Love bites, p.1
Love Bites, page 1
Love Bites: Tales from Southern Gothic
Magen Cubed
Published by Magen Cubed, 2020.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
LOVE BITES: TALES FROM SOUTHERN GOTHIC
First edition. June 13, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 Magen Cubed.
ISBN: 978-1393248354
Written by Magen Cubed.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About This Collection
Love Bites
Caught Up on You
Leather and Lace
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Also By Magen Cubed
About the Author
About This Collection
Thank you for reading Love Bites: Tales from Southern Gothic. This short anthology collects the first three short stories released in the Southern Gothic series, as first seen in Twisted Romance #1 from Image Comics. These short stories have since been expanded and adapted into the first novel of a planned book series.
So watch this place – Dorian and Cash will return very soon...
Love Bites
Dorian Villeneuve wasn’t known for his good ideas. If he had good ideas, he wouldn’t have been
short on rent for the third time in as many months. He most certainly wouldn’t be looking at an eviction notice taped to his apartment door, with We’re keeping your shit as collateral scrawled across the bright pink sheet in his landlord’s malicious handwriting. The lock had been changed, he realized with some dismay, since leaving the apartment that morning. His key caught with a scrape and refused to turn.
Pulling his sunglasses atop his head, Dorian tightly held Dominique to his chest to still the wriggling, whimpering chihuahua. He felt sick, from his shame-flushed ears to the tips of his well-worn boots, but it was a familiar kind of sick. It wouldn’t have done him any good to panic, in any event.
Not when he knew well enough to see this coming.
“It’s okay,” said the vampire soothingly, to the dog if not to himself. “My landlord’s too cheap to buy a decent lock, anyway.”
While he wasn’t known for good ideas, Dorian was known for thinking on his feet. The bobby pin holding back his long, black hair would do just fine. Picking locks was only one of the many useful skills Dorian acquired during his misspent youth. Petty crime wasn’t much of a career, but it led to all kinds of interesting tricks a young, enterprising vampire could employ at parties, or to break into his own apartment.
After all, this wasn’t the first time he had been thrown out of a house. His mother Vivienne held that less than honorable distinction. Coming home one Sunday morning, following a night spent out drunk with his friends, to find his mother had changed all the locks had been a shock to the then 16-year-old Dorian. At 25, this was a routine occurrence. And, aware of the negative balance in his bank account, he understood it likely wouldn’t be the last time, either.
He would just have to panic about that later.
With the lock easily picked, Dorian entered his former place of residence and began packing. Dog food first, then the chihuahua’s small collection of sweaters, followed by Dorian’s clothes, toothbrush, and his other pair of boots, all stuffed into his one suitcase. His pillow, too, tucked under his arm as he and Dominique made their exit from Unit #304. He didn’t close the door behind them, of course. His landlord could enjoy whatever collateral she had left after the meth-heads in #306 finished raiding the apartment for goods to sell.
The eight-block trek across Devil’s Row to Marcy Cabrera’s walk-up was difficult with all his worldly possessions in tow, but Dorian managed it. He had the good sense to grab his parasol before he left; otherwise, he would have been cooking in the afternoon sun, nothing but a puddle in Def Leppard crop-top and skinny jeans. Dorian would’ve taken the bus, had he enough money in his wallet for the fare. That was too embarrassing to dwell on and so he didn’t, hugging Dominique close to his chest instead.
It was just after three o’clock when he rang Marcy’s doorbell. The pink floral curtains were drawn shut. When he received no response, Dorian rang again. Marcy was most likely asleep. She worked overnights as a dancer at one of the nearby clubs, he remembered after the fact, and would be nothing short of annoyed at being awakened early. Dorian’s suspicions were proven well-founded when Marcy yanked the door open. She appeared on the other side in a tattered Iron Maiden t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts. Her short, bleach-blonde bob was well-mussed, her face creased by the lingering impression of her pillow.
