Free Dead End Dating by Kimberly Raye

dollars for today’s session, plus a thirty percent tip.”
    So much for the whole vamp-mind-control thing.
    In this specific instance, that is.
    While I don’t exactly have my own personal stash of mortal minions, I could if I wanted. It’s just that there are certain criteria to successfully bend the masses to my will. See, here’s the deal: We vamps can transfix with our stares and mesmerize with our charisma, as long as the human we’re trying to seduce is a member of the opposite sex. Meaning, I can totally wow a guy with a few powerful thoughts and a little batting of my baby blues. And, of course, flashing a little cleavage (or even a lot) never hurts. But my effort is totally wasted on a woman.
    We born vamps are, at our very essence, extremely sexual creatures. We’re conceived via sex. We stop aging when we lose our virginity. Women vamps feed on males while male vamps feed on females (or we used to before civilized society provided an alternative bottled means to the whole dining experience). We even procreate. Our very nature centers around our appeal to the opposite sex.
    I reminded myself of this as I stood in front of the marble counter.
    But desperate times called for desperate measures, as the saying went. I’d waited three weeks for this session with Dirkst, and I couldn’t let a few archaic vamp rules stand in the way of airbrushed perfection. I had to at least try.
    “So how will you be paying for today’s visit?” the clerk persisted.
    I’ll be using my gift card. The one you’re about to slide into your register to program for another year’s worth of visits.
    My face grew warm, and I could see the intense gleam of my eyes mirrored in the clerk’s gaze. Normally, my eyes would be a vivid shade of red when I channeled my vamp energy so intensely. But thanks to a new pair of contacts, they just glowed a brighter, purplish shade of blue.
    Okay, it’s not that I’m ashamed of my vamp heritage. But red? Talk about asking for trouble. Sure, I know the vamp wannabes pay big bucks for a pair of crimson contacts, but real vamps haven’t existed for centuries by flaunting their vampness.
    Okay, so a few have. With our mind-control abilities, we can impress a plausible explanation for whatever a human might witness. But that itself is exhausting, and with so many people in the world, I’d be controlling left and right. Much better to keep a low profile. As it was, I was ready to slide to the floor and take a little cat nap.
    “You obviously can’t pay.” The clerk shook her head and punched several buttons on her computer screen. “I’m afraid Dirkst won’t be able to see you today.”
    “But I’m his best client.”
    She gave me a “yeah, right” look. “He has many clients, miss. And a waiting list of over six weeks. Speaking of which, you’ll have to prepay your next appointment—if you make one—via credit card; otherwise we won’t be able to reserve your time. Dirkst is much too busy for clients who schedule and then can’t pay.”
    “But I—”
    “Ask for Janice.”
    The strange female voice echoed in my head, and I turned. My gaze scanned the pale beige sofas that lined the walls, and I drank in the familiar faces of the women I’d passed on my way to the counter. Human. Human. Not so human (but that’s another story all by itself). Human. Human. Snotty, pretentious human. Human. Vamp—
    She looked about thirty or thirty-five (human years, of course), with brown hair pulled back into a ponytail that should have looked chic. If she’d had good bone structure. Instead, her face was soft and round. She wore an expensive bronzer and glitter eye shadow à la Nicole Richie. But she didn’t look as trendy as Nicole. Or as malnourished.
    I knew then, even before I caught a whiff of Chanel, that she was a made vamp. You’ll never see a born vamp with a weight problem. Thanks to our lean, mean diet, we simply don’t ingest a lot of fat calories. Made vamps, however, are