Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Of Java and Vampires ❯ Chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )

Chapter 1

 

Taking a swig of my now cold coffee, I let off a sigh. I had been sitting in this coffeehouse for about two hours now, thinking of how I was going to get out of my problem this time. I had two weeks left to finish up the rough draft of my slowly crumbling serial novel and hand it into my publisher. This wasn't the first time this had happened. Running a chapter each month to the magazine The Writer Insider was a tedious task, and I was on the verge of being broke. If I kept this up, the next thing you know I'll be a cashier at McDonald's saying “do you want fries with that?” I let off another sigh. What did I do to deserve such evil and a publisher breathing down my neck?

 

A man walks by my table, but then turns back, and starts walking towards me again. He stops and leans on the table.

 

“Hey babe,” he says. “You doin' anything tonight? Maybe we could have some `fun.'”

 

I snort and roll my eyes. I'm used to this kind of attention, but that doesn't mean it doesn't annoy the hell out of me.

 

“Sorry, but I'm not interested, nor do I really care,” I reply, taking another sip of my coffee again. It tastes terrible.

 

“Who knows?” he persists. “You might like it.”

 

“I'm taken,” I reply, an uncaring attitude enveloping around me and my personal space.

 

He scoffs and then walks away. The “I'm taken” excuse gets them every time. Truth is though, I'm single and I plan to keep it that way. Once one of the guys trying to hit on me backed me up against an alley wall and tried to take advantage of me. So I kicked him in his family jewels. He got what he deserved though. He never bothered me again.

 

Personally, I think boys are selfish, pig-headed idiots that care only about themselves. I'm probably not too far off from the truth either. Unfortunately, the agent of the publishing company I write for is a man. It seems I can never get away from them. He makes me write to suit his needs, meaning that I need to apply action and adventure, not that I don't do that anyway. Then again, this doesn't mean that girls can't be assholes either. Trust me; I've met my fair share of ignorant, selfish snobs in my lifetime so far, like Tiffany, for example.

 

While I'm on the subject of Tiffany, let me tell you a little bit about this pig-headed snob.

 

Tiffany and I are arch-rivals, trying to out-write each other, if there is such a thing. So far, she's winning. She's not broke. I, on the other hand, am. With platinum blond hair and ice-blue eyes, she's the perfect example of a pretty-girl that any man wants to get his hands on. She doesn't have an upturned nose, but she should have one. She's the kind of person who has a different boyfriend every month, dumping them a week later. She cares more about her looks than anything else, and she always flaunts her beauty with her ass sticking out. And before I leave this revolting topic, I have one thing to say: Wherever you are now Tiffany, I thumb my nose at you in disgust! But that's beside the point.

 

I take out my notebook and flip open to an empty page. That's how far I've gotten into this month's chapter. Sad, isn't it? After a few minutes of just sitting there of chewing on the pencil's eraser and tapping it on the spiral-bound paper, an idea comes to me. I start to write furiously and, unfortunately, knock my coffee cup over in the process. The cold beverage spills everywhere— on the floor, in my lap, and on my precious notebook of ideas which is now ruined.

 

I feel a thousand pairs of eyes on me and can feel my cheeks redden from embarrassment.

 

I get a bunch of those general, flimsy paper napkins that are in most public restaurants, and quickly try to clean up the mess. I'm not very successful in my attempt though. I see a pair of feet stop in front of me, and I look up. It's Joe, the coffeehouse manager.

 

“Sandra,” he says, “that's the fifth cup of coffee you've spilled this month. When is it ever going to end?”

 

“When I get a new job,” I mutter darkly.

 

“You do realize you have to pay for that cup, don't you?” he asks me.

 

Damn it. I was hoping he would overlook that. I let off a frustrated growl as I scrounge around in my pocketbook for a few bucks. I reluctantly give him the eight dollars that pays for the cup. Great. There goes another week's pay. No wonder I'm broke. Maybe I should just start bringing plastic coffee cups instead.

 

Joe hands me a few more dry napkins before walking away. Geez, thanks Joe. Don't even bother asking if I need help. See, this is why I don't the men. Did I mention that I don't like men?

 

When I'm finished pitifully mopping up the floor with these cheap pieces of crap that pass off for napkins, I pick them up soaked and deposit them into the nearest trash can. Delightful. Now my hands smell like coffee from cleaning up with soggy napkins. I go to the ladies' room to try and wash it off.

 

Despite me liking to drink coffee, I hate the smell of it. I mean, I love the stuff and I make it every morning, but the smell… Ugh.

 

I turn on the faucet, which is actually clean. It's not every day you come across a public place with clean bathrooms. That's what I love about this little coffee shop; its restrooms are actually clean. How rare is that? When I'm done, I wipe my hands on the dry and crumbling pathetic excuse for a paper towel. That's the one think I don't like about this coffeehouse. That and the manager. Sometimes I could just strangle him. Unfortunately, I can't do that as I'd be banned from this coffeehouse for life, not to mention I would also spend some time in jail.

