EVA DICKENSON - LIVING THE DREAM

Eva Dickenson was born and raised in Toronto, Ontario. She is avid reader, writer and music enthusiast. Her creativity stems from her overwhelming indulgence in horror and supernatural fiction as well as her undying love of rock music. Eva enjoys writing a combination of Urban Fantasy/Music Fiction and is a firm believer that one day there will be an opportunity for this niche genre to thrive amongst the literary greats. 

Living the Dream
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​The chant of countless fans echoed off the walls. The stomping of thousands of feet rocked the floor. Ear piercing whistles broke through the deafening noise. Frankie took a long, hard look over the massive crowd. Even after a double encore ending, they were all left wanting more.
Man, he thought the show would never end. It was the height of the 80’s music scene, and the main name of the glam metal game wasn’t just about fame or fortune. For Frankie, it was about all those girls, girls, girls.
From the start of the three hours set, his attention had been set on a pretty little ginger in the front row. Amongst all the women flashing their goods, some more than others, it had been her golden eyes that had caught his attention. With a memorizing stare, she silently invited him to see much more than the over exposed flesh around him.  And now that it was all over, there was only one thing left to do.
Gripping her hand tight, Frankie hauled the gorgeous redhead up on stage. Leading her behind the scenes, he made sure his first fling of the evening didn't get disconnected in the post concert chaos. There was no way he was going to miss out on banging this one.
Arriving at his dressing room, Frankie slammed the door behind them and threw the fire crotch against it. He was never one for small talk. Then again, there was never a need for words, only actions.  Frankie’s left hand worked its magic under her leather mini skirt while his right hand unlatched her bra beneath a pink halter top. It was the same routine after every show. He'd finish with this one and be on to the next woman in no time. So he thought.
The young woman pushed Frankie away, hence halting his ravenous advances. “Do you really think you’ll get in me that easily?”
Frankie stopped, momentarily dumbstruck by her question. “Well, yeah, that’s the whole point.”
“Don’t you at least want to know my name?”
“Why? Not like I’m going to remember it either way.”
The nameless beauty strutted to the centre of the small room, her hips swaying hypnotically. “God, you men are all the same. By the way, my name is Karma.”
Frankie chased after her like a lost puppy dog. “Well, now that we’re formally introduced, how about we get on with the show?”  He attempted another slick advance, but Karma quickly sidestepped him.
“Not so fast.” Throwing a coy pout over her shoulder, Karma sighed. “Besides, I have a headache.”
Frankie groaned, his balls growing bluer by the second.  “Listen, I don’t have time for this cock-blocking game. If you don’t want to fuck my brains out there’s a lineup right outside this door of girls just waiting to take your place. You’re choice, babe.”
Karma pivoted on her six inch stiletto heels. Flipping her long, silky red hair over her shoulder, she called his bluff. “Actually, the choice is yours. You could just bang another mindless bimbo or,” Glancing toward the bed, she said, “You could wait and see what I can offer.”
Frankie stood his ground, as shaky as it was. “Yeah right. I’m sure you know just as much as they do.”
Locking her eyes on his, Karma bit her lip teasingly. “Oh, believe me. I’m not like those other girls.”
Frankie suddenly felt conflicted and confused. His dick begged him to follow through with his empty threat, but his mind disagreed, sensing her words held a hidden truth. Although she appeared young, Karma definitely wasn’t a child. The way she moved, the way she spoke, all showcased a sexual wisdom beyond her years. There was something about her Frankie just had to have.
At the sight of his unspoken compliance, a mischievous smile slowly slipped across Karma’s delicate, china doll face. Without warning, she pushed Frankie upon the bed and straddled his waist. It was clear Karma was going to take control of the sexual situation this evening. A rarity most nights, but well accepted all the same.
Running her hands through Frankie’s long, teased black hair, Karma let them slowly trial their way downward, moaning longingly as her fingers graced him just below his jawline. In the light offered by the Hollywood vanity, Karma’s golden eyes held a hint of predatory essence. Her tongue lolled across her red full lips again as she leaned, bringing her mouth to his neck.
