An Unexpected Gift: Two Hour Challenge (PG)
Posted: Thu Apr 30, 2009 9:54 pm
My bit for the two hour challenge!
An Unexpected Gift
Los Angeles, 1953
Mick St. John stared down into his glass of scotch, swirling the amber liquid and contemplating knocking back the entire tumbler in one gulp. It wouldn’t do any good, it never did any good, anymore. He could feel the alcohol burn his throat, and sometimes he thought he still got a momentary glow in his belly when it hit, but there was no real effect. No escape from the long nights, and the cravings for less legal liquids.
He belted down the liquor, and slumped back in the aged leather chair. It had sprung seams, and stuffing was leaking out, but he hadn’t managed to find the time to fix it. He’d have to do it himself, anyway. Even with the monthly allowance checks piling up in the bank, he was relying on the pittance of his own savings to—he supposed you still had to call it—live on. And that would run out soon enough.
Coraline had called, said she was coming by later. His wife. He hadn’t seen her in six months, hadn’t wanted to see her again, ever. He supposed he ought to tidy up his office a little, make it seem less like a garbage dump with books and papers strewn everywhere, stacks on all the flat surfaces, piles in the hallway leading back to the room where he kept his freezer. He hated the damn freezer. The empty whiteness of the walls and door, inside and out, depressed him. Every dawn when he climbed in he had to fight a feeling of claustrophobia. Shouldn’t a proper monster have black? At least with black, if he opened his eyes, he could pretend the space around him stretched on forever. He’d considered getting a can or two of paint and covering the white with it, but it seemed like too much trouble. And too damn symbolic…the way his mounting sins were slowly covering whatever innocence he’d still had before Coraline turned him. How was that for poetic?
He needed to find something to do with himself, something to fill the nights besides swilling scotch that wouldn’t even get him drunk. Something besides going out and hunting down innocent humans and drinking their unwilling blood.
At least Coraline had taught him he didn’t need to kill to slake his hungers. Those first few lives he’d taken were set up to bind him to her more tightly. It had worked. Even if he could have denied the flare of passion for her body that still held him, the knowledge of deaths that they’d shared gave her power. She was the only one who knew what he was, what he was capable of, and could still want to know him.
What sort of sick joke was it on the part of an uncaring universe that scotch still tasted like it always had, but couldn’t get him drunk?
He usually tried to tune out the noises in the building around him. Rats in the walls, the scurry of insects, the weary, sodden fights of the human tenants on the floors above and below, working out their rages on one another. His office was the only space on this floor occupied around the clock, he’d made sure of that before he moved in. He might not know what he was going to do with an office, but at least he could pick a location that was private. Low rent, but private. The previous tenant had been a private eye, and the phone he’d taken over still got calls for they guy. “Mr. Luce, won’t you help me find my lost dog? Divorce my cheating husband?” Now, however, he heard the elevator bell ring, and Coraline’s voice talking to someone as she came down the hall. Not alone, then. Probably bringing the entrée, he thought, and listened harder for breathing, for a heartbeat. He’d hate her for it, if it wasn’t all too much trouble.
Nothing. A low rumble of a male voice, that was all.
Coraline rapped on the door, calling out in that deceptively sweet voice of hers. “Mick? You home?”
“It’s open.”
He watched the knob twist, the dual shadows on the pebbled translucent glass of the door. When it swung open, the man standing next to Coraline stepped back to let her enter. Mick thought there was something old-fashioned, stuffy, in the courtesy he paid her. Who was this guy?
Coraline was wearing a dark red designer suit, stiletto heels and a scrap of fabric and net that Mick supposed was meant to be a hat. She looked…expensive. So no change there. He put his glass aside and stood up.
“Sorry I didn’t get the place tidied up. Thought I had more time.”
