Authors: Regina Morris
She stared at the spot on the wall where the calendar charted time. She had seen three different calendars hanging there over the years and would prefer not to see a fourth one. She glanced at her watch and readied herself to hit the stopwatch feature. She was paying for 50 minutes of therapy, and she always made sure she got her full time.
Dr. Micki O’Neil entered and closed the door. Alex appreciated that Micki always arrived right on time. She dressed in her usual button down blouse and slacks at every one of these sessions, and it pleased Alex that Micki was a civilian therapist and didn’t wear a military uniform. She suspected that she opened up more to the doctor when she thought of her as perhaps just an old friend, rather than a military officer. Micki sat in a chair adjacent to the couch. Overall, everything from the wing backed chairs, the paisley pillows with tassels, on down to the throw rug on the floor was designed to give one a sense of calm in this room. Perhaps it did work for many people, but Alex’s anxiety–wrung hands told a different story.
“Good Morning, Alex. Happy belated birthday.”
Alex’s eyebrow rose questioningly, but she composed herself quickly. She had given the therapist a fake birthday due to security reasons, but had forgotten until this very moment. Her birthday was actually weeks ago. She smiled at the woman and said, “Thanks, Micki. My birthday was earlier this week.”
Micki pulled out a pen. “What number was it this year?”
“Thirty–eight.” It was really thirty–nine.
Micki smiled at her attractive, well put–together client. “Well, you look much younger – probably due to all the workout and training you do.”
Alex felt her cheeks flush as she flashed a smile. She brushed her shoulder length auburn hair behind her ears. “Thanks Micki. And thanks again for meeting me so early this morning.”
“It wasn’t a problem,” Micki smiled. “Last week when we met you were a bit anxious about your age and the passing of time in general. How was your birthday?” Micki thumbed through the folder she kept with the details of the years of therapy she conducted with Alex.
Alex cleared her throat. She was always worried about getting older. She thought back to her actual birthday. “I’m slowly dying alone. I’m shriveling up and I’m lonely. So in every respect, my birthday was the same as all the other days, except it came with a Sara Lee individual, frozen, fat–free cake at the end of it.” Alex’s tone saddened as she played with her fingernails. She hung her head and avoided eye contact with Micki.
“Why don’t you tell me a little about the day itself,” Micki suggested as she moved the box of Kleenex closer to her client.
“There’s nothing to tell,” Alex said, settling deeper into the couch. “I’m getting older and the few men I do attract are immature boys.”
“Uh huh,” Micki studied her client’s folder, flipping back several pages. “Alex, try to remember how far you’ve come,” she said as she put down the folder and looked into Alex’s eyes. “Only a few years ago you were afraid to even go out on a date. Not only have you been going out, you have had several dates this past month alone.”
Alex glanced away. The increase of dates was directly proportionate to her birthday weeks ago. “I don’t think any of those guys count as real dates. In fact, one was more interested in my X–Box than he was in me, and believe me Micki, that isn’t a euphemism.”
Micki leaned in, “Alex, you chose to date those men. You said ’yes’ to their invitations to dinners and movies, but then you told the one that wanted to have sex with you that you weren’t interested.”
Alex sighed and thought back to that moment. If she had eaten breakfast, it would be coming up about right now. Alex raised her voice in protest, “Look, I don’t want to settle. I want a real man.”
Micki nodded, “You’ve told me in the past what a ’real man’ is to you, but I’d like for you to tell me again now that you’ve started to date again.”
Alex rolled her eyes. “I don’t know,” she asserted, but mentally she thought back to the man she had been dreaming about as of late. She couldn’t completely make out all of his features, but the name Adonis came to mind. Her heart rate sped up just thinking about him and his dark hair, but she repeated, “I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for.”
“Somewhere deep inside, you do know. And you also know why you went out on dates with those men as well.”
Alex crossed her arms and looked away from Micki, “I don’t want to talk about dating.”
“All right, we can postpone that discussion for a few minutes. However, we will have to address it. I can’t help you unless you’re open and honest with me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. We can come back to that later.” Micki picked up the folder and flipped through more pages. “Looks like over the last few years your career has taken off. You had two promotions … and now you’re up for another one. If you get it, it will make you… ?”
“’Security Chief’ is the unofficial title,” Alex said, giving the woman an ambiguous job description. If she did accept the promotion, she couldn’t afford to allow a therapist to know exactly what she would be doing. It wasn’t as if she didn’t trust the woman, she just didn’t know her more than their therapy sessions. And even then, any personal information shared could be open to future blackmail. Even after all this time, Micki never even knew Alex’s real last name – and she always paid in cash. “I’d be responsible for the security teams that guard state officials,” she added, not wanting to mention that the state official would be the President of the United States. “It’s a good career move, even if it does sound like a mountain of paperwork.”
“Fair enough,” Micki replied as she studied her client. “You don’t need to share with me the exact title or duties, but I do want to know how you feel about this promotion and what it means for your career?”
