A hungry Kind of Jelous

Strobe lights have a strange effect on the brain, especially when mixed with techno music and a legion of sweaty, glow stick wielding humanoids rubbing up against each other like worms in a cup. Donna thinks of them as flesh bags, blood packs, or two legged buffets. She wades through the waves of wriggling worms, licking her voluptuous lips, famished.

In these underground raves, where people pack together like mating salmon, you can feel at least three heartbeats at all times, more depending on your species. Alaric knows Donna is looking for him, he knows she hates coming to these things, there is too much temptation for her. With every tasty lamb the fire haired girl crosses, she considers the fastest route to the nearest exit. She looks for a filthy bathroom or shadowy alley where she could really sink her teeth into someone.  She sees Alaric; he is in trouble, because she is mad at him, again.

Alaric has no problem with the crowds; hell, he is cold blooded. There’s nothing better for his kind than the friction of several hundred warm bodies pressed closely together. He loves the heat of it all and loses himself in the trance-like music and thriving bodies. Then, suddenly, he sees Donna and she locks eyes with him. His stare is stronger even with her rage, and she looks away and huffs up the spiral staircase to the second bar.

Two stories up and it’s just as hot, she smells too much:  sweat, vodka and a slurry of perfume. It hurts her head. The second floor is where people go to watch the crowd and snort coke off of tits. In one corner, a group of frat pledges check off another task on their ridiculous list. They just finished getting a girl to blow two of them at the same time on the dance floor; there is no telling how high they are. But on the second floor everyone is high.

Alaric tips a martini glass of absinth back as Donna stomps to his side, the green fluid rushes into his stomach, but he doesn’t even cringe.

“You bastard. . . . You fucking prick.”

“Donna, please have some grace, grab a . . .”

Her open palm connects with enough force to spin his head seventy-five degrees the wrong way. He pops it back into place before anyone sees and rubs his glowing hot cheek.

“Come now, darling . . . such brute force is so unbecoming. We are in public.”

“Don’t patronize me your spineless dick! I am not the kind of woman you can cheat on and not deal with the consequences.”

“It meant nothing.”

Donna rolled her eyes at this, shaking her red curls and closing her eyes in rage. She closes the space between them and angrily whispers into Alaric’s ear.

“To you. It meant nothing to you. But to me it means everything, to me it means I can’t trust you.”

“Babe. . . It was politics.”

“How is fucking Electra Spendal at some castle Frankenstein swinger party “political”? She is only a familiar too. . .” She raged.

Alaric shakes his head, chuckling. He pulls out a cigarette from his back pocket and lights it with a small flame from his tongue. He inhales a deep puff as ashes drop onto the dancers below.

“Donna, do you remember Marcus Zelphet? “

“Of course I do. You’re running against him for city council . . . what does he have to do with this?” Her eyes narrow. If anger didn’t blind her, she would have known Alaric always has a plan. He is the kind of serpent that always schemes. He turns to her with his silver and blue hair partially glowing luminescent under the big black light that hangs overhead, showing the remnants of coke sprinkled on all the tables around them.

“I fucked the skank because she is Marcus’ Mistress, and everyone, except you, knows that. Do you see?” He winked and put his arm around her hip, his face still stinging from the earlier slap.

Their eyes lock again, but she looks slightly relieved, although still sweating from the heat and hungry from the many tantalizing scents.

“I should have known it was a power play. . . I can forgive it.” She shrugs.

Alaric smirks and leans towards her for a kiss; he winces in pain and gulps.

“Do it again, Alaric and these are mine . . . permanently.” She winks and grins up at his tortured face and watering eyes, her hand squeezing his balls in a death grip. He coughs up a “yes,” remembering how strong his feral woman is, and how his smooth, silver carved tongue fails to calm her all the time. He gasps for air after she releases.

Donna smiles a catlike grin, winks at her sagging tired love and begins walking away.

“Where are you going?” Alaric follows a few steps, and feels the liquor slosh in his stomach, his cigarette burned down, scolding his clammy pointer finger.

Donna turns back, flipping her fire curls out of her eyes and wiggling her nose, “To find some dinner. I’m hungry, care to join?” 

He shakes his head and then looks away down into the mass of squirming meat puppets, hopping like grease to a dub-step track. He wonders which poor, ecstasy drunk, horny guy will she flay and devour.

“Suit yourself, babe. I’ll see you later.” She grins again at him before taking off back down the stairs. With each couple of steps she feels another dozen heartbeats, and smells a different flavor of flesh. Sweet meat shining with sweat, saliva, ecstasy, and sin. She is a careful hunter, and combs the crowd for the juiciest lamb.