Internet Ready Fiction (IRFiction.com)

Author’s Note: This is a continuation of “He was so mysterious.”

~*~

Of course he’d seen her–tonight was her third in his place. She wasn’t even a drinker, as far as he could surmise, since all she ordered was Coke “on the rocks,” she would joke. Her humor was dry, sure, but it was cute.

Yes, straight, single men have the ability to include the forbidden adjective in their vocabulary, especially when it pertains to women. He noticed more than her cute factor, though. She played with her hair frantically and constantly. She stirred her “Coke on the rocks” before each sip. Was she afraid of the layer of water the melting ice would create? He knew that she noticed him too. He was more than aware of her attraction toward him. As a matter of fact, he was aware of most women he’d encountered feeling attraction toward him. He couldn’t blame his dashing looks, for they were fairly commonplace. He couldn’t blame his dazzling charm and wit, for he rarely spoke to anyone outside of his bar staff.

He wasn’t human. Women were drawn to that.

He was dangerous, and he looked the part. He was rugged but quite urban all at once. He purposefully wrote tight fitting shirts and jeans. He almost completely lived in a pair of leather boots. He knew he was noticed by his customers, especially when he performed on stage, and that appearances were, regrettably, everything.

He loved the way she watched him as he made his way through the floor to the stage. He always heard her breath catch like clockwork. he never made direct eye contact, but he could feel her eyes on him. It was a safe bet, at least, since all eyes watched him, but her blue eyes were powerful.

It was a shame they were mortal. To have those eyes staring at him for an eternity–

No. None of that nonsense. He kept his curiosity in check night after night for three in a row. Routine would save him. He should balance the books–that would have him curing all to hell in no time.

Each of the three nights, he retreated to the back alley after his set, using the garbage as an excuse to feel the cool night air against his warmed skin. The bar was stuffy with his malleable temperature affected, but there was a consequential rush when she watched him. He felt a switch inside turn on, leaving reason and thought to rest while his color showed. The animal wanted out.

The animal wanted to feed.

It wasn’t survival based. His want for blood was more related to an addiction. Blood was heroin and cocaine–hallucinogenic with a lasting craving for more. He barely remembered how it happened, but his never ending life pushed forward without time and age hindering his progress. He did know why it happened, but he wasn’t ready to face it. One hundred years had passed, but he never so much as muttered one solitary word concerning the event that led to his immortality. He often thought of the face of the man who cursed him–damned him–to solitude everlasting. Not one day passed without his old, angry face filling his mind and taking over his senses. He could still smell the burning herbs.

All because of one mistake. All because of her.

“If you aren’t sick of me yet, I’d like to play one more song.”

The crowd applauded their assent, but it was meant for her. He allowed rhythm to control his body as he played an original composition. He felt her eyes watching his every movement, and, to his elation, she was enraptured. Sometimes it was too easy to get a woman’s attention, especially since he had such an advantage, but she was different. She hadn’t approached him as other women usually did. They do not hesitate to make their affections known, but not her. She was reserved. Her face told him everything he wanted to know, but he didn’t hear it from her. He wanted to hear her speak.

His song was finished. He thanked his attentive audience and caught her gathering up her things in departure. He would have to make his move now. Immortals can commit impetuous decisions as would any normal human in spite of their learned patience. He grabbed bags of garbage and went to the dumpster behind his bar. He knew where she walked to get home. Hell, he knew where she lived.

Clockwork. Her echoing footsteps bounced off of the walls composing the alley. He waited.

“My singing is that bad, huh?” He laughed. It was his attempt at small talk, something he rarely practiced.

“No,” she smiled. She was shy. He was adoring every moment. “It was nice.”

“Thanks.”

He was so close to creating additional conversation, but she kept walking in the direction of her apartment. She wasn’t going to make this easy. He was up for a challenge.