofa. Bronson brought out three snifters and a bottle of amber-colored liquor and sat them on the coffee table.
“I actually got this in Iraq.” Bronson opened the bottle and started pouring. “I was told that this was part of one of the Hussein brother’s private stock. Don’t know if that is true or not, but it is a hundred-year-old cognac, and I didn’t turn it down. I’ve just been waiting for the right time to open it. Now is as good a time as any.” He handed the other two men a glass, then held his up. “Here’s to hoping that tonight was a complete success.”
The other two men raised their glasses in salute before they all took a sip of the liquid gold.
“Ahhh, now this is delightful,” Woody moaned. “Only thing missing is a cigar.”
Smiling, Bronson turned and opened a box on a shelf of the entertainment center and produced three cigars. He picked up a table lighter and a large crystal ashtray. “Ask and ye shall receive, Monsieur.”
Sarge looked at the cigar before using the cutter to snip off the end. “Honest to God Cubans?”
“Yep.” Bronson took the cutters from him. “Vargas over at ABC news got them for me when she was doing a story about the Pope visiting Cuba.” Bronson puffed on the cigar, lighting it. “She had a crush on me at the time. Little did she know that I was so not interested.” He laughed. “But I got a box of good cigars out of it anyway.”
The three men laughed, relaxing for the first time that evening.
“Cuba used to be so much fun,” Woody reminisced. “I was there New Year’s Eve 1949…” Woody took another sip of his cognac.
“Mind if I ask a somewhat personal question?” Bronson leaned forward and gazed at Woody.
Woody waved the hand holding his cigar toward the reporter. “Ask away my friend, ask away.”
“How long… well, when…”
“How long have I been a vampire?” Woody smiled gently at Bronson. “There is no need to feel embarrassed, Mr. Rudan.” Woody also leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I was born the fifteenth day of August, 1758, the year of our Lord, in Stateburg, South Carolina,” he said, a slight English accent seeping in. “I was the second son of a moderately wealthy planter, what you would consider the upper-middle class today.”
Bronson sat back and moved closer to Sarge, who put his arm around his shoulders, pulling him even closer.
“I was part of the Continental Army of South Carolina, when I was turned.” Woody took a sip of his drink. “I was wounded, more than likely mortally, during the Battle of Fishing Creek, near Catawba Ford in August of 1780.” Woody took a puff from his cigar before he went on. “It was a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, who made me the creature you see before you this night. She was lovely. Flaxen hair, cornflower blue eyes and skin like porcelain.” He sighed. “I was delusional as I thought she was an angel coming to take me to heaven. I begged her not to take me as I was afraid that my older brother had been killed, and my dear mother would not be able to stand the pain if we were both to die. Observably, she took pity on me, as I am here today.”
“So she saved your life, in a roundabout way?” Bronson asked.
Woody laughed. “Yes my friend, she did. We became fast friends, and she taught me how to live as a vampire. Of course, I planned on returning to my home to help my family. As it turned out, it was not necessary since my brother was only wounded and not killed. Anne convinced me to let them think me dead as it would be easier on them than the truth of my nature, and easier for me as well. Sometimes I regret that decision, even though I know she was right.” Woody finished his cognac.
Bronson stood and refilled his glass. “And where is Anne now?”
“Ahhh, my dear Anne.” Woody held his glass up in thanks. “Anne was on a mission for King George the sixth, trying to retrieve his cousin Tsar Nicolas and his family from the Russian upheaval, when she was captured. When her true nature was revealed, she was tortured then drawn, quartered and beheaded. Quite the horrible death for a vampire, I assure you.”
“How horrible.” Bronson scrunched his face up.
Woody sank back into the cushions of his chair, clearly saddened.
Bronson quickly followed with another question. “When you have eternity to live, how do you spend your time?”
“That is the beauty of it all, really.” Woody brightened instantly. “Knowledge is the only real power a man can possess. It is the one thing that no one can take away from you,” he said philosophically. “I went to school, of course. The world is a wondrous thing, so I took full advantage of my time, learning all that I could. Still do to this day.”
“Wow, that’s amazing, Woody.” Sarge spoke for the first time since Woody started his tale.
“I make my home here in our Nation’s capital because I love the Library of Congress and the U.S. Patent office.” Woody chuckled. “What is the word this new generation uses? I am a geek, or is it nerd?” He laughed, Bronson joining him.
“What about your family? Whatever happened to them?” Sarge asked.
“I watch over them.” Woody’s eyes were shiny with emotion. “I made sure they had everything they needed back then. I have a house close by my original home, so I stop off several times a year to check in on them to this day.”
“Still?” Sarge reflected, amazed.
“Yes, still, David. My family lineage is fine and strong.” Woody was evidently proud of his family. “My brother, as well as my sister, made sure our family name remained prevalent. I still have a small home near the family homestead. I also have a home in the Battery area of Charleston, as I have a great-great-great-great-nephew and his family living there. I have numerous distant cousins living in that area as well. I go and check in with them at least once a year.”
“That is really great.” Bronson smiled. He then turned to Sarge. “David, what about your family?”
