The Bloodsucker Blues

Chapter 2

Chapter 2“Oh, my God, are those cookies?”

“Um, yeah. I—”

“Were you baking again? Why didn’t you tell me you were baking again?” Stacey Peraza all but threw the glass she was washing in the sink and marched over to the foil-lined shoebox Brandon had put on the bar. Her glossy black hair bounced on her shoulders and her stiletto heels made little thip thip thip noises on the anti-slip mat. Even with the heels she was barely five foot-four, like a Latina hobbit.

“Yeah. I—”

“Cookies,” Stacey murmured worshipfully. She lifted the lid off, peering inside like an appraiser at an art auction. “Oh, my God, it’s chocolate chip!” She grabbed one immediately. “Hey, Mel!” she bellowed at the back, “Brandon made cookies again!”

“Ow.” Brandon rubbed his ear as Melanie Stine clomped through the swinging door with two cases of bottled beer in her arms. She flatly ignored him when he moved to help her, finishing her trek to the bar to set the cases down.

She eyed his arms scornfully. “It’s cute how you think I couldn’t bench-press you.”

Stacey burst out laughing, scattering crumbs. She belatedly smacked her hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she said, mouth full.

“That was cruel and uncalled for,” Brandon said. “I’m going to complain to the owner of this two-bit establishment.”

“You do that.” Mel, who did triathlon races for fun and resembled a Viking right down to her braided red hair, looked wistfully at the cookies. Then she took a fortifying breath and pushed the shoebox closer to Stacey, grimacing like it was contaminated. “Cookies aren’t keto,” she murmured, as if reminding herself. “You’re here early, with baked goods. What happened?”

“Cookies are what happened.” Stacey grabbed another one and bit off half of it, chewing lustily. “These are delicious. I love you. Marry me. I don’t care if you’re gay. We’ll have cookies and beautiful children.”

“No, thanks. You’ll abandon me as soon as someone brings you cake.” Brandon opened the cases to put the beer in the bar fridge. “Besides, we live in the same house. You can access my cookies anytime.” He paused. “That sounded way less kinky in my head.”

Mel shook her head fondly. “You sweet, innocent child.”

“I still want to know what happened,” Stacey said. She grabbed a third cookie then elbowed Brandon more-or-less gently in the side. “You only bake when you’re upset.”

“That’s not true.” Brandon went to the sink to finish with the glasses, since it was clear Stacey wouldn’t get back to them anytime soon. Normally he came later in the evening, ready to help tend bar or set up the sound system for the bands. The rest of the night he spent as a gofer, server or barback, or encouraging anyone being a d**k to find the swiftest route to the door. He liked his job. It wasn’t exotic or glamorous, but it paid well and he was never bored. He liked the hours, too. He finished at two, was asleep by four and awake again at noon. Mel and Stacey teased him about being a vampire. Then again, Mel and Stacey teased him about everything.

Tonight, though, he’d come in early. Stacey had woken him up, as usual, careening groggily around the kitchen. Then as soon as she left, her uncomfortably large brown tabby had decided to sit on Brandon’s head. Most of the time, Brandon would have moved Katze, rolled over, and gone back to sleep. But the instant his eyes opened he was pissed at Chad all over again.

There was no point in staying in bed after that, so he made cookies. The precise measurements and repetitive motions of baking were meditative, and the results made his friends happy. Making other people happy always helped him feel better.

Today, though, Brandon couldn’t say the baking had particularly helped. He stopped being furious at Chad, but only because his mind wandered immediately back to the cul-de-sac, with the pale man in the tacky house.

He couldn’t have been in Brandon’s life more than thirty seconds, but something about his oversized red shirt and big, sunken eyes refused to leave Brandon’s mind. Why was he even awake at that hour? Was he a shift worker? Insomniac? Too ill to sleep? Brandon couldn’t possibly have woken him. Why had he been about to unlock the door?

“It’s completely true. You always bake when you’re upset,” Mel said, dragging Brandon’s mind back to the conversation. She tugged the shoebox closer, glowered at the contents and then huffed and snatched up a cookie. “I’m eating this under duress. Just so you know.”

“You’re a brave woman,” Stacey said. Then, “Come on already, Brandon. Spill. Did Chad do something else?”

