Blood Life Page 11

  “Oh, this newer night club down the street. I’ve heard so much about it and I’m dying to go.”

  “Sure, we’ll go,” she agreed, deciding not to crawl into the little hermit shell she had grown accustomed to lately. She needed to go have some fun.

  “Great, I’m almost ready. Hurry up, you.”

  Camilla’s voice trailed off into the bathroom where she stood in front of the mess of makeup she had made all over the sink. “Where were you for so long today? I told you to meet me here at noon.”

  “Oh, my car acted up again. But it’s fine now. Some guy helped me out.” She almost didn’t believe she had just said that out loud.

  “Some guy? Who?”

  Shit!

  “A gentleman by the name of Roman,” she explained, trying to sound nonchalant. “He was very nice. Beautiful house.”

  “His house?” Camilla questioned, stunned.

  Alethea closed her eyes tight.

  “You went into his house?” Camilla returned to the bedroom and faced Alethea, narrowing her eyes to study her friend.

  Taking a deep breath, giving up the struggle not to explain Roman to her, Alethea answered, “Yes, as a matter of fact I did go into his house.”

  Recalling the meeting, she smiled a little unsure of how she had behaved in front of such elegant company. He wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met before.

  “And you complain of men trying to take advantage of you?” Camilla teased, waving her hands around and returning to the bathroom mirror. She picked up black eyeliner and lit the tip with a lighter to soften it. “Well, honey, going into houses of men you don’t even know can land you in a very uncomfortable situation. Just FYI.”

  Alethea was oblivious to Camilla’s lecture, focusing on her memories of Roman.

  “Was he an older man?” She applied her eyeliner, never glancing at Alethea through the interrogation.

  “No,” Alethea answered, snapping back. “He was quite young, actually, but his eyes were very old.” Alethea thought back on his expression as she left him standing in front of his house.

  “What’s this?” Camilla asked, finally breaking herself from her image in the mirror. “What is this? Are you in love? Oh my God, the woman does have feelings!” she cried, moving to stand in the doorway and gawk at Alethea.

  This mildly irritated Alethea. “No,” she closed her eyes confused. “I mean, yes, I have feelings, but I’m far from in love with him. I don’t even know him, not to mention I’ll probably never see him again anyway,” she explained, shuffling through her purse, fishing for her own make-up to freshen up with. “So love is definitely out of the question.”

  Retrieving a compact from her purse, she proceeded to open it up and dab out the shininess on her face.

  “Oh, well, it was worth a try.” She turned and walked back in front of the mirror to finish. “You sounded funny,” she said, without moving her lips, while putting on lip-liner.

  Still looking into the tiny mirror in the compact, she angrily picked at a blackhead on her chin.

  “Alethea, stop picking at it! You’ll only make it worse,” demanded Camilla, walking over to her quickly.

  Waving her away, Alethea countered, “What sounded funny? I just told you what I did today. Why does that sound funny to you?” She instantly jumped on the defense. “God, Camilla, have you lost it?” She went back to picking her face. “And I’ll pick if I want to!” She couldn’t help but feel ridiculous about their spat. They sounded like siblings, or an old married couple that did nothing but nag at each other.

  Dismissing Alethea’s stubbornness, Camilla said under her breath, “It is not me who’s lost it.”

  “What was that?” Alethea snapped.

  “Look, let’s just forget it and go have fun, okay?”

  “All right,” she agreed. “I’m almost ready.”

  The boom box in her room was playing The Ramones softly, and taking it in, she began to feel better. She needed something to pump her up for the night, and The Ramones had a way of doing that well. She started bobbing her head to the music, walking over to blast it and then dancing her way into the bathroom to finish getting ready.

  “Every parting gives a foretaste of death,

  every reunion a hint of the resurrection.”

  –Arthur Schopenhauer

  Twenty Three

  “Will you need my assistance this evening, sir?” asked Charles, the newest of Roman’s crew at his nightclub, Dusk.

  “No, Charles, thank you. I’ll be in my office.”

  Roman walked away from the guard and into his nightclub. The Deceased were finishing up their sound-check and making room for Moaning Lisa. Roman liked these types of bands, they played interesting electronic styles of music; it fascinated him.

  Clubbers referred to his place as having “gothic” or “industrial” vibes. People from all walks of life enjoyed the chance to let go and release stresses of the day by dancing the night away. Roman would watch them, observing their movements and almost trance-like dancing — as if the music was leading them to different realms of reality.

  Many saw the slower, more gothic music as a meditation, and dancing to it as meditation in motion, a way of reaching spiritual heights using the sound of the music to get there.

  The faster music was more of a release of negativity for them. Regulars considered dancing this way to be an ultimate workout. They claimed that all worries disappeared if you allowed the music to envelope you. Most of them worshiped the chance to dance like they wanted at Dusk. Their behavior sometimes resembled a group of followers in a religious cult. Almost impossible to comprehend unless experienced first hand but, for Roman, observing was quite enjoyable.

  Upstairs in the sound proof office, Roman paced the marble floor thinking about the possibility of Alethea being Alexandria.

  Alethea was only a child.