Seeing Dorian, Marcy bore her fangs in a snarl. Dorian simply beamed.
“Go to hell, Villeneuve. Some of us work for a living.”
“Is there any way I could possibly stay over for a little while?” asked Dorian, with all the sweetness he could muster with a rock sitting squarely in the pit of his stomach. “I may have been evicted.”
Marcy blinked. Last night’s makeup was smeared in blue glitter under her eyes. “May have been, or definitely was?”
Dorian held Dominique up. The chihuahua wagged her tail encouragingly. The ruffled pink sweater helped her case. “You wouldn’t let my dog live on the street, would you?”
“Your dog? No. You? Jury’s out.”
“Please, Marcy?”
“Fine.” Marcy sighed and pulled the door back, letting Dorian in. “For how long?”
“Just until I get back on my feet.”
“You always say that.”
Marcy closed the door and locked the deadbolt. Her walk-up was a small, tidy space, with the kitchen, living, and bedroom all separated by partition walls to create the illusion of privacy. There was only one bathroom, with a curtain in place of a door. Dorian set his things down on the loveseat and put Dominique on the floor. Marcy walked to the two-seat table in the tiled area that served as the kitchen. She retrieved her cigarette pack and lighter, placing a long cigarette between her lips.
“You need more friends, Dorian.” Seated cross-legged on the chair, she was petite enough to fit. “It’s weird to keep hanging out with your ex.”
It didn’t sting. They had this conversation enough for Marcy’s words to become dulled over time. Dorian shrugged and took the seat across from her. He was much taller than she was, a bony collection of long arms and legs, and didn’t fit as neatly at the table as the daintier vampire. Dominique snuffled around on the floor between them, diligently checking for crumbs or other deliciousness.
“Then you need to stop letting me in when I show up.”
Marcy took a drag of her cigarette and chuckled. Her voice was still thick with sleep. “Yeah, maybe I do.”
“And besides, a two-month affair in the 10th grade doesn’t really count as a relationship. You only used me for my body.”
Marcy shook her head. The ember glowed at the tip of her cigarette and she knocked the ash off into the nearby ashtray. “I had to get something out of the deal. You were always copying my math homework and borrowing lunch money.”
The joking around felt good. Light. Easy. It helped Dorian forget the rock in his gut. “Well, just don’t get any ideas. I’m a lot more selective these days.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t date anybody who takes longer than me to put makeup on in the morning,” Marcy answered. “So, if you’re going to stay, we’re going to have to lay down some ground rules.”
Dorian nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, of course. I want to be a model roommate.”
“Three things.” Marcy held up three corresponding fingers. “One: I expect you to pay rent, so you better have a job.”
“No problem. I’ve had a steady gig for months.”
“Two: I expect you to walk me to and from the club. Dudes keep try to follow me home and if I look like I have a boyfriend, they’ll fuck off.”
“Naturally.”
“And three: don’t bring anybody home. Ever. I could hear you in here with them and it would just be gross, so don’t do it.”
“Ew, Marcy, no!” Dorian cried. Hooking up on his high school ex-girlfriend’s couch with her ten feet away would be a whole new low, even for him. “Why would I do that?”
“Dorian, I love you, but you’re a hussy. So just keep your damn pants on.”
“Fine, fine. My pants are on indefinitely.”
“Good.” Stubbing out her cigarette, Marcy said, “Now, I’m going back to bed. Wake me up at five o’clock to get ready for work or I’ll physically hurt you.”
“I promise,” Dorian replied. “Go to bed.”
As Marcy disappeared around the partition to her room, Dorian scooped up Dominique. The dog wagged her tail against his chest as he stretched out on the loveseat, his feet dangling over the armrest. Staring at the ceiling, Dorian, finally let out the deep, mournful sigh he had been holding in all day.
“You are such a dipshit, Dorian Villeneuve.”
The ceiling didn’t correct him. It would have been lying if it had.