Karma’s lustful advance unexpectedly ceased. Pulling back, a quizzical look streaked her face. Sliding her hands underneath each side of Frankie’s studded leather jacket, she pulled it back to reveal the skull and flame tattoo spanning from shoulder to shoulder. Just beneath it, in the center of his bare chest, was a heart and dagger tattoo. Engraved in the centre was a pair of Gothic font two-letter initials wrapped with the word forever.
Karma raised a questioning eyebrow. “Speaking of other girls. You know this could be considered this quite the career killer in your line of work.”
Frankie laughed at the personal paradox presented. “Hey, what chick doesn’t love the challenge behind getting any married man in the sack?”
Karma’s eyes remained focused on the tattoo while long pink fingernails delicately traced the intricate pattern. “Even so, to risk it all for one woman, that tells me this one must have been very special.”
“I guess so.”
“So you must really care for her.”
Frankie replied indifferently. “You could say that.”
“Then why are you with me?”
With all the blood directed to his privates, Frankie’s answer slipped his tongue before he could stop it. “Ah, come on. She knew what she was getting into. Besides, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right?”
In return, Karma offered a playful smirk. “Well, then again, she might not get hurt, but who’s saying you won’t?”
Gracefully easing her way between his legs, Karma’s sensual lips skipped a flirtatious path down Frankie’s chiselled abs, toward his pelvis. Teasingly, she undid his leather pants with her teeth, releasing the hardened manhood beneath.
Holding tight to Frankie’s shaft, Karma gave him a light lick. Then another, and another, making a sensual journey to the top. Frankie shuttered with anticipation as the feel of her tongue came again, this time twirling around the tip. His erection now stood at full attention, awaiting another seductive touch.  In turn, she devoured him whole.
Frankie received thousands of blow jobs over the course of his career, but nothing compared to the magic Karma’s mouth possessed. The perfect seal of her lips, the firmness of her tongue, and her seamless, uninterrupted stroking was something all other women had failed to achieve, no matter how much practice they had in their field.  Frankie nearly forgot to breathe as Karma hungrily deep throated his cock over and over.
Trying his hardest to savor the moment for as long as he could, Frankie held back the tremendous urge to climax, but it was a battle he was quickly losing. Curious to see whether Karma would spit or swallow the load about to explode from him, Frankie couldn’t hold back any longer. He released himself.
His euphoric moan quickly turned to a primal scream as ambrosial pleasure suddenly turned to blinding pain. He couldn’t believe what the bitch had done. Paralyzed by extreme agony, Frankie struggled the best he could to escape Karma’s oral death grip, but his efforts proved futile. The stars of unconsciousness rapidly swooned around his vision and waves of darkness washed over the room as Frankie’s life drained from him along with his sowed seeds. The last thing he saw was Karma raise her head and lick the mess from her lips. Offering Frankie one last bloody smile, she blew him a kiss before showing herself the door.
 
 
 
Frankie regained consciousness, yet his bearings were slow to follow. Attempting to sit up, a wave of dizziness nearly knocked him out again. Laying back down, the spins eventually levelled out. But the confusion behind his whereabouts was the real kicker.
The dressing room now filled with endless shadows except for where the vanity lights crept in. There was no sound of the retreating mob performing a drunken karaoke off into the night. No disastrous clamour of countless roadies rushing to get equipment dismantled so they too might enjoy a few sexual romps with the ladies not quite hot enough to score a band member. No banging of bedframe on drywall accompanied by cries of pleasure coming from the other dressing rooms. A single pin drop could have shattered the surrounding stillness.
Cautiously, Frankie lifted himself upright again, yet this time a sharp pain from down accompanied it. Frankie’s hands fell between his legs. With a sigh of relief, he thanked his lucky stars that his manliness was still intact, but the injuries sustained were enormous.
Staring down, Frankie swore to himself. There was no way he could call for an ambulance. It was common knowledge in the music industry that underpaid EMTs not only saved lives, they sold them too. Over the brief span of Frankie’s career, journalistic vultures were steadily fed juicy stories from their medical partners in crime about his outrageous antics both on stage and off.
