《Crimson Kissed》 Biting Memories Trisha always hated this nondescript cafe in some out of sight, out of mind region of Downtown Detroit. Whether it was the stale coffee that never quite hit the spot the way she¡¯d hoped it would, or the similarly stale customers who would carelessly run along through here either in the mornings or late in the afternoons; making orders for their cappuccinos and their lattes or any other sundry items their menu happened to have in on that day just because their prices were a cent or even a dollar or two lower than the ones being served at the nearest Starbucks. Her co-workers were nothing to write home about either, with only about one or two exceptions, give or take. Most were in exactly the same boat that she was at the time; paying their way through the best years of their twenties hoping that thousands of dollars in student loan debt and wage slavery would amount to something better. Others had nowhere else to go but down and were just hanging on to whatever job they could find to keep themselves off the streets or out of prison. Hell, she¡¯d met trailer trash and recovering crackheads with more courtesy and class in this line of work than some of the regulars she served who drove around in sports cars and tipped twenty bucks per meal. Of course, that also meant she met the occasional tryhards and rejects who probably should¡¯ve been in prison or were on the fast track of going to prison, or at least the nearest psych ward, once something or someone tipped them over the edge for one petty reason or another. Being an adult just really wasn¡¯t good for some people¡¯s mental health, to say nothing of their moral fiber. But alas, all this reminiscing had left a bitter taste in Trisha¡¯s proverbial mouth. She was hardly one to judge others for their failings when the first person she murdered was a divorced father of two who made himself into her midnight snack after he¡¯d slowly but surely confessed to cheating on his wife for years and not regretting a single moment of it because the side chick had made him cry each time she made him cum - the sex was that good - and never once mocked him for it. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. He might¡¯ve been a pitiful horndog, but did he really deserve to die like a crook? Sucked dry and tossed into the Detroit River with cinder blocks around his ankles? He even started crying once her teeth were in his neck and his blood was being swallowed down her throat. She knew for a fact that the pain of her bite was like nothing he or any of her other meals had likely ever felt before in their lives; four little razor blades of bone being inserted near to or even into their jugular veins. But it was a fleeting trauma, washed away in less than a minute by the euphoria that overwhelmed them both. For her, it was the thirst; that gnawing urge from deep in her stomach all the way up to her tongue that just needed to be fed. An addiction in every sense of the word where the high lifted her up over her sorrows and back into the sun¡¯s warmth. A baptism of blood that washed away her many, many sins. And for them, it was an all-consuming acceptance; that feeling of being not merely wanted but needed by someone else in the most profoundly personal way. The moment her fangs pierced flesh, all boundaries were lifted and her lips became a wide open invitation for them to just pour their souls into hers. Before her current predicament, the only time Trisha had experienced that same depth of connection was about a year or so after a really messy breakup where, hoping to distract herself from the grief, she decided to randomly reconnected with a former friend of a friend who - despite having left things on pretty poor terms some years ago - nonetheless gave her the time of day and didn¡¯t turn her down when she started coming on to him after about a half hour of literally crying on his shoulder. Somehow the pity fuck that followed felt more full of emotion and tenderness than any sex she¡¯d had up to that point; an affectionate and very physical affirmation of her significance as both a person and a lover, something she desperately needed to feel in the wake of her ex leaving her. If she¡¯d had tears left to cry that night, they would¡¯ve come at around the same time she did. The same couldn¡¯t be said for the night he found her, or all the nights that came after, just before she died. Mystery Murphy It had been a slow weekend on the night the man who would take her life met her for the first time. Shaniyah, her second favorite coworker after the senior waiter, had already written the newly discounted prices for bagels and garlic bread sticks on the window-sized chalkboard facing the main dining area. Incidentally, the board was positioned right next to the bar, giving Trisha all the time she needed to casually gaze at ¡°Shy¡± while she went about her tasks; bussing tables when needed and making small-talk with a rather persistent customer despite her giving all the usual signs that she wasn¡¯t interested. Trisha was getting ready to go over there and make some halfway-believable excuse for her to come back into the kitchen when he walked in. He was certainly an unusual sight. Dark-grey mechanic coveralls underneath a slim black leather jacket to complete the strange-fitting ensemble. Put a cap on his head and he would¡¯ve given off all the vibes of a road-savvy trucker with a hint of motorcycle junkie on the side, or so Trisha thought at the time. He was white, with all the telltale signs of someone who rarely saw the light of day, and dark-brown hair complete with bangs parted over his right eye. Straight outta the early aughts, she thought. He looked older, though. Late thirties to early forties at most. Five o¡¯clock shadow covering the whole underside of his features; from his chin all the way up to his lips and sideburns. He looked like the kind of guy who¡¯d seen some shit and lived to drink about it. And it was just his luck that the bar served adult beverages from six pm to closing. ¡°So,¡± she said as she instinctively leaned forward onto the bar to accentuate her low-cut V-neck, ¡°What¡¯s your poison tonight, sir?