 

As I walk out, I crash into someone. I topple to the ground as a result, and land flat on my rear end. Smooth Sandra, real smooth.

 

I look up. Great, it's another man. He's the typical pretty-boy, probably even more so. With light pale hair that's almost white and ice-blue eyes, he's very pretty. Even I'll admit to that. Wait a moment. What am I thinking?!

 

“Sorry,” he says, offering a hand to help me up. I reluctantly take it.

 

“You look at me like I'm some horribly disgusting and revolting creature,” he continues, cocking his head slightly to the side in mild confusion.

 

“That's because you are,” a small voice in my head responds, but I keep my lips tightly sealed. Last time I made a comment like that to the manager of a restaurant, I was kicked out for life.

 

I glance outside to the window and look out. It's getting dark.

 

“Excuse me,” I say, pushing past him. “I have to get home.”

 

He turns around and follows me out. Okay, so he might just be leaving the same time as I am. After I walk for a few blocks, I glance behind me and notice that he really is following me.

 

Okay, quick check over. I walk out of the coffee shop. Check. I'm walking the correct way home. Check. I have some strange man stalking me for absolutely no reason at all. Big ol' check. I turn on him to quickly meet him head on. When I look around, he's no longer there. Hmm… Maybe he went off in another direction and wasn't following me in the first place. Either that, or it's just me being way too paranoid. I walk a few more meters before I feel a presence behind me. Again, I turn around. I'm still greeted with nothing. I turn back around and begin walking again. I don't get more than two steps when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I immediately spin around and punch the person that is intruding my personal space in the nose. Damn, that's probably going to leave a mark in the morning.

 

“Quit stalking me!” I screech out. The pale-haired man rubs his now sore nose before replying.

 

“I'm not stalking you,” he says. “I just thought I'd see you home.” Oh. He was still following me without my permission though.

 

“I hardly even know you, if at all!” I shout back, extremely irritated to be followed around by a man.

 

“I know that,” he replies, “but I know who you are. I've been watching you for some time now.”

 

Asshole. So he was stalking me! If I could strangle him right here and now, he'd be done for. Unfortunately for me though, not only is strangling someone to death illegal, but there's a policeman leaning on a lamppost across the street, listening to our argument. Damn eavesdropper. He should learn how to mind his own business.

 

“What do you mean `I've been watching you for some time now'?” I ask suspiciously.

 

“Just what I said,” he replies, rocking back on his heels, his hands underneath his head.

 

“All right, just who the hell are you?” I demand of him. I want answers and I want them now.

 

“Me?” he says. “My name is Varick.”

 

Damn. Why do the pretty-boys always get to have names that start with a “V”?

 

“And what exactly do you want my dear Varick?” I ask, exaggerating the “dear” on my sentence. God, I just love my sarcastic sense of humor.

 

“As I've said before I wish to walk you home,” he replies.

 

“What if I don't want to be walked home?”

 

“Then that's just too bad, now isn't it?” I give off a slight growl.

 

“You really get on my nerves, you know that?” I say. A wide grin graces his features.

 

“I know,” he replies.

 

“Damn you,” I swear.

 

God, I hate him. I've just met him and yet I already hate him. And trust me; it takes a lot to have me hate someone. Well, unless they're men, and this guy definitely falls under the “men” category. There's no mistaking that… Unless there's something about him that I don't know about, and maybe I don't want to know. I do not like my train of thought right now… We stare at each other for a while in silence and I soon finally give in under his gaze. For someone who's always in control, I don't seem to be fairing very well right now.

 

“Fine,” I say, “you can walk me home only if you promise to not do anything perverted.” Venom laces my tone on my last statement. I have good reason to give him this warning. As I've mentioned before, I've had some men try and take advantage of me. It wasn't a pleasant experience for me, and even worse for them.

 

“What makes you think I'll do something perverted?” he asks.

 

“Because I don't trust you, that's why,” I say. “God knows I've had other men do that before.” Another wide grin spreads across his face.

 

“I'm not like most other men,” he replies.

 

“Why must everything be an argument with you?!” I question, my voice rising with me temper.

 

“Because I find it entertaining.”

 

Damn you Varick. I'm supposed to be the one dishing out the smart-aleck remarks, not you!

 

“Come,” he says, offering me his arm. “It's getting dark and trust me, you don't want to be alone here in the middle of the night.”

 

He chuckles lightly, as if he's just told himself some kind of inside joke.

 

“Don't get any ideas,” I say, pushing his arm away. I'm a big girl. I can walk myself home. “Let's just get this over with so I can get away from you. The sooner the better, understand?”

 

“Fair enough,” he replies.