The stranger sniffed a little, looking distinctly unimpressed as he doffed the dark fedora he wore. He was tall, almost as tall as Mick, and broader through the shoulders. Auburn hair and guarded brown eyes. Coraline’s found herself a new boy, Mick thought. He inhaled, and caught an odd scent. He hadn’t learned much, this past year, of all that Coraline had wanted to teach him about being a vampire, but he had learned the difference between the smell of a new-turned vamp, and one of Coraline’s age. And unless he missed his guess, this guy was even older than she was. Great.
Coraline cocked her head to one side, flirtatious as always. “We came to see you, Mick, not your…place.”
Mick was just tired. Tired of her games, tired of this life she’d drawn him into against his will. “Coraline, you’re here for a reason. What is it?”
She gave him the sex kitten pout again. “Can’t I just want to see my husband?”
“I thought death had already parted us.” Mick looked at the stranger again. He seemed fussily dressed, his tie too precisely tied, his cuffs shot too carefully, the crease in his trousers dagger sharp. Mick had seen sloppier mannequins in department store windows, and his own stained khakis and wilted Hawaiian shirt suddenly crawled on him. How could this guy make him feel like a slob without even saying a word?
When the stranger spoke, it was like another slap in the face. “Coraline, my sweet,” he said, ignoring Mick, “it seems clear we’re unwelcome. Perhaps we should leave your little fledgling to his own devices.”
Pompous jerk, Mick thought.
The other vampire looked at him shrewdly, as though sensing his thoughts. He shook his head. “Not to criticize, Coraline, but…some men just weren’t cut out to be vampires.” He smirked at Mick. “Exhibit A, stage right, in a Hawaiian shirt.”
Coraline pouted. It was one of her more effective gambits, Mick recognized. “Now, Josef, you promised you’d give it a chance,” she said. She laid a soft, wheedling, hand on the stranger’s lapel, and Mick felt a dark rush of jealousy.
Josef sighed and held out his hand to Mick. “Josef Kostan.” He smiled again, and this time it was obvious he was attempting to be straightforward. “Coraline thought that maybe—you could use a friend.”
An Unexpected Gift
Los Angeles, 1953
Mick St. John stared down into his glass of scotch, swirling the amber liquid and contemplating knocking back the entire tumbler in one gulp. It wouldn’t do any good, it never did any good, anymore. He could feel the alcohol burn his throat, and sometimes he thought he still got a momentary glow in his belly when it hit, but there was no real effect. No escape from the long nights, and the cravings for less legal liquids.
He belted down the liquor, and slumped back in the aged leather chair. It had sprung seams, and stuffing was leaking out, but he hadn’t managed to find the time to fix it. He’d have to do it himself, anyway. Even with the monthly allowance checks piling up in the bank, he was relying on the pittance of his own savings to—he supposed you still had to call it—live on. And that would run out soon enough.
Coraline had called, said she was coming by later. His wife. He hadn’t seen her in six months, hadn’t wanted to see her again, ever. He supposed he ought to tidy up his office a little, make it seem less like a garbage dump with books and papers strewn everywhere, stacks on all the flat surfaces, piles in the hallway leading back to the room where he kept his freezer. He hated the damn freezer. The empty whiteness of the walls and door, inside and out, depressed him. Every dawn when he climbed in he had to fight a feeling of claustrophobia. Shouldn’t a proper monster have black? At least with black, if he opened his eyes, he could pretend the space around him stretched on forever. He’d considered getting a can or two of paint and covering the white with it, but it seemed like too much trouble. And too damn symbolic…the way his mounting sins were slowly covering whatever innocence he’d still had before Coraline turned him. How was that for poetic?
He needed to find something to do with himself, something to fill the nights besides swilling scotch that wouldn’t even get him drunk. Something besides going out and hunting down innocent humans and drinking their unwilling blood.
At least Coraline had taught him he didn’t need to kill to slake his hungers. Those first few lives he’d taken were set up to bind him to her more tightly. It had worked. Even if he could have denied the flare of passion for her body that still held him, the knowledge of deaths that they’d shared gave her power. She was the only one who knew what he was, what he was capable of, and could still want to know him.
