Drop Dead Gorgeous (Return to Fear Street Book 3)

Twenty-five dollars and all I can drink. That’s a good night for me. I’m not bitter or anything, but here I am, thirty-four years old, still driving a UPS truck, my bony knees in the brown shorts, my balding head sunburned from being outside all day . . . still getting my heart pumping at open mic night in a crummy falling-down comedy club in a nowhere town you can’t even find on a map. At least, I couldn’t find it if I hadn’t been born here.

Born in captivity.

That’s the real joke.

We’re all born in captivity—aren’t we?

I should put it in my act. It’s about as funny as anything else I got.

All those jokes about my girlfriend, and I haven’t had a girlfriend since I had a full head of hair and all those big dreams of showbiz glory. Ha-ha. Feel the Bern. Feel the Bern, everyone! Not that I’m bitter.

You got to be bitter to be funny, right? At least it helps. You know. You’ve got to have an attitude. That’s what comedy is all about. That attitude.

As if I know what I’m talking about.

Well, I know a good tequila and tonic. Or maybe three of them. I lost count. And now I’m walking to get the buzz off. Clear my head so I can drive back to my little studio apartment and wallow in pity till I fall asleep on the couch.

The fresh air feels so good on my hot cheeks. Of course, everything is closed up, even the Starbucks. They call this part of town Five Corners, and it’s the only happening neighborhood in this existentially boring place. But, of course, it isn’t happening, either. At least, not after ten o’clock at night.

A warm spring night and the soft bump of my shoes on the sidewalk is the only sound, except for the soft rustling of the trees in the little park across the street.

Aren’t I poetic? Well, I wrote a lot of poetry when I was at Penn State. But I always tried to make it funny. You know, satiric, ironic. And who wants funny poetry? Everyone wants sensitive.

I step into the park. Maybe I’m weaving a bit, a little unsteady. But I want to get a sniff of those fresh trees, the leaves just uncurling, the spring grass so fragrant and sweet. Just a chill as I step under the trees.

And there is the girl. Is she waiting for me?

No. She couldn’t be.

Her face gleams as pale as moonlight. No. The moon was never as beautiful. She glows, and her red-lipped smile spreads over that beautiful face, coppery hair catching the glint of light from the streetlamp behind us.

She moves toward me, her face open, like she’s expecting something. Suddenly, I wish I had a clear head. But she smells sweet, like flowers, intoxicating . . . intoxicating.

I knew I was breathing fast. I shook my head hard, but it only sent a shooting pain down my neck.

“Hey,” she whispered. So close now, the flowery scent wrapping me up.

“I—I saw you at the club,” I stammered. “Did you follow me here?”

She tossed a wave of hair off her forehead. Her eyes were green and bright as traffic lights. She didn’t answer. A teasing smile spread over her face.

“Did you like my act?” I asked. So lame. But usually my first question to anyone.

“I liked your act,” she whispered. Her voice was soft and hoarse.

“Thank you,” I said. Still lame. But my head cleared a little and I began to see that we were alone in this tiny, dark park. “What did you want? My autograph?” I actually made a joke.

Another teasing smile from her. “What do I want?” Pause. “You’ll see.”

She took my hand. Her fingers were ice-cold.

“No. Wait,” I said. I suddenly imagined a Linden patrol car pulling up to the curb.

She ignored me and slid her hands across the front of my turtleneck. Chills. Believe me. Chills down my back.

“I liked your act, honey,” she whispered.

“No. Wait.” I tried to back up, but I was against a wide tree trunk. “How . . . how old are you?”

She brought her lips close to my ear. “Old enough,” she whispered.

“No. Listen.” I tried to gently push her back. “You’re a beautiful girl. But I know you’re not old enough. I saw you with those teenagers. You . . . you could get me in a whole lot of trouble.”

She giggled. A light giggle, like a tinkling piano. “That’s the idea.”

And then her cold hands were wrapped around the back of my neck, and she pulled my face to hers. And kissed me, softly at first and then with more energy, her lips moving on mine. And, yes, I kissed her back. I’m human, you know.

Her soft hair brushed my face. My heart started to pound. The kiss lasted a long time. I knew I was still buzzing, not from the drinks but from the flower-sweet fragrance and the fresh, cool air and the tingling feel of her hands on the back of my neck and the hard push of her lips against mine.

Intoxicating.

I stood there, my eyes half shut, my whole body tensed and pulsing. I didn’t even open my eyes when she tugged down the neck of my turtleneck.

And pressed her lips against the pulsing vein in my throat.

I didn’t make a sound until I felt her teeth pierce my skin . . . until I felt the stab of pain as two pinpricks at my throat became a roaring, drilling pain.

I tried to scream, but only a groan escaped my throat.

I guess I went into instant shock. So surprised . . . so taken unaware.

She made loud slurping sounds, and her tongue lapped against my neck. I could feel the warm liquid on my skin and beneath her tongue.

Helpless. I tried to squirm away. Tried to jerk my head from her teeth. But I was helpless. No longer intoxicated but under a spell, a strong spell that made me feel weaker . . . then weaker.

She lapped the flowing, hot liquid as it rolled down my neck. Her tongue darted along my skin. Slurping and gulping, she was no longer beautiful.

I pictured an old vampire movie. It was in black and white because the color was leaving my life. My life was leaving my life. And the scene from the old vampire movie with a full moon above and a dark-caped blood-drinker was the last thing I saw.