Alex grabbed one of the pillows from the couch and, while she played with the tassels along its edge, she reflected upon her career. If she wanted something career–wise, she got it. She had always positioned herself strategically so she could command the best opportunities that were available. “I know. I’m putting my career above everything else. It’s what I do, but at least I can control what direction my career takes me,” Alex grimaced. She pulled at the strings of the tassel, carefully straightened them, and then moved onto the next one in the row.
Micki wrote in the folder as she commented, “Control is very important to you.”
Isn’t it to everyone? After a pause, Alex admitted, “At least I can get what I want.”
“And how is that working out for you? Is it making you happy?” Micki asked.
“Ugh!” Alex threw the pillow aside. “My career is great, but what I really want is a passionate relationship. I want a family. Where are all the real men out there?” She looked at her therapist, “I mean, I have this unclear picture of who I want. He’s perfect. He’s a Mr. Butch Manly … I just can’t seem to find him.”
“Alex, you’re a top level security specialist. Your accomplishments at this young of an age can be intimidating to some men.”
“To all men, I guess.” Alex said, “Except for the socially inept or the mama’s boys out there.” Alex bit her lip, looked down to the floor, and added, “Or the crazy stalker types.”
“Men come in many sized packages, Alex. But it’s what’s on the inside that really counts. A small–framed, computer nerd who loves playing games can be a wonderful catch. You need to get past the wrapping.”
Wiping away a tear, Alex confided, “It’s … it’s not the wrapping, Micki. I never get to know a man well enough to even get to the inner layers of who they really are.”
“I know, and you’re doing a great job working on that. You are approaching your 40th birthday in a couple of years. The big ones tend to get people thinking of where they are in their life and what they are doing. We’ve had this discussion many times in the past, Alex. You want to have a passionate romance with a ’Butch Manly’ type of guy, and then you select men who never quite fit that bill, then you only go on one date with them. You force yourself to be emotionally flat in these relationships in an effort to protect yourself from being vulnerable.” Looking at her client she asked, “It’s been a long time since we discussed it, but you did just mention it. Do you want to talk about the stalker that attacked you some more?”
“Hell, no! I just wonder where all the heroes are.” Alex peeked at her watch and realized 45 minutes remained.
Gentle rain drizzled on Sterling’s nude body like healing kisses, renewing his sense of self–peace. His headache had subsided a little, but in truth, the ache always persisted. The pain was just more manageable now. Sterling reclined on the patio chair, his body dwarfing the size of the furniture as he stretched to wake up in his solitude. His skin chafed against the chair, feeling slightly sunburned. He opened his eyes to a cloudless sky and cursed as the sun blinded him . . . No more relief would come today.
As a half–breed vampire, he didn’t have the protective inner eyelids the purebreds had, so he closed his eyes against the sun. He thought of the day’s schedule. He knew he would spend most of his time down at the penitentiary. He groaned because every time he visited the place, his body ached. It wasn’t being around humans that did him in, but rather, the physical touching of evidence. His ability to get information from inanimate objects proved helpful in solving cases, and he was happy to help. But his body always paid the price, and he detested the side effects.
Sterling’s touch would tell him everything he needed to know about the item’s owner, what it was used for, and the feelings and emotions surrounding the item. Each touch would make his skin crawl and itch, and the more he touched, the more his skin would scream in agony. After a few hours, his head would pound with a migraine.
But the pain meant nothing; it was just one more damn thing about his human half he had to deal with. Most vampire abilities had good side effects, but it was just his lot in life to be cursed. Fortunately though, his ability did allow him to bring some of the sickest and most depraved criminals to trial, and that was the justification he needed to keep living his lonely life.
He squinted at the sun again as he reached for his sunglasses on the ground beside him, and sat up. The private sleeping porch of the Mansion was his little oasis, and his alone. No one would disturb him while he healed and sat in his solitude at his home, which everyone jokingly called Fang Manor.
Solitude and loneliness were only separated by a thin line. A very thin line — and he knew the feeling all too well.
Sterling inhaled deeply, taking in the crisp morning air. He heard the chirping of the songbirds nearby and the wind chime down below swaying in the breeze. Cursing softly, he realized he could also hear his father with his new wife stirring in their bedroom, next to his sundeck.
It was time to get up. The mansion’s walls weren’t soundproof, and he now tried to block out a conversation which had changed into more intimate noises. “Newlyweds,” he thought as he rolled his eyes. No way was he listening to an encore of last night. There wasn’t anything Oedipal in his distaste of the noise; it just reminded him how powerless he was to find a wife of his own. He had failed to secure an arranged marriage, and his own attempts to find a purebred vampire mate had proved unsuccessful, many times over.
He stood, scooped up rain pooled on the chair beside him, and splashed it on his face. Shaking the water from his shoulder length hair, he moaned contently at the soothing touch. He knew this moment would be the last time he would feel good all day.
