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In The Blood
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In the Blood
By Abigail Barnette
Chapter One
They waited for her below. Claws extended, gleaming in the moonlight.
Flashing teeth dripping in anticipation. She searched the darkness, looking for help,
for a savior she could not name, though she called out to him. One quick shove sent
her over the ledge, into the pit, and their greedy claws scored her arms, tangled in her
hair. Faceless, rubbery white skin parted in a sick imitation of a smile, revealing long,
serrated jaws. It sprang.
Cassandra Connely woke to the angry beeping of the alarm clock. Out of habit
and reflex, knowing it was a silly thing to do, she thrashed the blankets off her legs
and tousled her hair to get rid of the feeling of the dream creatures’ hands on her.
Another night, another nightmare.
She reached for the bottle of pills on her nightstand. They were supposed to
stop the dreams and make her normal. She popped the top off the prescription bottle
and dry-swallowed two of the tablets. So what if they didn’t do exactly what they
promised? They kept her from feeling, most days.
For a split second she considered calling someone. But who? A friend? Those
had dropped off one by one after Cassie’s accident, when she’d lost interest in frat
parties and reading Cosmo . Dr. Holden, her psychiatrist, was on vacation, and even
he seemed tired of hearing the same old complaints. No one could help her. And
maybe she didn’t deserve help.
Dr. Holden always stressed that it had been an accident, and to think of it that
way, but Cassie couldn’t brush it aside that easily, even to restore her sanity. She
could remember the moment so clearly: stumbling out the door with Emily, clinging
to each other to stay on their feet, laughing at their drunken clumsiness. And Brad
standing on the lawn, offering them a ride again and again, following them to the car
helplessly. Still trying to stop it all from happening, even as Cassie climbed into the
driver’s seat.
Six years. Six long years of meeting with probation officers and showing up
for court dates. Shaking off her self-pity—pity she did not deserve—Cassie reached
for the phone. She did have a call to make, but not to drone on about her problems.
Julie had left her about a million messages during her shift the night before, and all of
them were “Oh my God, urgent, call me back!” She punched in the number and
waited while it rang.
“Hey, girl, what’s up?” Julie was always perky, always glad to hear from her
coworkers. Even more so when she wanted something from one of them, and Cassie
noticed she’d really ramped up the chummy factor when she’d answered.
She slipped on some fake cheerfulness of her own. “Not much. Grant said you
needed some help covering clients.”
Grant was the “appointment manager” at 4-1-2, the gentlemen’s club Julie and
Cassie both worked for. “Appointment manager” was really just a nice way of saying
“pimp”, but 4-1-2 wasn’t your average brothel. Clients pulled down a minimum
seven-figure salary annually, were required to follow strict dress and conduct codes,
and the wealthiest men in New York were wait-listed for years before being granted
membership.
The girls were held to higher standards than most clubs too. No illegal drugs,
monthly blood work and nothing fake. No implants, extensions, or peroxided
blondes. 4-1-2 was supposed to be classy, the highest quality girls in the city, and
they made enough dough to buy themselves a cloak of invisibility.
The sweetly wheedling tone in Julie’s voice jumped up three notches on the
sugary scale. “Well, the guy is really, really great.”
Of course he was. All of their clients were standup guys, CEOs, men with
wives and children they never saw, who spent all their free time with hookers. And if
Julie couldn’t get rid of this one, well… “If he’s such a gem, how come no one will
take him?”
“There’s nothing wrong with him. He just has preferences.” Julie and Cassie
were the only redheads currently employed by 4-1-2, and there were plenty of men
with that particular fetish. Cassie had wondered if her bookings would go up in the
wake of Julie’s leaving, but something about this assignment put her on her guard.
She always trusted her instincts now, even if they automatically jumped to suspicion.
“Is it a red hair thing?” She examined a lock, frowning at a split end. “Because
if that’s the case, give it to Violet. She’s strawberry blonde. She could use the extra
income.”
“It’s not something Violet can handle,” Julie hedged and, as if she’d realized
she wasn’t getting anywhere with said hedging, came right out with it. “He’s got a
very specific kink.”
“And now I’m the go-to girl for kinky?” Cassie raised an eyebrow. “What’s his
deal?”
Encouraged to continue, Julie spilled all. “First of all, he’s a real gentleman.
He doesn’t come down here to hang out, he’s not married, he’s not in the mob or
anything like that. He just gets off on…um…he drinks blood.”
The thought of drinking blood brought a strange, coppery taste to the back of
Cassie’s tongue. Probably a memory from the weeks she’d spent in the hospital.
“Why are you asking me? I mean, it’s your last night, so obviously I wasn’t your first
pick. Are you really that desperate to unload him on someone? Why not let him
worry about who’s going to replace you in his Dracula act?”
Julie dropped her forced enthusiasm. “I like the guy. Listen, don’t make that
into more than it is, okay? I just feel bad for him. He’s sweet, and I thought you’d
like him. I haven’t asked anyone else, either.”
“Blood drinking, huh?” That was certainly a new one. Cassie didn’t usually
take “special” clients. It was too much work to tie someone up or dress all in rubber,
and there were plenty of other girls willing to take those jobs. But Julie very rarely
discussed her clients as if they were human beings she could muster empathy toward.
That spoke well of the guy, blood drinker or not. “I’m not making any promises, but
I’ll meet him. You swear to God that he’s not a total psycho?”
“He’s not a psycho. He’s just…turned on by different things, you know? He’ll
treat you really nice. And he pays well. It’s an easy thousand bucks per visit. And
he’s really, really good.”
A thousand dollars per visit wasn’t exactly prime money with their clients, but
it was more money than none. “I’ll give him a shot. But I’m not kidding, if I wind up
dead, I’m going to haunt you forever.”
“Thank you so much!” Julie slipped right back into her false enthusiasm. “If
you ever need anything—and I mean anything—you just let me know. Carla in HR
told me there are some openings in the billing department.”
Cassie shook her head. Julie, like all the other girls who’d gotten out of the life
since Cassie had gotten into it, meant well. “I like my job. I don’t need a new one.”
Julie sighed over the line. “Some people like being call girls. But you don’t.”
That was true, Cassie had to admit. But she wasn’t working her way through
college, the way Julie had, and she wouldn’t fool herself into thinking she’d find a
place at Miller, Miller, and Firth, the most prestigious law firm in Manhattan. “I’m
not cut out for law school like you were.”
“I know,” Julie conceded, sounding disappointed. “I just don’t like to think
about you wasting your life.” She didn’t know the real reason Cassie had dropped out
of college. No one did, and that was the nice thing about working at 4-1-2. Everyone
stayed out of each other’s business.
But Cassie didn’t argue. She found a pen and dutifully took down the client’s
address.
“As if I had a life to waste,” she muttered as she hung up the phone.
Winter in New York was miserable, wet and cold, even after the snow had
melted. The buildings pushed and jostled the wind into the narrow spaces between
them, the freezing currents dipping to sting the city’s inhabitants as they bustled
along busy sidewalks trying to get to places they didn’t really want to go.
In the twenty-five year history of 4-1-2, only one girl had ever been hurt by a
client. That client died a week later in a robbery where nothing was stolen. It had
been widely rumored that 4-1-2 had mob money tied up in it, and the incident with
the client sort of proved that. But that didn’t make Cassie feel any safer. Dead was
dead, even if someone got their throat slit for doing it. Death was permanent. She
knew that all too well.

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