Brandon shook his head. “No, not really.” He considered telling them about the man he sort-of met but decided there wasn’t enough story there to share. “It’s just…sometimes I feel like the biggest loser on the planet. I mean, why can’t I meet guys who aren’t assholes?”

“Maybe ‘cause you work in a bar,” Mel said with no irony whatsoever. She put the lid back on the shoebox and firmly tucked it under the counter with the extra toothpicks and stirrers. Brandon made a mental note to bring it to the kitchen staff later. “Nice guys don’t go to bars to pick up, you know?”

“Didn’t you meet your husband in a bar? This bar, even?” Stacey said.

“Yes I did. But that doesn’t count since I own the bar where we met. Also, I didn’t pick Tony up, because he works for me.” Mel looked at her husband, who was working further down the long, oak bar. He was flirting with two patrons and vigorously shaking someone’s drink at the same time. Tony saw her and gave her a huge, unrepentant grin. Mel grinned back, looking sweetly besotted.

Stacey and Brandon sighed.

Tony bid farewell to his new fans, casually scooped up his tip and sauntered over to add it to the till. “No one gets to talk about me unless I can defend myself.”

“Mel was just telling Brandon he shouldn’t go out with anyone he meets at work,” Stacey said.

“Sage advice,” Tony said, then pulled his wife into a passionate kiss. Mel ended up bending Tony backwards over her arm, holding him in a perfect arc like he weighed less than two cases of beer.

“She met you here,” Brandon said to him when Mel finally pulled Tony upright.

“Yeah, but I work for her, so it doesn’t count.”

“It’s like she grew you in a jar,” Stacey said.

“Nah. I would’ve made him taller.” Mel stroked Tony’s chin, then smacked him lightly on the jaw. He shivered happily. “I’m shaving this on the weekend.” She ran her fingers through his goatee.

“But it makes me look like Iron Man!” Tony turned to the others imploringly. “It does, right? I look awesome.”

Stacey frowned. “Comic book or movie Iron Man?”

Tony shrugged. “Whichever one’s cooler.”

Brandon actually did think that Anthony Kao looked a fair bit like Tony Stark, provided Stark’s parents had been born in Taiwan. He’d never asked if Tony’s obsession with the character had started because they shared a name, or because the fictional Tony was also smitten with a formidable redhead. “You’re about the same height as the movie one, if it matters.”

“I was talking about the awesome facial hair.”

“It’s not awesome,” Mel said. “It itches.”

“Only when I—”

“TMI!” Stacey yelled. “Besides, we were talking about Brandon’s inability to find decent boyfriends.”

“Chad was a d**k,” Tony said. “You can’t trust guys with names like that. You need at least five letters.”

“Your name’s Tony,” Stacey said.

Tony shook his head. “It’s Anthony. Nicknames don’t count.”

“You said you liked him when I introduced you,” Brandon said.

“Only until he told me his name.”

“The real problem is, you pick badly,” Mel said. She took a quick, appraising look around the room, determined there were no customers in need of attention, then crossed her arms and leaned against the bar. “There are plenty of nice guys out there, but you keep going for the creeps who make a good first impression.”

Chad had definitely made a good first impression. And a second and third. Brandon had just made the mistake of believing anything he said. “So you’re saying I should go for the ones who make a bad first impression?”

Like the brunet on the other side of the door, with his bad hair, too-fair complexion, too-thin body, and too-short height. Not that Brandon’s first impression had been any better, but still. The other guy looked…lonely.

Lonely?

“I’m saying you should go for the ones who treat you right,” Mel said, while Brandon was wondering where that bizarre certainty had come from. She rapped him on the arm with her knuckles, probably assuming she’d done it gently. “You give too many second chances to assholes who don’t deserve it.”

“Too many first chances,” Stacey corrected her darkly.

Brandon sighed and rubbed his arm. “Chad only cheated on me once.”

“Dude,” Tony said.

“I mean, I didn’t give him a second chance,” Brandon explained. “I may be stupid but I’m not a masochist.”

“What’s wrong with being a masochist?” Tony asked.

“Nothing, baby.” Mel patted his cheek with a vigor that made him grin and Brandon flinch inwardly. “I’m not paying you to get slapped during work hours, though.” She jutted her chin at the other end of the bar. “Go do your job.”

“As you wish.” Tony took Mel’s hand then bowed low to kiss it, looking through his lashes at her the whole time. Mel giggled, going nearly as red as her hair, then watched her husband mosey back to work.