LIFE WITH DORIAN ON her couch wasn’t as bad as Marcy seemed to think it was. It certainly was fine enough by Dorian’s measure, if a bit cramped. They both kept late hours and slept during the day, getting up at dusk to stumble toward the only bathroom to get ready for work. Marcy was a dancer at Amon’s Cabaret and Dorian was a bartender at Salazar’s, one of the sleazier bars in the heart of Devil’s Row.
Within the borders of Devereux, Devil’s Row was where the vampires called home. At least, that was the uncomfortable lie of vam pire life in quiet city Devereux. Devil’s Row was, more accurately, where the city’s poor vampires made their lives. Vampires with deep pockets and connections to the Blood Triad, the organization that monopolized the city’s blood trade, lived comfortably behind the wrought iron fences of Wren’s Way. Those who controlled the blood controlled the masses; the lower classes, who depended on the blood trade for survival, simply played along.
The Triad’s foot soldiers liked to spend money in Devil’s Row. They were an army of brutes in suits and ties, pouring money into the strip clubs, bars, and casinos that kept the vampire economy afloat. If they were happy, and businesses paid their protection fees, the Triad was happy. Devil’s Row was a dangerous place, but it was the only place vampires like Dorian and Marcy, from low stations and poor families, could survive.
To his credit, of all his various skills, surviving was what Dorian was best at. He was a pretty good bartender, could pick any lock, easily slid out of handcuffs, and had a supernatural charm that little old ladies couldn’t resist. But staying alive, whether by hook or by crook, that was Dorian’s true power. Ever since his mother kicked him out, Dorian had been on his own: working whatever job he could find, batting his long eyelashes and putting on a smile to get what he needed. It was usually enough to help him keep his bank account in the black. Then tips had been drying up at Salazar’s, and so he kept running out of money come time to pay rent.
This time, he assured himself, he would be able to bounce back.
This time, he had Marcy’s help.
Dorian’s power of persuasion stopped short where Marcy was concerned. He wouldn’t take advantage of her like that. Not like the drunks who made eyes at him at the bar, or the occasional cougar housewife who wanted to waste her time and money on a pretty face. Dorian wasn’t so righteous as to say no to anyone who was loose with their cash, nor was he so selfish as to lie about his intentions. They were all adults, after all; so long as no one was looking to put a ring on it, nobody was getting hurt.
But Marcy, she was his friend, and he would never treat her like that.
“Rule number four,” said Marcy one morning to her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She pursed her lips around a cigarette as she dusted foundation on her face. “If I bring anybody home, I need you to scatter.”
Dorian stooped over the smaller vampire to see his reflection in the corner of the mirror. “That’s rude.”
A snort. “I don’t care if it’s rude. I’m kind of seeing a guy right now. He’s a werewolf named Harrison.”
“You’re seeing a wolf?” Dorian asked with a snicker. He carefully traced his lash line with his eyeliner pencil, smudging as he went. “What would your mom think?”
“My mom can have her say on my love life when she goes back to paying my bills. And, look, he travels a lot for his work, so I don’t see him very often. So, when he comes around, you better scatter.”
“Fine, I’ll go. I won’t ruin your sordid tryst.”
“Oh, can you help me with my eyeliner?” Marcy stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the counter, then closed her eyes expectantly. “I can’t do my cat’s eye.”
Dorian sighed, but took up her pen regardless. “I’ve showed you this a hundred times.”
“But I’m not as good as you. Mine always comes out crooked.”
He tipped her head up, then gently pulled her eyelid back to straighten out the hooded crease. “I should charge a commission.”
“My couch is your commission.”
Another, far huffier sigh. “Anyway, I thought there were only three rules.”
“I came up with more.”
“How many more?”
Marcy dressed for work, a sweater and jeans pulled up over her sheer black underwear, a pair of black stilettos thrown in her tote bag. Dorian pulled on a clean Black Sabbath t-shirt and an especially tight pair of jeans. He was low on cash and hoping it might make patrons more eager to tip. Desperate times called for extremely skinny jeans.