  That thought kept crashing through his mind, trying to change it. She was no more than Alexandria’s age at death; then again, he’s the same age as he was at Alexandria’s death as well, given a couple of centuries. So, there really wasn’t a difference, but he felt ancient compared to her. Of course, that should seem obvious, but it had been so long, and Roman wasn’t sure he wanted to find her anymore.

  There was a heavy knock at the door.

  “What is it?” Roman called.

  The thick doors allowed only broken mumbles to escape through the tiny cracks. Roman, realizing this since it happened every time, walked over and opened the massive doors.

  “Yes, Lance,” he said, greeting one of his bouncers. “How are you this evening?”

  “Fine, sir, you called for me?” he asked, looking worried.

  “No. Actually, I just told Charles I didn’t need anything tonight.” Roman drew his eyebrows together, watching Lance’s forehead break out in a sweat, intoxicated by its salty aroma. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “But,” Lance stopped, realizing the nature of the tension in the room.

  “But what?”

  “Well . . . Devendra left a message for me a moment ago saying you needed me.”

  “What do you mean? Devendra is gone!” he snapped. Then, gaining his composure, he continued, “That is impossible!”

  He turned away from Lance, flushed and angry. He walked over to the enormous, tinted window on the sidewall that overlooked downtown Burgundy.

  “Forgive me, sir, I just thought—”

  “Well, you thought wrong now didn’t you.” Roman interjected, never turning back around to face Lance. “I will call you if I need you.”

  “As you wish. Forgive the intrusion.” He turned and left the office, closing the heavy doors behind him.

  Roman folded his hands behind his back and continued to stare out the window. In the street below, he saw two women approaching. The guards were turning them away. At a closer glance he realized it was Alethea! He walked over to his in-house phone and dialed security.

  “Yeah,” came across the other
end.

  “Charles, what seems to be the problem with the young ladies?”

  “Well, these two don’t want to pay cover charge to see the show and—”

  “I see. Well, let them by. No need to upset anyone.”

  “But, sir,” Charles argued, surprised that Roman would let anyone in without the paying the cover charge. Charles had worked club doors before and the owners were usually pretty strict when it came to this.

  “Charles, don’t start with me! They are friends of mine. I just forgot to tell you they would be attending,” Roman explained.

  “Oh, well, they didn’t mention you,” Charles replied, suspiciously.

  Cocky son-of-a-bitch! “Charles, unless you want to find yourself without a job . . .” he warned, surprised with the kid’s attitude.

  Pause. “Whatever.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Has Victoria shown up yet?”

  “Not yet. Why?”

  “She will be coming with a male friend, Eric. They’re in, too, no pay,” Roman finished, firmly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The line went dead.

  Alethea was there! Did she know Roman owned the club? How could she, they hadn’t talked about it.

  He instantly tried to tap into her mind. Nothing.

  If this woman was Alexandria, wouldn’t he be able to read her thoughts with ease or was it the exact opposite? Infuriating!

  Twenty Four

  “Well?” asked Camilla, taking a seat up at the bar. “We’re in and for free.”

  “Yeah, I wonder who called and changed that guy’s mind so fast?”

  “No idea, but who cares? Moaning Lisa is playing tonight; I love them.”

  “Oh,” Alethea replied, dryly.

  “Cheer up, Alethea. I don’t want to hang around a dead-beat all night.”

  Camilla pivoted around on the bar stool to order a Sea Breeze for herself, pulling out her identification card for the wary bartender.

  “There you go. See, I’m 23,” she said, reading his nametag, “Carl.”

  The bartender smiled at her as he prepared the drink. Alethea looked up at the stage, watching the colors swim through the air. Great beams of blue, yellow, red, purple and green lights battled in mid-air to cloak the crowd, ricocheting off a disco ball that hung in the center of the ceiling.

  The Deceased were making their entrance and people crushed up to the front of the stage, pushing and shoving each other to get closer.

  Alethea studied her surroundings. It was a monstrous venue. There were pillars up on the stage that supported massive bars of lights, the dance floor had to be at least a square mile, and the bar seemed long enough to accommodate all of Burgundy.

  She couldn’t see to the ends of the building from where she sat and there were signs for bathrooms with arrows pointing in every direction.

  “This place is enormous, Camilla,” Alethea remarked in awe.

  “What? I can’t hear you!” Camilla screamed at her, leaning forward and offering her ear to Alethea.

  “Never mind!” she yelled back, laughing, and looked up to watch the performance.

  A man, with light, curly hair and a goatee walked up to Camilla and whispered something in her ear. Camilla nodded to the man.

  “I’ll be right back, he wants to dance. Do you want to come along?”

  “Dance?”

  “Yes!”

  Alethea shook her head.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “Okay,” Alethea mouthed, half-smiling.

  With that Camilla walked away with the man.

  He was nice looking, just hope he’s not a creep, Alethea thought to herself. Then she started digging in her purse for a mirror, feeling the need for more lipstick. Somebody approached and sat down next to her. “Hello there, Alethea.”

  She could only look straight ahead for a moment, finding that she was frozen by the familiarity of the voice. She turned her head to find Roman smiling casually back at her.

