The bloke’s name was Cortena, or something. A handful in the cage, a cheap suck, my afternoon tickle. He had ratty, brown hair and a beard that looked like something dead and wild was trying to eat his face. Third of a group of four that walked into the coffee-fuck shop that morning, and I should have known better than to look, and judge, and tremble in anticipation of the collision of flesh.
And to think that Howard still wants me after this. Poor Howie, alone and unflinching before the travesty of his life, my breasts in his hands eternally, and he thinks a finger offered is a finger sold.
Demonshine off the last one in. I paused – I guess I was reluctant. Sheep; not necessarily my favorite meal, but hunger is as hunger wants. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
The coffee tastes like something a hairy nomad took a bath in.
My teeth extended across the room.
This bloke, Cortena, was a vampire hunter. And now, I’m dying, naked and alone – just like the little girl I thought all this would take me away from.
Awful, this death. And not without regret.
It was the drugs.