Pete, Drinker of Blood by Scott S. Phillips

Author:Scott S. Phillips
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Vampires
Publisher: Penultimate Ditch Efforts
Published: 2012-10-07T00:00:00+00:00

25

“Are you the bride of the beast?”

Angie stood at Pete’s apartment door, fist poised to knock. She stared at the old man down the corridor, who seemed to be trying to loom, his tiny stature preventing it from happening. “Excuse me?”

Mr. Stovall calmly opened the small brown suede bag slung over his shoulder — obviously an old purse, adorned with a trio of smiley faces, also cut from thin leather — and pulled out a sharpened wooden stake, politely displaying it for Angie.

“Umm…” Puzzled, she cocked a thumb toward Pete’s door.

Mr. Stovall nodded happily, pleased that Angie seemed to get it.

“I think I’m more like the dinner date of the beast,” she said, trying not to appear too frantic as she knocked on the door.

“It’s a bit early for dinner,” Mr. Stovall pointed out.

Angie smiled at him, simultaneously knocking a bit more emphatically. After a few moments, the door opened just the tiniest bit, Pete’s sleepy face visible in the shadows within. “How’s what?” he mumbled.

“Hey Pete I’m here for coming inside,” Angie blurted, shoving her way into Pete’s apartment. Pete blinked at her, groggy, as she quickly shut the door behind her and smiled at him. “Hi. You got some weirdos in this building.” Noticing the darkness of the apartment — not to mention Pete’s bleary-eyed appearance — she added “Oh shit — did I wake you up?”

Pete rubbed his left eye. “No, I had to get up to answer the door.” Gesturing awkwardly for her to follow, he shuffled over towards the bed. “C’mon in.” As he settled his butt down on the mattress, his stomach cut loose with a rumbling, rolling squeal, like hamsters inside a salad spinner.

Angie flopped onto the bed next to him. “Sounds like I got here just in time.”

Pete put a hand to his belly as if to muffle its cries. He’d planned to swing by the goat farm after his date with Angie the previous night, but instead he’d barely gotten the Duster back into storage and made it home before the sun came up. His grogginess was as much from lack of food as from his insomnia — he felt practically delirious.

“Look at your li’l pajants,” Angie said, grinning.

“What?” Pete shot a mortified look towards the crotch of his red plaid pajamas, afraid something had slipped loose somehow.

“Your little flannel jammie pants, your pajants,” Angie explained.

“Am I dreaming this?”

“That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“It is?” Befuddled, Pete screwed his knuckles into his eyes, trying to force the sleepiness away. “Is it — wait, is it daytime?”

“Yeah,” Angie said, nodding toward Pete’s clock radio.

He turned to look at the bright red display: 2:57. Squinting, he checked for the little dot in the corner. It was lit. “PM,” he muttered.

“I got a call from my boss,” Angie said. “Suzanne flaked out last night and he hasn’t been able to get a hold of her, so I’ve gotta work her shift tonight.”

“Flaked out?” Pete asked.

“Yeah, didn’t even lock up the bar.

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