What sort of sick joke was it on the part of an uncaring universe that scotch still tasted like it always had, but couldn’t get him drunk?
He usually tried to tune out the noises in the building around him. Rats in the walls, the scurry of insects, the weary, sodden fights of the human tenants on the floors above and below, working out their rages on one another. His office was the only space on this floor occupied around the clock, he’d made sure of that before he moved in. He might not know what he was going to do with an office, but at least he could pick a location that was private. Low rent, but private. The previous tenant had been a private eye, and the phone he’d taken over still got calls for they guy. “Mr. Luce, won’t you help me find my lost dog? Divorce my cheating husband?” Now, however, he heard the elevator bell ring, and Coraline’s voice talking to someone as she came down the hall. Not alone, then. Probably bringing the entrée, he thought, and listened harder for breathing, for a heartbeat. He’d hate her for it, if it wasn’t all too much trouble.
Nothing. A low rumble of a male voice, that was all.
Coraline rapped on the door, calling out in that deceptively sweet voice of hers. “Mick? You home?”
“It’s open.”
He watched the knob twist, the dual shadows on the pebbled translucent glass of the door. When it swung open, the man standing next to Coraline stepped back to let her enter. Mick thought there was something old-fashioned, stuffy, in the courtesy he paid her. Who was this guy?
Coraline was wearing a dark red designer suit, stiletto heels and a scrap of fabric and net that Mick supposed was meant to be a hat. She looked…expensive. So no change there. He put his glass aside and stood up.
“Sorry I didn’t get the place tidied up. Thought I had more time.”
The stranger sniffed a little, looking distinctly unimpressed as he doffed the dark fedora he wore. He was tall, almost as tall as Mick, and broader through the shoulders. Auburn hair and guarded brown eyes. Coraline’s found herself a new boy, Mick thought. He inhaled, and caught an odd scent. He hadn’t learned much, this past year, of all that Coraline had wanted to teach him about being a vampire, but he had learned the difference between the smell of a new-turned vamp, and one of Coraline’s age. And unless he missed his guess, this guy was even older than she was. Great.
Coraline cocked her head to one side, flirtatious as always. “We came to see you, Mick, not your…place.”
Mick was just tired. Tired of her games, tired of this life she’d drawn him into against his will. “Coraline, you’re here for a reason. What is it?”
She gave him the sex kitten pout again. “Can’t I just want to see my husband?”
“I thought death had already parted us.” Mick looked at the stranger again. He seemed fussily dressed, his tie too precisely tied, his cuffs shot too carefully, the crease in his trousers dagger sharp. Mick had seen sloppier mannequins in department store windows, and his own stained khakis and wilted Hawaiian shirt suddenly crawled on him. How could this guy make him feel like a slob without even saying a word?
When the stranger spoke, it was like another slap in the face. “Coraline, my sweet,” he said, ignoring Mick, “it seems clear we’re unwelcome. Perhaps we should leave your little fledgling to his own devices.”
Pompous jerk, Mick thought.
The other vampire looked at him shrewdly, as though sensing his thoughts. He shook his head. “Not to criticize, Coraline, but…some men just weren’t cut out to be vampires.” He smirked at Mick. “Exhibit A, stage right, in a Hawaiian shirt.”
Coraline pouted. It was one of her more effective gambits, Mick recognized. “Now, Josef, you promised you’d give it a chance,” she said. She laid a soft, wheedling, hand on the stranger’s lapel, and Mick felt a dark rush of jealousy.
Josef sighed and held out his hand to Mick. “Josef Kostan.” He smiled again, and this time it was obvious he was attempting to be straightforward. “Coraline thought that maybe—you could use a friend.”
Though it obviously took MUCH effort on Josef's part. But he's always up to a challenge!