But there was one person in the field he could trust. Though it would be a long shot to even try. With no other option, Frankie reached for the bedside phone, dialed the one number he knew from the heart, and prayed for an answer.
It felt like a lifetime waiting for Natasha to arrive. Frankie left a dozen messages on her pager and tried a few more unanswered phone calls to which he received no reply. It was after hours, and Natasha’s shift had ended ages ago. Still, Frankie held out hope that she would come. She always did.
As the minutes became an hour, a seed of doubt grew in Frankie’s mind about whether Natasha would pull through this time. Given the recent scandalous history between them, Frankie wouldn’t be surprised if she left him there to suffer through the consequences of his own stupid actions.
As the last thought crossed his mind, Frankie’s hope teetered toward desperation. But all hope was not lost. If Natasha didn’t show, he could call the guys back at the hotel. They were men, after all, and naturally bound to be sympathetic to his sexual misfortune. But Frankie knew better than to think his fellow musical misfits would be any help. All they would do is make fun about his circumstance, no matter how dire.
Reluctantly, Frankie concluded his only solution would be to go an even more humiliating route. Dial three life saving numbers and have everything exposed, again. As he reached for the phone, something caught his eye from across the room. Dropping the receiver back in its cradle, Frankie let out a tremendous sigh of relief.
“You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”
Natasha stood at attention in the doorway, all five foot two of her. Wearing the same tactical paramedic uniform she’d always worn, Frankie couldn’t recall a time he’d ever seen her in civilian clothing.
 “Wish I could say the same.” A look of slight disgust crossed Natasha’s face as she looked upon the bed. “What the hell did you do this time? Or should I say who? Did you kill them? Because if you did, I can’t bring them back. I’m not that good.”
The blush raging under Frankie’s cheeks was as red as the blood-soaked sheets. "Nat, you're the best medic in the field. There’s nothing you can’t do. But, this time, I really need you to work some magic.” Without a moment of hesitance, Frankie exposed himself.
Natasha studied the injury from a far. “Wow, that was one angry vagina you got yourself into this time.”
Making her way into the room, Natasha dawned a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Pinching the bloody flesh by the tip, she scrutinized the injury further. “Are those puncture wounds? Man, I’ve seen a lot of sexual injuries out of you, but never like this. Listen, these lacerations run fairly deep. Might be some internal damage. You got to go to a hospital to get it checked out.”
Frankie nearly jumped out of his foreskin. “What? I can’t go to a hospital! Patient confidentially is a joke in this business. You know that.”
Her response held no sympathy. “I don’t have x-ray vision so I can’t fix what I can’t see.”
“Can’t ya just stitch me up?”
“I don’t do stitches.”
“Come on, Nat. What happens when the news breaks loose? I’ll be the laughing-stock of the industry.”
Natasha’s answer was as hasty as her exit. “Nothing new there.”
 “But then everyone will know about this.” Frankie pleaded.
Halfway across the room, Natasha reluctantly stopped. “Including what’s her face?”
"Listen, I know you two have history but—"
Natasha spun around, and the emotional fires raged in her eyes. “But what? You think by me not helping I’m trying to get back at the two of you? Do you really think it's some childish game I'm playing?”
 “I know you still care for her and I'm sorry for what happened—”
“Oh? Is that why you not only fucked her but married her too?”
“Nat, is this really the best time to talk about it? Again?”
Stating the obvious, Natasha blasted back. “Listen, the ink on the dotted line hasn’t even dried yet, let alone that tattoo of yours, and you’re already screwing around!”
Frankie moaned. “Oh, come on, we both know she’s probably back at my place doing more than just setting up house.”
Natasha shook her head. “Whatever you need to tell yourself. Good night, Frankie.” She stormed toward the door again.
“Nat! You can’t honestly leave me here like this?”
“Watch me.”
Frankie begged one last time. “Please, after all we’ve been through, it can’t just end like this. Just one more time. For old times’ sake?”
Halting just shy of the threshold, Natasha turned around. Her words were as harsh as her stare. “If I had only known what the future would hold, I would’ve let you die that night.”
Noting the octave of Natasha’s repetitive statement had simmered down over the last few weeks, Frankie took one more shot at swaying her altruistic nature in his favor.
