I just shake my head in response. The longer we sit here, the worse I feel about all the choices that led me here.
“Listen, Kipper. You have to choose someone.” Tys sighs, like I’m being a baby about something small. Making a big deal out of something simple, when this is anything but.
“What if I don’t wanna choose someone, Tys? I’m not you. I can’t just pick a rando and bite their neck.”
Tyson has the nerve to look upset. “Here’s the sitch. If you don’tchoose someone to feed off of soon, you’ll become rabid. In the next day you’ll be insanely hungry, and your instincts will kick in. Your vamp side will take the choice from you, and who knows who you might attack? Wouldn’t you rather choose who, and be able to make sure the human survives the experience?”
So, that’s it then? I choose someone to hurt, or my body will choose for me?
“I gotta hit the head.” I stand quickly, feeling sick to my stomach.
“Kip…” Tyson calls after me, but I ignore him.
When I walk into the bathroom, I’m startled to see a guy gripping the counter. His body shakes, and he looks super out of it, his skin turning pale.
“Hey, buddy, you okay?” I call out to him.
The little dude groans, and suddenly loses his balance, tipping backwards. Faster than I knew I could move, I’m behind him, stopping his fall. As my arms grasp his middle, and his body hits mine, his scent wraps around me in an intoxicating cloud. He smells sweet, like fresh baked apple crumble.
“I’ve got you, little dude.” I whisper hoarsely, overwhelmed by the guy in my arms.
Chapter Four
Charlie
Forced Socialization
You know what’s worse than being the only I.T. person at a company of tech illiterate baby boomers and gen xers? Being forced to go out after work with said baby boomers and gen xers. Even on a good day, I don’t want to spend my free time trying to make awkward small talk at a bar. And today is not a good day.
It’s not that I’m pessimistic and antisocial…okay, maybe I am a little bit…but this is just not my scene. Give me a night at home with my closest friends playingZombicideorDying Light.Give me aFinal Destinationmovie marathon with my buddies. You know what I like? Peace. And quiet. Getting high with my friends and playing games. Laughing at stupid movies. Not this. Not the stench of beer. Not sticky floors that my shoes cling to with every step.
Usually, I say no to these types of things. Throw out a ‘sorry, I’ve got plans!’ (even when those plans are just me and my couch). No such luck this time.
One of my co-workers, a lady in her mid-forties named Nancy, asked me what I was doing tonight. I was distracted, trying to fix a colossal mistake she somehow made which rendered her work-issued laptop unusable (I had to restore the damn thing. I mean, c’mon Nance, how do you mess it up that bad? What are you doing on it?), when she asked. And you know how I answered? Without thinking, I said ‘nothing really, I’ve got a date with my couch’. Who says that? Everyone knows that you don’t give details when someone asks what you’re doing later!You say anything except ‘nothing really’. Make something up, for fuck’s sake. But no, my fried, decaffeinated brain said ‘nothing really’.
And that’s how I ended up here. At this god-awful sports bar called The End Zone. The only type of end zone this is bringing me to is to the end of my sanity. All my co-workers are here, crowded around tables shouting and laughing over each other. Let me tell you, Nancy is a big drinker. She’s absolutely sloshed. Maybe that’s how she messed up her laptop so bad? Maybe she was day drinking. That would explain a lot actually.
Hopefully, I won’t be far behind Nance. The only thing that’s getting me through this horrendous situation is my old faithful, the delicious whiskey sour. Now, I’m not usually a big drinker, but if I’m going to spend another minute in this jock infested hellhole, I’m gonna need to drink several more of these, and fast.
By my third whiskey sour, I’m feelin’ prettttty goooddd. I’m laughing and schmoozing with the best of them, let me tell you. I’m practically in with the group now. And you know what? Maybe they aren’t so bad. Maybe I was too hasty in my judgement.
Annnddddd there goes that thought, because Nance just upchucked all over my sneakers.
“S-sorry Char—”Hiccup. “Charlie.” Nancy wipes her pukey mouth on the back of her hand, and then proceeds to pat my shoulder with said puke covered hand.
What the fuck. I’m never doing this shit again.
I step away, ignoring Nancy’s continued apologies and everyone else asking if she and I are okay.
Grabbing a big wad of napkins from a nearby table, I wipe off as much vomit as I can. Eughh. These were new chucks too. I’ll never get the stench of beer vomit from the canvas.
Once they’re as clean as I can get them with one-ply, see through, bar napkins, I head to the bathroom to wash up. Maybe I should just go home.
As I’m standing at the bathroom sink, scrubbing my hands of all traces of Nancy’s stomach contents, the whiskey sours really start to hit me. The world begins to spin around me, and I’m forced to whiteknuckle the sink to keep my balance. Ah, fuck. I guess pounding drinks wasn’t the smartest choice.
“Hey, buddy, you okay?” A deep, yet soft and kind voice, says from behind me.
“Euggghhhhh…” I groan, and suddenly I’m looking at the ceiling as it gets further away from me.
