Page 6 of A Vow for the Vamp
Maybe she’ll give me another boob napkin.
I suppose I could go clean up inside the bar. I eye the door.
Every time it opens, I spot bodies packed in like sardines. It’s too crowded. I can’t go in there like this. I’d certainly scare a few people. I mean, sure, I’d be able to wash the blood off my face, but not the shirt.
But it’s also New York City and no one will bat an eye, likely seeing worse on the subway during their commute.
Millie must notice my internal battle and sighs, loud enough to let me know she’sdefinitelyannoyed with me.
Even though she’s the one who hitmewith a door.
“My place isn’t far.”
It’s all she says before turning away and walking down the sidewalk.
I guess I’m going to her place.
My cock jerks at the thought.
“So, Millie,” I begin when I finally catch up to her. “Are you from New York? You walk fast like a New Yorker.”
“I’m from a lot of places, but New York has been my home for one hundred and—” She pauses before clearing her throat. “It seems like I’ve been here for hundreds of years.”
“You don’t have an accent, not a New York accent anyway. Actually, the way you say certain words almost soundBritish. Is that where you’re from? I’m from Kansas, a small town south of Topeka. Do you know where Topeka is? It’s the capital. Anyway, I moved here about five years ago after college. Now I work in finance. It pays decent. Kinda boring and I work too many hours. Don’t have much of a social life because of that. I mean, not that I’m a loser. I’m not. I… I don’t think I am.”
I curse myself for being a nervous wreck and rambling. Millie doesn’t respond to anything I’ve just said. She’s focused on walking, still fast enough that I’m almost jogging to keep up.
“Has anyone ever called you Milli Vanilli?”
She stops suddenly, and I nearly run into her back. She turns to face me, her eyebrows pinched.
“You know Milli Vanilli? How old are you?”
My heart races in my chest. Another music fan by chance? Why does that intimidate me? Maybe because I never find anyone with my level of music snobbery. Or maybe because I never delve into deep conversations about musical tastes and other interests with my hookups.
I don’t do relationships. Commitment doesn’t appeal to me. The idea of spending time with just one person sounds so... boring. Plus, sex is fun, and I have no issues getting it, so why would I stop for just one person?
Jesus.I’m so fucking full of myself. I’m not God’s gift to women. I mean, sure, I’m handsome. At least, people have told me I am. I don’t really care about looks. I find beauty in most everything.
A bag of trash: stinky, disgusting... but it contains life inside. The discarded containers that once contained the food that filled someone’s stomach. The used tissues that maybe they used to wipe their tears after watching a sad movie... or to clean up after giving themselves pleasure.
Okay. I tend to keep these thoughts to myself because I know I sound like a tool.
But seriously, beauty is so subjective and for our society to dwell on appearances... it pisses me off.
“I’m twenty-nine. What about you?” I stifle a groan. Is it still rude to ask women their age? If she’s offended, she doesn’t let on.
“I’m thirty.”
“Really? You seem younger. I’d have guessed twenty-six.”
She snorts.
“Did I… did I just make you laugh?”
“It was a snort, not a laugh. I don’t laugh. I just find it ridiculous that you think I’m younger.”
She purses her plump lips, painted velvet red to match her dress. She may not have smiled or laughed, but I seeamusement in her eyes. I’m obsessed with them. I’ve never seen a shade of blue so light, it appears more silver. They resemble the moon.