 Smiling back boyishly, he said, “But you didn’t, and we both know there’s a reason. Besides, who else would challenge your skills the way I do?”
Natasha’s eyes drifted toward the injury. With a defeated huff, she stomped back into the room. Dropping her vintage doctor’s bag on the bed, Natasha dug out the first aid materials needed.
“More like test my patience. Damn bass players are the worst. It’s always the same old situation with every single one of you guys.”
Frankie remained quiet, afraid he’d say something stupid, again. Instead, he watched Natasha calculate how to go about mending him up as she had done so many times before.
Although he favoured his superficial girls, made up of lipstick, plastic and paint, time and time again Frankie couldn’t help but find Natasha’s tough, militant demeanour attractive in some strange way.
What you saw is what you got with her. Natasha was small, yet surprisingly strong. Her long, blond hair always pulled back in a ballerina bun, streaked with hints of silver at an all too young age. Her eyes were fierce, yet softened by the colour of the sky on a clear day. Small cup breasts were compensated by her naturally round behind most girls Frankie dated would kill to possess. He sometimes felt it was a real shame Natasha played for the other team.
"Hey, thanks again for coming out. Kind of an embarrassing situation to be finding myself in."
"You better be thanking me. I was into a good part of my book."
Frankie fought back the tears as Natasha applied an alcohol swab to the wounds. Through gritted teeth, he asked, “So, how’s the writing going, anyway?”
“Well, I don’t think I’ll be quitting my day job anytime soon.”
“Nat, don’t talk like that. I’m sure something will come of it.”
Natasha looked up. "What I mean is I won't be quitting my day job anytime soon because for what you guys are paying me, I'm getting a debt-free ride through med school.”
Laughing through the pain, Frankie said, "I don't know how you do it. You look after our sorry butts while on the road, self-study courses during your off time, then make up the in-class section when we've finished touring. On top of that, you're complying your own medical journal.”
Natasha dug through her bag again. “Yep, and once its all done, I’m getting me a nice woman, going to settle down, have some guy knock up the ball and chain and start a family. I’m thinking I want at least five kids.”
“Well, if you're not the one popping them out, then why not? Go for as many as you want. By the way, if you ever need help with the insemination process, you know who to call.”
Ignoring the underlying irony behind his comment, Natasha held strongly to her professional composure. “Hell, I’ve managed to put up with your shenanigans for longer then any other tour medic has so far. Nothing I can’t handle in a few rug rats running around.” She offered Frankie a quick once over. “Dark hair, green eyes, built like a brick shithouse. You’d offer up a good gene pool.”
Focusing down below again, Natasha tore open a fresh package of gauze. Cradling his damaged penis, she applied the bandage. The feel of her firm, yet feminine hands aroused an easy erection. Frankie winced again as the swelling tore the wounds open.
Natasha chuckled, giving Frankie’s private part a light rub. “At least we know it still works.”
Frankie grimaced, the pain growing the more his dick did. “Hey, you may have learned all there is about this thing down below and how it works but just to let you know it’s actually harder to control then you think.”
“Well, this what you get for not keeping it in your pants. You're lucky it’s still attached. Then again, I guess what they say is true. Karma really is a bitch.”
Frankie groaned. “You’re telling me.”
Natasha cut the last strand and applied surgical tape to keep the bandage secure. "There, good as new. Well, almost. On that note, wear briefs, not boxers, for no less than a week. It will help keep the bandage in place. Also, careful in the shower. Use anything you can to protect it. Saran wrap, plastic bag, condom, anything, I don't care. Last, I don't think I need to tell you this, but no sexual activity. Risk of infection is too great. If you feel arousal coming on, think nasty thoughts. We don't want the wounds to tear repetitively. Plus, it will never heal if you don’t stop playing with it. Got it? Paramedic’s orders.”
Tearing off her gloves, Natasha discarded them in a specially marked biohazard plastic bag along with other contaminated materials. Packing up the rest of her gear, she paused midway. “You know, I think there’s one more thing I should do.” Natasha dawned fresh gloves, tied Frankie’s arm tight with a rubber tourniquet, swabbed the nook of his elbow with rubbing alcohol and slipped the tip of a needle in a vein. Drawing back the blood sample, she unlocked the vile from the syringe and placed it delicately in a sample storage container. Natasha disposed of the used needle in a travel size sharps box.