“I…uh, I have no real family to speak of.” Sarge tried to be emotionally passive. “That was one of the conditions to be part of the V-Unit.”
“Be honest, David.”
“Leave it alone, Woody,” Sarge grumbled.
“David, you can tell me,” Bronson said tenderly, placing his hand on the man’s knee.
“I have a son,” Sarge admitted, his voice tight, gaze lowered. Neither Woody nor Bronson said anything, but there was an expectant air. When Sarge saw they were not going to let him stop there, he huffed and continued. “Damn, y’all are nosy. Okay, I was married once upon a time, and it was a mistake. I did it because I thought that was what I was supposed to do. The only good that came of it was Lionel, my son. I was young and stupid and so was she. She loved me and I loved her, but not the way a man should love a woman. I made her miserable because of it. My death was a blessing to them both. She has since remarried, to another Marine, a real good guy, and my son will be able to remember me as a hero.”
Bronson was stunned. “Don’t you want him to know you, David?”
“Know me?” Sarge stood up, downed his drink, picked up the bottle and poured himself a hefty shot. “Know what? That I’m a bitter Marine, who had nightmares and PTSD? That I was a mess? Or that I’m a vampire? Either way I was and am a killer.”
“There is so much more to you, David.” Bronson moved to approach, but Sarge stopped him, his hand held up.
“This way is best.” He downed his drink and poured another.
“What about your parents?” Bronson asked.
“My father was killed in an accident at work. He worked at Hickory Furniture as a wood carver,” Sarge said with pride. “He was a true artisan. I still have a few pieces of furniture that he made. He loved working with his hands.” Then sadness rolled through him. “A compressor blew up and he happened to be standing right next to it. They say he never knew what hit him. My mom never got over it.” Sarge sat back down, the air whooshing from his lungs. “She turned into an alcoholic. She died of cirrhosis of the liver when I was nineteen.”
Woody turned to Bronson. “What about you, handsome?”
“Even I have to admit, my story is rather interesting, if a bit convoluted.” Bronson grinned. “I like to say ‘I’m the semen of a seaman’.” He sniggered at his own joke, as did the other two men. “My dad knocked my mom up when he was in basic in San Diego. She didn’t much care being stuck at home with a kid while he was at sea, so she dumped me off at a neighbor’s house while my dad was out to sea and hit the road. I’ve never seen her, not that I can remember.” Bronson stubbed out the cigar. “I was told it wasn’t much of a loss. Anyway, whenever my dad and his best friend were deployed, his buddy’s wife took me in, so I kind of had one-and-a-half families. I had my dad when he was home and his buddy, and when they were gone I had my dad’s friends wife, Diane, and their two kids. It was different, but it worked.” Then he grinned widely. “I have never asked, or proven it, but my dad and his best friend are lovers, and Diane, his wife, knows it and seems okay with it.”
Sarge let out a low whistle. “Now that is different.”
“Hey, it’s California. Free love and all that.” Bronson smiled. “Now they all live together… well, when the guys are at home, at any rate. It makes for interesting home visits,” he added as he finished his drink, and then poured himself another.
“So your dad is gay?” Sarge arched his eyebrows.
“Yep. I’m pretty sure he is.” Bronson sat back and cuddled up to Sarge. “Must run in the family.”
All three men laughed at the lame joke. Woody finished his second drink and poured himself and the other two men the remainder of the bottle.
“Hey, I didn’t know vampires could drink or eat anything but blood,” Bronson said.
“Humpf,” Woody responded as he took a sip of his drink. “An old wife's tale. In fact, it helps take the edge off. A vampire has heightened sensitivity. Everything is exaggerated from the human point of view. Everything is brighter, sharper, and that includes emotions.”
“Wow, that must suck,” Bronson said. He got up and headed into the kitchen.
“It does and it doesn’t,” quipped Woody as he waggled his eyebrows seductively, making Sarge burst out laughing.
Bronson returned a moment later with a bottle of Maker’s Mark. “Let the party continue!”
“Here, here,” Woody said, the first to have a drink of bourbon.
The three men quickly killed the bottle.
Bronson yawned widely. “I’m sorry gentlemen. It is not the company, I assure you.” He slurred slightly. “I gotta hit the sack. You are more than welcome to join me. It’s a king-size bed, so there is plenty of room.”
Woody looked at Sarge, his eyebrows raised.
Sarge looked back and shrugged his shoulders. “Why not?”
The two vampires followed Bronson, who had already left a trail of clothes to follow. They got to the bedroom just in time to see the naked, tattooed body of Bronson Rudan crawl between the sheets.
Sarge stripped quickly. “Move over, beautiful.”
Bronson smiled up at him and complied.
Woody also stripped swiftly and crawled in on the other side, putting Bronson in the middle. Sarge and Woody kissed the nearly asleep reporter before settling in beside him. Sarge was sleeping soundly within a few brief moments.
* * * * *
Burrows seethed, his anger barely contained. He stood across the street, watching the lights go off in Bronson Rudan’s apartment. He knew the two vampires were sleeping with that dirty human.
This was going to have to stop, and he was going to stop it.