More customers had begun to trickle in for the evening. Wednesday was a notoriously slow night at the Butter Bar, all the same, there were too many people now to justify lounging around. Stacey went to wait tables and Mel disappeared into the kitchen.

Brandon finished washing the glasses, making sure each one gleamed before sliding them into their racks. He couldn’t get his mind off his early morning sort-of meeting. He hadn’t thought the guy looked lonely at the time, but the descriptor had taken root and now Brandon couldn’t shake it.

Maybe that’s why you choose lousy partners: you make up tragic backstories and then you feel sorry for them.

“Yeah, maybe,” Brandon murmured. He slid the last glass into place, then knelt to get the box of stirrers to top up the container on the bar.

Maybe his random encounter would like cookies too. God knew he looked like he could use the calories.

I’m not really thinking of bringing him cookies, though. Because that’s insane.

Not to mention, Brandon hadn’t been planning to return to the scene of his near-fatal embarrassment. Especially since if he did, he’d really look like he was casing the joint. So there was no point in wondering who the pale, otherworldly young man was. Or why he was awake and wandering lonely through a mansion in the middle of the night. Or what color his eyes were, or what he’d look like if he smiled…

Stacey clacked over to the bar and dear God, but he was happy she couldn’t read his mind. “I need two frozen margaritas and an unsweet tea.”

“Sure.” Brandon grabbed the appropriate glasses and stuck the first one under the nozzle of the margarita slush dispenser. He pulled the lever, casually pretending filling the glasses took all his attention. “What would you do if you…kind of met someone by accident except you really just saw them and didn’t speak, but you wanted to see them again anyway? Hypothetically,” he added, because he really wasn’t going to see the guy again.

Stacy tilted her head, pursing her lips in thought. “Like, across-a-crowded-room accident? Or pass-on-the-street accident?”

“Kind of both?” Brandon grimaced, then huffed in annoyance at himself. He handed the two margaritas over and took the tea from the fridge to pour it. “I sort of ran into someone while I was jogging last night. We didn’t talk but I know where he lives. And I’d kind of like to see him again. Maybe.”

Stacey’s eyebrows shot up, then she looked thrilled. “Already?” She took the glass of tea and put it on her tray, but just stayed on the other side of the bar, grinning at him. “Way to get back in the saddle, tiger! That’s awesome!”

“I said ‘maybe,’” Brandon reminded them both. “And I really just saw him. I didn’t get his name, or anything.”

“Then how do you know where he lives?”

“I saw him go into a house,” Brandon lied. The idea of admitting he’d gone deer-in-headlights made him want to plunge his head into the reservoir of the frozen margarita machine. “But that’s all I know about him. Just where he lives and what he looks like.”

“That’s not so bad,” Stacey said brightly. “Just ring his doorbell and say, ‘Hi! I’m the adorably handsome dork who nearly ran you over last night. Wanna date?’.”

Brandon smirked and ducked his head, hoping she couldn’t tell he was blushing. “It’s more like, I want to apologize for scaring him, but not seem like a stalker.” He cleared his throat. “Hypothetically.”

“‘Hypothetically.’ Sure.” The skepticism on her face reminded him of Mel. “All right, if hypothetically you want to apologize…” Stacey pouted in thought, then snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “Bring him cookies! No, yeah, you totally should,” she added, though Brandon was just staring at her wide-eyed and hadn’t said anything. “Your cookies are amazing. And a stalker would never make cookies.”

“I’m sure stalkers make cookies,” Brandon said.

“Not chocolate chip,” Stacey said with authority. She plucked up her tray, balancing it expertly above her shoulder on one hand. “Seriously, it’s a great idea. Bring him cookies to apologize, then ask him out on a date.”

Brandon grabbed a nearby rag and started studiously wiping down the clean bar. “I’m not bringing him cookies,” he said, ignoring how he’d already thought about it. “And I never said I wanted to date him either.”

“You did say you wanted to see him again, though,” Stacey said, like that was all the evidence she needed. “Is he hot? Does he play for your team? What does he look like?”

“Thin,” Brandon said, running the cloth back and forth. “You should deliver your drinks before they start complaining.”

“If he’s thin, you should totally make him cookies.” Stacey clacked away with her tray balanced high before Brandon could say anything.