Confused, Frankie asked, “You can take blood samples on the road, but you’re not allowed to do stitches?”
Clipping her bag shut again, Natasha offered another hint of a smile. “I never said I wasn’t allowed. I just said I don’t do them. Now get up. I’ll take you back to the hotel. Make sure nothing happens to you from there. And if something comes up, remember, I’m working the overtime rate.”
 
 
 
Upon reaching the hotel, Natasha escorted Frankie up to his suite, then helped him out of his stage attire and into a pair of camo cargo pants and a white wife beater. After checking that the bandages hadn’t bled through and didn't require replacement, Natasha put Frankie straight to bed.
“Listen, Nat, I just want to tell you again I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for me tonight.”
“Well, Frankie, you can thank me by staying out of trouble. At least for today.” Natasha flung the sheets over top of him.
“What? No bedtime kisses?”
Natasha’s middle finger spoke volumes. Turning toward the door, she departed without so such as a goodbye. Finding himself alone in the darkened room, Frankie laid wide awake, gazing up at the vaulted ceiling. Turning on his side, he glanced at the bedside clock. Six am. By this point in the morning, Frankie should have been handing off cab money to one lucky broad, or two, sometimes three, he’d taken back to whatever luxury hotel the band was terrorizing in Tinsel Town and beyond. Afterwards, he would have been blissfully asleep until it was time to hit the road for another show.
Staring out the window, dawn’s light barely creased the skyline, remaining hidden behind a sea of towering skyscrapers and vast mountain scape. Even with daybreak on the horizon, Frankie contemplated about seeing if anyone else might still be up.
Alex, the leader of the band, was most likely out cold from drinking and fucking into the early morning hours. He was the frontman and always got the biggest piece of the action.
Tyler, the band’s drummer, enjoyed getting beat more than keeping it, had most likely had been knocked unconscious by whatever severely sadistic dominatrix he’d hired to straighten him out. Not like that would ever be conceivable.
There was one last band member he could try, but Frankie thought better of it.
Frustrated, Frankie kicked off the sheets, hopped out of bed and shuffled toward the living room. Flopping onto the couch, he turned on the television. Remote in hand, Frankie flicked through countless stations. Every channel showcased a mix of typical late-night infomercials or early morning newscasts. Eventually he stumbled upon the most exciting thing to watch at the time of day. A dating hotline advertisement.
Scantily clad girls smiled back seductively while blowing kisses, hoping to entice some lonely soul to pay ten dollars a minute to talk dirty. Frankie watched the sexual antics play out like a soft-core porno. It barely phased him, having seen it all before, and some. It wouldn’t take very long for boredom and weariness to drift him off to sleep. But before long, a persuasive longing began to nip at the edges of his mind, gradually replacing the anticipation of sweet dreams.
Having been down that mental road to hell more than once, Frankie held strong against the ever-growing temptation, knowing Satan would always find mischief for idle hands. He remained intently focused on the television. Yet the more Frankie stared at the bare flesh before him, the more potent the sensation became.
It was a desire all too familiar, yet not quite to do with the narcotic cocktails Frankie gave up months prior. His skin didn’t crawl, his body didn’t tremor, and his stomach didn’t churn. Instead, this feeling was much deeper, carnal almost, a burning rage in his veins which started to spread like wildfire throughout his body. Soon enough, it would be on the verge of threatening to consume him from the inside out.
Abruptly jumping up from the couch, Frankie began pacing the room to escape it. He walked end to end, in and out of each room, reciting his recovery mantra over and over, but nothing seemed to break the teether to the visceral need gripping him. It almost seemed the more he denied it, the stronger the ferocious craving drew energy from his subordination.
As it became too overwhelming to ignore, desperate times called for desperate measures. Frankie grabbed the phone and dialed one number. Three rings later, a flamboyant, boisterous voice came over the line.
“Good morning! Hotel California, this is Juan speaking, how may I assist?”