  “Hi,” she answered, shocked at his presence. The music seemed quieter. She had no problem hearing him like she had Camilla. “What would a man like you be doing here?” she asked, raising the mirror to check her lips.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, chuckling.

  “I don’t know; you just don’t seem the type to be clubbing.”

  “Yes, well, I belong here.”

  “Is that so?” she mused, avoiding his eyes. Why the hell was she so nervous around him? Her trembling irritated her.

  He leaned closer, breathing into her ear as he spoke. “Let’s just say,” he whispered, “it suits me.”

  He moved back upright and made a subtle gesture and the bartender hurried over. Roman mumbled something to him then turned back to face Alethea. “What are you drinking?”

  “Merlot,” she answered, but on a second thought, she added, “usually, but I don’t think I’ll have any now.”

  She was worried about her feelings in the sudden company. A glass of merlot sounded delicious, but she did not know if it would condemn her or not; make her do or say something that she would regret later.

  “That’s fine,” he said, turning to the bartender and waving him away.

  “People seem to listen to you here,” she commented, unleashing sarcasm to avoid giving him too much to feed on. At the moment, she was too nervous to judge his intentions.

  “Seems quite appropriate.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I own this place.”

  Hiding her shock, she murmured, “I see.”

  She studied the way he held himself; the way the cashmere suit hugged his massive chest.

  He turned back to the bartender and ordered that glass of merlot.

  “Really, I’m not thirsty, Roman, but thanks anyway.”

  With that, she peeled her eyes away from him and looked back at the stage. When she turned back to apologize for the sharpness in her voice, he was gone. Looking forward again, she closed her eyes and exhaled for the first time since he showed up next to her.

  Alexandria.

  His voice drowned her ears so that she no longer heard the obnoxious cries of the crowd and the whining of the instruments on stage. She looked again at the seat he was in to find Camilla, just as she was before that man had come up to ask for a dance.

  “Who’s Alexandria?”

  “What? Who are you talking about, hon?” Camilla yelled, dancing in her seat to The Deceased.

  “Never mind,” she muttered, looking away from her in confusion. “So how was your dance? Kind of quick, wasn’t it?”

  “What dance? Are you okay?” With a puzzled expression, Camilla moved in to examine Alethea’s face, “What have you been drinking over here?” Her face flushed with concern, her eyebrows furrowed together.

  “Nothing,” she promised, giving her a fake smile. She looked over at a hallway that led to some restrooms. “Camilla,” she yelled in her friend’s ear, “I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Alethea hopped off the stool and walked toward some signs that pointed down a long hallway. She thought she may have heard Camilla asking if she should come along, but Alethea kept moving.

  Catching a side-glance of Roman standing up against the bar, she swung around in an attempt to meet his gaze. He wasn’t there. Carl, the bartender, stood there, wiping a freshly cleaned beer mug off.

  She looked away from him and continued toward the restroom. Just as she approached the doors, a bouncer interrupted her.

  “Miss,” he said, gently taking hold of her arm, “the boss would like to have a word with you.”

  “I don’t know you or your boss.” She wiggled to release her arm from the bouncer’s hold. It tightened in response to her fight. “Please, let me go or I’ll call security,” she warned him.

  “I am security,” the man explained, with a steady, unmoving face. “You don’t want to let the boss down, I assure you. That wouldn’t be
wise.”

  Panic hit; her intuition was good and judging by the way her gut felt, she knew to be afraid. “Oh really?” she argued, despite her horror, and fought harder to get free. “You have no right to—”

  Over his shoulder, she heard someone approaching. It was Roman. He was wearing the suit he was wearing before when she thought she might have imagined him sitting with her. His eyes penetrated her, rendering her helpless. He searched her soul for the answer; he dug into her relentlessly, a worthy sacrifice for a few minutes of discomfort. She closed her eyes against the foggy feeling it gave her.

  The bouncer released her and she moved obediently towards Roman, forgetting all earlier fears of him. “Thank you, Lance,” Roman said, and put an arm out to lay on Alethea’s shoulder as she approached.

  He led her upstairs into his office. She remained in front of the doors after he had closed them and waited for him to say something, anything to justify her being there.

  She stood staring at him, waiting, hoping she would be able to keep her face hard in the presence of such a man, because what she really wanted to do was fall into his arms and just let him hold her forever. That thought troubled her the most because her feelings were unrealistically strong. She never seemed the type for this sort of thing. She was always the one in denial, especially concerning matters of the heart.

  “Alethea,” he started, pouring her a glass of merlot, “allow me to explain myself to you.”

  He picked up the crystal glass and set it down on the dark granite coffee table in front of the checkered brown and black suede sofa, motioning for her to take a seat. She flinched when he spoke her name.

  Hesitantly, she walked over and accepted his offerings.

  He continued, after giving her a few seconds to adjust. “Now, I realize you must be quite confused right now, but—”

  “Yes, I am,” she cut in, trying to sip her merlot and keep her wobbly self under control at the same time. Of course, she failed, causing a stream of wine to jump out of the glass onto her dress.

  “At least the dress is dark,” he laughed and passed her a handkerchief. “There’s a bathroom right through those doors if you need to wipe it up better.”