Walking the three blocks to the club, she linked her arm in his and considered the rest of the house rules.
“Oh. Rule number five,” she suddenly chirped, hopping over a puddle on the sidewalk. “Text me if you’re going out after work or something. That way I don’t wake up thinking some burglar is trying to break into my house.”
Dorian nodded. “Fair.”
“And no bringing anybody home.”
“You already said that.”
“I’m just making sure.”
“It’s not like I have anything you haven’t seen before.”
“And I never want to see it again, thank you very much.”
Outside Amon’s Cabaret, Dorian unhooked his arm from Marcy’s. The bouncer at the door, a burly-looking vampire named Ramone, gave Marcy a nod behind dark sunglasses. She waved Dorian off as he sauntered down the street toward Salazar’s.
“Make good choices!” she called after him.
Dorian couldn’t make any promises in jeans this tight.
By seven o’clock, the hole-in-the-wall known officially as Salazar Botello’s Bar and Grille was already packed. It was a grubby little bar, with a smattering of cocktail tables surrounding the long, greasy bar-top. Years ago, before Devil’s Row was Triad territory, it was a comfortable little restaurant. The kitchen had been closed since the real Salazar Botello sold it a decade prior to his younger brother, Alonso. Alonso left Salazar’s name on the sign, boarded up the full-service kitchen, and retired to the tiny office in the back of the building to watch television and count the drawer between shifts.
The younger Botello’s work ethic, or lack thereof, attracted the worst kinds of employees, looking to give away the liquor supply under the table for a hefty tip. This, in turn, attracted the worst kinds of patrons. Salazar’s was the preferred haunt of Blood Triad knuckle-draggers and a particularly nasty strain of bar-flies, all of whom talked and drank loudly. They sat hunched over their cocktail tables, surrounded by empty glasses, making a mess of things and always demanding free shots.
Tonight, Salazar’s was packed, bursting at its tired seams with bodies and noise.
At the door, Dorian pulled his hair in a ponytail and took a deep breath. The frazzled mid-shift bartender, Kaitlyn, struggled to get the alcohol into the glasses fast enough to keep up. He ducked behind the bar and immediately started washing used mugs. Kaitlyn rushed to fill a line of shot glasses with bourbon, then placed them on a tray for the cocktail waitress, Jenny. It was only an hour into her shift and Jenny already looked panicked, sweat smearing her makeup and making her thin t-shirt stick to her skin.
“Are you okay?” Dorian asked, watching Jenny chew her lip.
A roar of laughter erupted from Table 6. One vampire at the table, a hulking creature stuffed inside a black suit, laughed as he reared back from the neck of the girl seated in his lap. His name was Ellison; he worked for the Triad, the nephew of someone important, according to word-of-mouth. Blood smeared his snarling maw and his eyes had gone all shiny and black, pupils blown-out in bloodlust.
The girl seated in his lap smelled like a human. She looked all of 18, if she was lucky. The same age as Jenny. Her dark skin looked sallow, her body limp against the much larger vampire as the latest puncture in her neck oozed bright, red blood.
Another roaring laugh. Jenny bunched her shoulders.
“It’s Ellison,” she said. “He’s got another girl.”
Dorian’s stomach sank. “I’ll go get Alonso.”
“Don’t bother,” Kaitlyn barked. She reached passed him to grab two clean shot glasses. “I’ve already tried. You know the Triad pays the bills around here.”
“That girl’s human,” insisted Dorian. “She looks like a baby, for Christ’s sake.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just keep washing glasses before we run out again.”
Jenny walked away to return to Table 6, her tray burdened with shot glasses. Kaitlyn continued making shots for the two pickled old vampires seated in front of her at bar. Dorian shook his head but said nothing else.
“SO, IS THIS WHERE YOU thought you’d end up?”