¡± His cheeky smile made her whole night thus far, like he knew the punchline to a particularly raunchy joke. ¡°Honestly, I¡¯m just lookin¡¯ to blow off some steam an¡¯. . . Make some small-talk.¡± He bought himself his bar stool with a twenty from inside his jacket. ¡°Oh my, a man of mystery,¡± she took the dollar bill and placed it in the tip jar. ¡°You¡¯re not gonna spill your sorrows, are you? ¡®Cause this job¡¯s got enough of them as is.¡± ¡°Oh, I used to work dish at a Chili¡¯s. Trust me, I know. Had to learn maintenance just to get the hell outta there.¡± ¡°Hence the suit.¡± He smiled once again while taking off his jacket, revealing a ¡°Murphy¡± name tag just under his left collar. ¡°Hence the suit. That¡¯s right. Old school.¡± The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°So. . . First name or last?¡± She pointed to his tag. ¡°Just Murphy for now. I like the whole ¡®man of mystery¡¯ angle.¡± He casually slipped another twenty onto the table, ¡°Don¡¯t suppose you have a bourbon chaser, d¡¯you? Apple cider? Ginger beer?¡± ¡°Awfully lightweight choices for chasers. Not gonna lie, when you first walked in, I thought you were going to be, like, the hard-drinking type.¡± He smiles, this time like he¡¯s trying to contain his laughter. ¡°Oh, I am the hard-drinking type, doll. This is just an appetizer. I¡¯ve been abstaining for a while an¡¯. . Well, I¡¯ve really hit my limit on limits tonight.¡± ¡°Recovering alcoholic?¡± Her question raised an eyebrow in him; making her afraid she¡¯d offended him for a moment before his expression changed again, almost like he was agreeing with her. ¡°Something like that,¡± he said with resignation. ¡°Although I think remissive alcoholic is probably more accurate. I¡¯m really not the kinda guy who recovers from things. Never have been.¡± ¡°Sounds like most of the ex-boyfriends I know. I¡¯ll get yer drink, love. Now, we do have apple cider, but not ginger beer. That work?¡± ¡°Works just fine, doll,¡± he said with the reassuring smile of a cowboy just getting off his horse. Trisha knew from firsthand experience - particularly with the aforementioned ex-boyfriends - that people with a drinking habit and a shady way about them were always the types who brought trouble with their baggage, no matter how much they tried to blend in with the crowd. The fact that she still hadn¡¯t seen his ID definitely struck a cord in her mind that maybe this guy had something to hide, but then again it wasn¡¯t against the law for someone to not show ID so long as they stayed off the hard drinks, and so far he hadn¡¯t done anything untoward other than giving her a pet name. And as far as names go, doll was hardly the worst thing she¡¯d been called by a customer; either to her face or in some less-than-professional text messages from regulars whose numbers were now blocked. As much as she loved flirting with her ten digits to the biggest and cutest tippers, dick pics and hookups were out of the question for anyone she hadn¡¯t known for at least a year and a half. This Murphy guy had decent looks, albeit more on the greasy side given his profession, and he didn¡¯t give off any bad vibes as of yet. Another regular?, she thought while sifting through their limited selection of apple cider. Seems like the type who doesn¡¯t like to stay in one place for long. Finding some generic brand of cider, she poured it in a classical bourbon glass and served it with an ice ball and a lemon slice in the rim just to give off the impression he was sipping a hard drink. ¡°Mystery or not, you look like the kinda guy who appreciates the old fashioned glasses.¡± ¡°As a matter of fact, I do,¡± he said; smiling while he took a drink. ¡°Can¡¯t say I¡¯m too old, though. Thirty-four, though your mileage may vary.¡± ¡°Mine doesn¡¯t,¡± she said with a wink and a tongue flick before leaning in closer. ¡°Pay up good, and I may just go home with you tonight.¡± It just rolled out of her mouth; like it was the most casual thing in the world to say aloud. Even the one or two customers sitting nearby gave her a stunned look, trying to wrap their heads around what was being said in front of them in public. This was a coffee shop after all, not a strip bar. Surely a waitress making ends meet by the skin of her teeth had better standards than some pole dancer in a G-string. Murphy, for his part, just gave the most sly smile she¡¯d seen in a while. Like a coyote who just caught his prey and was silently congratulating himself for it; licking his two sets of fangs even as he took another swig of the apple cider. ¡°Sounds like a plan,¡± he said; casually placing two freshly minted C-notes into the folds of her cleavage.