 

OoOoOoOoO

 

After reluctantly agreeing on allowing Varick to walk me home, I flop down on my bed. Man, what a day it has been. First coming up with an idea only to spill coffee all over it, and then having some strange man stalk me and then walk me home. I now wonder why I didn't report him to the police. Maybe it's just something about him that I can't quite put my finger on. I feel strangely attracted to him somehow, but I don't know why. Wait! What am I thinking?! I hate men, remember? Oh yeah, that's right. I do. So why does it feel that this man is an exception in my most hated things category?

 

I let a sigh escape from my confused lips, but it soon turns into the sound of having the wind knocked out of me when my black cat, Naomi, jumps up, landing on my stomach. She has always had this habit since she was kitten, and no matter how hard I try to break that obnoxious behavior, it never seems to work. So, I've just given up on it. Why bother worrying about things that you know cannot be avoided?

 

A loud purr rumbles through her, and she rubs up against my face, hoping to be petted. Stupid cat. Don't ask me why I love her.

 

“Naomi,” I say, stroking her silky black fur, “can you tell me why Varick intrigues me so?”

 

I hear a delighted meow as a response. Well, I can't say I'm surprised. It wasn't like I was expecting her answer to be in English. She curls up on my belly and falls asleep there. Great, just great. Right when I'm hungry too! Now how am I supposed to get up and raid my fridge without waking my annoying cat up? She gets really cranky when I wake her up from sleeping on my stomach, and she'll sometimes let off a mean hiss. That's not something I really feel like enduring right now. She also hates strangers. Why, just last year on Halloween, she went berserk at the trick-or-treaters, scaring more than half of them away. She was the perfect example of what any black cat should be on Halloween night. Unfortunately for me though, I had a ton of chocolate left over because she had scared away the rest of the kids, which meant I had to eat it all before it went bad. That was a mistake on my part. I didn't get a stomachache, nor did I gain weight as I have always had a very high metabolism, but what I did get was a really bad sugar buzz which made me extremely hyper. I did get a lot of writing done that night though, so maybe I should do that more often.

 

After just laying there for about thirty minutes, Naomi finishes her cat nap and stretches out on me, a wide yawn coming from her, causing her mouth to open wide and expose all those sharp, pointy teeth of hers, not to mention letting off really bad kitty-breath into my face. I've got to get her some of those cat breath fresheners.

 

She jumps down and I climb off the bed and trudge to the refrigerator. I yank the door open, which normally refuses to budge, and stick my head inside. I am not at all happy with the sight that greets me. Nothing but leftovers. How depressing. But I really don't feel like going and defrosting something from the freezer to cook, even if it just involves some simple heating in the oven. It's just too much work. Not to mention I have to finish up the leftovers before I make something new as I am running out of room.

 

I grab some leftover spaghetti and put it in the microwave to heat it. I then go to the counter and take up my coffee-smelling notebook of ideas and sit down at the table to think, the hum and buzz of the microwave in the background. Geez, what a distraction. I again tap my pencil on the table, and again coming up with yet another blank. Instead, Varick's face pops up in my mind; that wicked gleam in his eye. I'm so captivated by such a simple thought as this that I find myself drifting off into the realm of inattentiveness. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, an idea hits me. I furiously go and try to write down my ideas, but as soon as I put the pencil on the paper, its point breaks. Crap, I have no pencil sharpener. The other ones I used to have around always seemed to die on me on the most inconvenient moments.

 

As I go around rummaging through the kitchen drawers full of knick-knacks, looking for a pocket knife or some other kind of blunt object, I swear I hear the front door opening. That can't be possible. I lock the door as soon as I get home. I dismiss it as my paranoia going out of control and continue on with my little hunt.

 

The microwave beeps, sounding that my leftover spaghetti is ready. Finally! Now I can grab some grub and chow down to my stomach's content. After all, I was fruitless in my attempts to find a pocket knife, so what better to do now than to eat?

 

I turn around and head for the microwave, my mind in the gutter with the lust for food. Being in my own little world, of course don't notice the obstacle in my way into I bump right into it. I snap out of my daze and look up.

 

Oh snap.

 

I immediately jump three feet away from my intruder and grab a butcher's knife from the drawer. I look towards it. So that's where the blunt objects were. Wonder why I didn't think of going through that drawer.

 

“Hello, Sandra,” my intruder quite literally purrs out.

 

“What the hell do you want, Varick? No, wait, even better. What the hell are you doing here and how did you get in?” I snarl out, still using my sarcastic tone I used with him last time.

 

“That's my little secret,” he says.

 

“I want answers and I want them now,” I growl, brandishing my butcher's knife in front of his face.

 

“Do you really intend to injure me with that?” he asks me, an eyebrow raised.

 

“Uhhh…”

 

To be honest, I hadn't thought that far ahead yet.

 

“Well then,” he says, “why don't we come up with something?”

 

“Why are you here?” I ask again.

 

“Just to talk.”

“Just to talk my ass! I hardly even know you. You want something.”

 

“I do,” he replies, staring me straight in the eye with his piercing gaze. “I want you…”