B Positive by Jewel Killian

One

Fuck, I love this job.

I stared down the tragically beautiful ass-wipe from my side of the bar. What a shame good genes and nice cheekbones didn’t also mean good sense.

A single bead of sweat formed at Mr. Roofie’s hairline as I repeated myself. “If you didn’t do anything to it, then you drink it.” I kept my service-industry smile locked and loaded and nudged the vodka cranberry closer.

Friday nights at The Mixing House didn’t get much better than this.

The ice clinked against the rocks glass, ruby-red liquid splashing onto the polished bar top as his gaze darted from it to my eyes.

A flash of fear crossed his face before he covered it with a cocky half-smile that would have been attractive if he weren’t the living definition of a garbage human.

“You know what?” He straightened, pushing his shoulders back. “I don’t have to take this. I’m going to another bar. One where they don’t insult their paying customers.”

Oooooh, the big flex. The phrase that all asshole customers liked to trot out when their feelings got hurt. I couldn't believe he’d been able to restrain himself from using the classics like, “The customer is always right” and “Do you know how much money I spend here?”

But I wasn’t about to let him stroll into another bar to potentially drug another woman. Not on my fucking watch.

So, in the fraction of a moment before his brain could tell his arms to push away from the bar, I caught the edge of his sleeve and trapped his wrist. My arm definitely blurred with the effort, something I tried to keep under wraps, but I made an exception for this dirtbag. I yanked him closer, letting my baby blues fill with malice. “Yup. You paid for it.” I dropped my voice, edging my words with the barest graze of vamp magic. “Now drink it.”

His pallor tinged with green as he let out the cutest little “eep.”

“Here’s the deal, Mr. Rapey Pants. You can drink this vodka cranberry, lovingly made by yours truly, and spend the night in the ER with nurses who deserve to be paid far more than they earn to make sure your sex-offender ass doesn’t die.”

The man’s face broke out in a cold sweat, his lip quivering as he struggled against my compulsion holding him in place.

The other patrons dotted around the bar, who had been surreptitiously watching our exchange, now gave us a wider berth, moving to either end of the bar top. But that didn’t keep them from hushing their conversations and casting covert glances toward us. That, plus the cranky jukebox crapping out mid-Roy Orbison song all put a finer point on my ultimatum.

I wasn’t mad about it.

I leaned in close, getting a good whiff of his acrid weaselly scent. Humans on the whole didn’t smell bad to me, just the shitty ones. “Or you can walk out of here knowing that I will track your revolting man-stench, find you, and compel you into being my own personal himbo.”

He dragged in a shuddering breath. “What’s a himbo?”

I gave him a wide, genuine smile. I’d hoped he would ask. “It’s a bimbo but for hims.”

He stared at me, confusion settling into his gaze. Apparently, to him, that didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

“You think it sounds nice, right? Being a sex slave to a pretty blonde bartender?”

“I mean…”

I didn’t let him finish, yanking him fully onto the bar top. He let out another satisfying “eep” as his button-down slid across the polished wood. “I’ll keep your mind so caged, you won’t mind being used by every member of my nest. Including the men. Big, burly, mean men who don’t take kindly to little ass-wipes who resort to drugging women to get laid.”

I let my glare go full dark, swimming in vamp magic as a maniacal smile danced on my lips. It was a pretty good show, considering I was bluffing my ass off.

My nest kicked me out months ago.

But the man pissed himself.

And reached a shaking hand for the drugged drink.

“The next time you even think about touching a woman’s drink, I want you to think of me and my nest using your body in ways more imaginative than even your fucked-up head could dream of.”

He nodded, straining to down the vodka cranberry in his prone position, but managed to do so without spilling a drop.

I nodded to Jerry at the door to come take the lowlife to the back.

The six-foot-five-inch ginger bouncer looked the part to a T but was actually the sweetest, most well-read teddy bear of a man I’d ever met. He was also the owner of The Mixing House and had kind of taken me under his wing. He’d shown me the lay of the land my first days at the bar, introducing me to coworkers and regular customers while also making sure patrons didn’t get too handsy or rude. That was before he figured out I was perfectly capable of taking care of trash like this guy myself.

The first time he saw me level a dude twice my size for grabbing my ass, I swear he got misty-eyed.

Jerry ambled over, his game-face scowl fixed in place. Patrons stared openly, mouths gaping and drinks forgotten, as he snagged the would-be felon under the arms and pulled him from the bar.

“Give it about ten, then call for EMS,” I said.

“You got it, Eden.”

The last thing I needed was the guy dying in the bar. Police? Here? Questioning me? No thanks. There wasn’t enough time in the day to list all the reasons that was the worst idea.

But a bit of his own medicine? That sure seemed like justice to me.

Only after Jerry turned the corner and disappeared from sight did the bar breathe out a collective sigh. Chatter started once more. The jukebox screeched to a start again. And I resumed taking orders and pouring drinks.

The pretty brunette he’d swindled into a date returned from the restroom moments later.