Checking his rain catchers, he poured the collected rain into bottles to be used later. Sterling then walked through the few puddles of rainwater which sat on the stone floor of the deck. He opened the glass door and entered his private bedroom. He had chosen the decor himself. The cherry wood king–sized bed with matching nightstand and dresser filled the room. A hunter green duvet, with burgundy and gold pillows, in various sizes and shapes, were at the head and foot of the bed. An old gold cross, which he had inherited from his human grandmother, hung on the wall above the bed. As pleasant as the room was, Sterling spent little time here, even though this house had been his home for too many decades to count.
He lived here with his father, stepmother, aunt, and several team members, making up “The Colony”, a special operative team of vampires employed by the federal government to protect the President and the American way of life. Sterling was one of the founding members of the Colony, which had been established in 1866, after the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln. It was really the only life Sterling knew. The job had benefits and perks, but also pitfalls. But what job didn’t?
Sterling glanced around the room. It was a gilded cage with free room and board, paid for by Uncle Sam. Sure, he loved his family, and Fang Manor was a far cry from slumming it, but because of security measures he could never entertain guests at the place. A wife could live here with him, if he had one. A girlfriend? Hell, he never dated a woman longer than, well, an hour tops. And even then, the women were humans.
Speaking of human females, he was hungry, and there wasn’t one in his bed at the moment. This is exactly why he kept an apartment in the city.
Damn. His fangs were already extended, expecting to eat. It was time for plan B. He shook his head as he walked across the room. Next to the air purifier on the floor sat a small personal refrigerator. He opened it and pulled out a bag of AB negative blood. Bagged blood. Not his favorite, but at least the food was free. He poured some into a mug and warmed it in the microwave which sat atop the refrigerator. It took only a minute for him to down it all after the microwave beeped. There was no reason to savor bagged blood. Honestly, no reason at all. The packaging, for starters, was all wrong.
The dried rain still clung to his skin. Not wanting to wash it off, he skipped a shower. In his private bathroom, he stared at his blurred reflection in the mirror. One corner of his mouth turned up in a half grin, as his reflection reminded him of the vampire lore that Hollywood messed up in their movies. Hollywood did get the mirror reflection right though. Thanks to the silver in mirrors, and even the silver in the old fashioned photography, vampire images were always obscured.
As he brushed his shoulder length dirty–blond hair, he studied himself in the mirror. He spent time last night in the mansion’s private gym lifting weights with his father. Sterling’s muscular physique was well formed, and even the poor reflection showed his ripped muscles. He took great pride in this lure since it worked so well where human women were concerned.
He paused and leaned into the mirror. Was that a gray hair? Yep, but only one. Next, he studied his eyes. Wrinkles had formed overnight as well. Looking down at the medallion of the Patron Saint of Rain, Genevieve, he noticed a gray chest hair. Guessing his age was now in the mid–thirties he continued to brush his hair as he waited for the effects of his breakfast on his body.
The wait wasn’t long. He felt the warmed blood course through his veins and his cells began to regenerate. His hair gained more color, his wrinkles ironed themselves out, and he had a healthier glow about him. He took a deep breath and glanced back in the mirror. His fuzzy reflection showed him at the age of twenty–seven again. It was his age during his Jahrling Year, when he transitioned into a full vampire and his fangs extended to their full size to allow him to eat a blood–only diet. His fangs came in late because he was a half–breed. If he had been a purebred vampire, he could look as young as the age when most humans got their wisdom teeth, their early twenties. It was just one more thing to thank his long dead mother for, not that he ever had a chance to meet her.
The blood lust from his morning’s breakfast finally hit him. The sensation would come quicker if he had injected the blood direct into his veins. By orally consuming it, his spleen had to process the blood from his digestive system to his circulatory system, which took time. The first drops of blood acted as a fountain of youth, then eventually affecting other areas of his body like liquid Viagra. With no woman to satisfy him, he ignored his aroused state and decided to dress. Besides, feeling miserable was the norm. It didn’t bother him to remain uncomfortable.
He opened the top drawer of his dresser and pulled out a pair of socks and underwear. From the middle drawer, he pulled out a set of skin coverings. They resembled long johns but were made from a light cotton fabric. They covered him from neck to ankles and prevented most of everything from touching him. They weren’t a great fashion statement, but they worked well. He walked to his closet for a pair of jeans and a shirt.
He had just finished dressing when his cell phone buzzed. It was another Colony member, Daniel, who was working downtown, and the one vampire in the world Sterling avoided as much as possible.
The phone rang again, and Sterling stared at it with a grimace on his face. When it rang a third time, he answered it. “Yes, what?” Sterling huffed.
“Good morning to you too, mate,” Daniel said in a slightly faded British accent. “I’m with the police looking into a bloody murder, quite literally. I think you ought to see this.”
Sterling cursed under his breath. Miss Manners never covered the social protocol of how to behave when dealing with a man you murdered in cold blood, and then had turned into a vampire against his will.
He could understand the need to exact revenge, but Daniel forgave him for what he did. On top of that, Daniel was nice to him, which made no sense to Sterling. He gritted his teeth, “Text me the address.”