Once Bitten. Clare Willis

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      Morning again, and the shifting clouds cast bands of light and shadow across my bed. I had forgotten to close the blinds last night, in fact I hardly remembered getting home. The black dress lay in a heap on the floor, next to my purse, keys, and pantyhose. My head throbbed, my tongue and teeth felt fuzzy, and one of my eyes was partly glued shut. My muscles ached like I’d slept on a bed of rocks. The light from the window was killing my eyes, so I pulled the covers over my head.

      I tried to go back to sleep, but my thoughts kept jostling each other like kids at an ice cream truck. Maybe I did get drunk last night and blacked out, I thought. How else to explain the gaps in memory and the hangover? I only recalled having one drink, but I rarely drank, so I didn’t have much experience with its effects. My behavior had been unlike me in so many ways—the drinking, leaving clients unattended, not to mention making out with a guy I just met. And then feeling like I would jump off a cliff if I couldn’t see him again. All these things—not like me at all.

      Just the thought of Eric reignited an eagerness I hadn’t experienced since junior high, when I still believed in love at first sight. Being with him had been a breathtaking experience, literally. Was it possible to pass out from sheer excitement? I closed my eyes and remembered the sweet scent, the luminous blue eyes…

      Time for another symbolic slap on the cheek. And a reality check. What the hell happened last night?

      Telling myself to be clinical, I touched my body from face to knees, with each part trying to remember exactly what had happened. I was remarkably unsuccessful. The encounter with Eric remained a glorious blur. There had been kissing, I recalled the velvety feel of his lips and tongue against mine. There had been touching, from what felt like a dozen hands at once, all over my body. Yet I had come out of it wearing all my clothes. Was it possible to have had the greatest sex in my life without actually having sex? It reminded me of my mother’s favorite movie, Ghost, which she watched on DVD at least twice a year. In it the woman’s boyfriend is killed but he comes back and makes love to her, except he has no body, so it’s all in her head, or all spiritual, or something like that, but it’s staggeringly sexy.

      But Eric had been undeniably corporeal. And I did have one clear memory, from the car, while looking in the rearview mirror.

      I went to the bathroom and examined my neck, standing on my tiptoes to lean in close. There were a few rusty smudges still, so I wet a washcloth and wiped them off. Sully and Moravia had never mentioned that those in the vampire lifestyle actually used those faux fangs to suck each other’s blood, but then why would they? I would never think of telling them what I do in bed (of course there would be precious little to tell). I cleaned my neck but kept scrubbing because I was sure there was a wound somewhere, but there wasn’t.

      I walked past Kimberley’s room. Her four-poster bed with the fluffy white duvet and pink pillows was neatly made, and for a moment I wondered whether she had met someone at the club as well. Then I remembered that she was staying at her parents’ house while they were on vacation in Bermuda.

      In the kitchen I poured a glass of orange juice and toasted a slice of bread. My stomach was churning and the last thing I wanted to do was eat, but I knew it would be good for me. The juice tasted strange, a little metallic. I checked the expiration date but it was fine. The toast seemed gritty and I wondered if Kimberley had changed to a health food brand, but the bag was the same.

      After breakfast I went to my closet and put on a sober black pantsuit with a crisp tuxedo-tailored white cotton blouse, hoping the conservative attire would counteract my feeling of being a crazy vampire-chasing slut.