“Did you see where Chad went?” she asked as I came to her seat.

It took every bit of restraint I had not to roll my eyes. Because of fucking course his name was Chad.

Curiosity etched the woman’s features. Not embarrassment or worry that Chad might have left without telling her, both things people who ask that question usually have plastered across them like a neon sign.

“I caught Chad messing with your drink.”

Her deep brown eyes bulged in disbelief.

I hadn’t, in fact, seen Chad do anything of the sort.

But I had caught that distinctly medicinal, chemical scent coming from her rocks glass shortly after I’d returned from taking orders at the other end of the bar.

The brunette shook her head. “Fucking Chads! Oooh! I should have never swiped right on him. That’s the last time I let my lady garden pick dates.”

I frowned, commiserating. “You never can tell with some people. Tell ya what though,” I offered as she gathered her keys and glared at the empty rocks glass. “From now on, bring all your first dates here and I’ll make sure you’re taken care of, okay?”

She nodded and was about to turn away before realization flashed in her eyes and she reached into her purse. “God, did he even pay for the drinks?” She pulled a few bills out and offered them to me.

“Not a chance, honey. You’re all good. You get outta here and go home. Take a bubble bath or something. Oh, even better, read a spicy book and have some wine in the bubble bath.”

She smiled at me. “A far better Friday night than Chad was going to give me.” She paused for a moment, turned to leave once more, but again she halted. “Hey, what time is your shift over? We could hang out afterward. You seem really cool and I was just thinking to myself how much I like your style.” She gave my halter crop top and high-waisted jeans a once-over. “Besides, it’s the least I can do since you just saved my life.” A mischievous smirk lifted her lips. “We could make our own fun, if you get what I mean.” Her gaze raked over me once again, this time with pure desire.

And…

Her scent changed.

I froze.

What the…?

She stared at me, her big brown eyes full of thoughts so vulgar, so carnal…

Oh shit!That little fuck boy had me so distracted, I’d stopped veiling.

I snapped my veil back up, buckling down my power harder than ever, and glanced around the bar to gauge the extent of my fuck-up. Relief washed over me when I found Miss Brunette was the only victim. I hadn’t let the veil slip fully; only the smallest fraction of power slipped through, but it was still enough that this poor woman had gone all mushy and moon-eyed for me.

She’d gone from zero to “let’s scissor” faster than I’d gotten drunk at my first frat party.

Her eyes went wide, cheeks blazing with red. “Oh my gosh, I cannot believe I just said that. I have no idea what came over me. Unfortunately, I’m strictly dickly. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re gorgeous, it’s just—”

I cut off her babbling with a hand. “Don’t worry about it,” I said with a smile I certainly didn’t feel.

“So that’s probably a no, then, huh?”

“Definitely a no.” I glanced at the clock at the back of the bar. “I already have plans, I’m afraid.”

“Hm, shame. Well, another time maybe,” she said and tossed me a fucking wink over her shoulder.

Shit.I could kick myself for that careless fuck-up. As good as I was at this job, I was kind of a shit vampire. Who lets their veil just slip like that?

A shitty vamp who wasn’t trained properly, that’s who.

The poor woman who’d almost gotten drugged had also just caught the barest taste of vamp magnetism. And now, she’d spend the next week pining over me with no idea why.

Magnetism convinced humans we were safe, even as we bit their necks and drained their blood.

They were perfectly happy to give themselves to us.

Because my voice, scent, appearance, even my mannerisms, when not blocked out fully, invited connection, elicited trust, and even short-circuited sexual orientation.

Vampires were evolution’s Rohypnol.

And one reason tonight was the biggest night of my life.

I’d planned for this night all year.

One last job to set me up and hit the nastiest vamp in town where it hurt most.

His bank account.

See, I wasn’t just a cute vampire bartender with a slight vigilante complex.

Although I loved it, I did the bartending gig for the taxes. I had to report something to the IRS if I wanted to stay within human laws.

Not that I had problems breaking them. I mean, whoever heard of a law-abiding thief?

And that?

That was my other favorite job. Taking from the fat cats of the city to make my own little nest egg.

In three hours, this shift would be over and I’d be dolled up and well on my way to getting everything I’d ever wanted.

Five mil.

That’s been the goal since I was little.

Well, truthfully, the goal then was only a hundred thousand. That was the number my child brain thought would make me whole.

Ah, inflation, you dirty little shit.

Five million was my new “safe” number. The figure I’ve been working toward my whole vamp life. Five million tucked away in an off-shore account meant protection. It was resources and safety. That number would allow me to weather whatever came next. Whatever new alpha-hole Chad vampire set up shop here, I could leave, never look back, and in moments be set up somewhere new with a new identity. Multiple times, should the need arise.

I could live off the interest alone indefinitely, something most vamps didn’t need to consider because they would either compel and take what they wanted, or had already built their wealth.

Five mil gave me options, freedom, and breathing room.

And tonight was the night that dream came true.