Frankie stated his request so quickly he stumbled over his words.
The concierge clerk quizzically echoed it. Upon clarifying, Juan said, “Senor, I’m not sure we would be able to-“
 “What? You have it on the menu, so what the fuck is the problem?”
“No problem senor, its just, well, how do you say, a little unusual?”
Rock stars were known to have unique demands while on the road, but the staff must have wondered what the hell he planned to do with this one.
Frankie played the fame card. “I’m not asking, I’m telling. Don’t you not know who the hell I am?”
Giddiness elapsed Juan’s professional demeanor. “Si senor! I can not believe it is really you. I remember, as a young man living in Mexico, I always dreamed of one day coming to this great country to have the chance to meet you. I idolize your band and I am one of your biggest fans and -”
As rage and impatience hit an explosive level, Frankie unleashed verbal fury. “Listen, I don’t fucking care if you’re the Pope! If you don’t do as I say I’ll get your ass deported back home, you hear me?”
After a long silence from the other end, the concierge clerk finally responded, minus the positive flare. “Allow me to just confirm that we can complete chore order just as you have asked.”
The double beep of the hold signal came next, reminiscent of the sound of a mechanical heartbeat. Frankie shuttered with anticipation of the one thing he craved so badly. Just when he thought Juan had purposely ignored him for his outburst, he came back on the line, confirming the order could be completed before the phone went dead.
Minutes later, there was a knock at the door. The young woman delivering Frankie’s order looked like all the others who had taken a motel room on the infamous Boulevard. The James Dean type who flocked the streets of hopes and dreams. From the looks of her, it was apparent this one had looked in all the wrong places for her claim to fame.
The haggard woman staggered in and placed a silver serving tray on the dining room table. Frankie offered a once over. The thought of taking a bite out of her crossed his mind. Yet the smell of disease and destitution seemed to linger in the air. Instead, he let the door hit her ass on the way out.
Flipping off the lid, there was no rational thought process to explain his carnivorous decision. There was no thought period as Frankie devoured the red meat feast before him. Raw and dripping with blood, just the way he’d asked.
The metallic taste and texture of the array of slaughtered animals proved to so irresistible Frankie didn’t stop until he devoured every single piece of dead flesh and drank every drop of stagnant blood.
Staring down at the mess before him, Frankie should have felt disgusted by what he had done. Instead, he greedily licked the remaining blood from his hands with a smile. The overwhelming satisfaction he felt was like nothing he had experienced since being hooked on the Malibu dream. Only this time had been so much better.
Having finally satisfied the sinister urge, relief flooded his veins and so did weariness. Frankie made his way toward the bedroom, expecting only the sweetest dreams. That was until his body strongly disagreed with the elated perception of his mind’s eye.
Halfway there, an overwhelming pain engulfed Frankie’s entire being. It felt as if every living cell had been be set on self-destruct mode in unison. The pain became so unbearable Frankie could barely manage a scream, let alone breath. Panicked, he tried in vain to reach the phone to call Natasha for help. This time, it wasn’t for the sake of confidentiality. It was the mere fact Frankie trusted she would be the only person who would what to do.
Fighting through the agony, Frankie hoped he would make it. Just a few more steps. But a sudden eruption of crippling muscle spasms flared up, bringing him to his knees. Frankie hit the floor hard. Laying there, he lost complete control over his physical being, and his body expelled what it could before it gave out for good.
 
 
 
His sleep had been so deep it proved almost fatal. Raising his weary head, Frankie felt as if he had returned from the land of the dead. Slowly picking himself up off the floor, he took in his surroundings. Frankie was instantly thrown back into the world of the living.
Admittedly, he had left some trashed hotel rooms in the past, but nothing like this. The destruction before him was a real life visual of every housekeeper’s worst nightmare. Bewildered, Frankie stood on weakened legs. He had no idea how he would explain what happened to his tour manager, the very person who would fit the bill for the damage of the suite. Not that there was any time to think it through. As Frankie’s eyes locked on the clock radio on the bedside nightstand nothing else mattered. He had to get to the airport, and fast.
Frankie tore off his soiled clothing and stumbled for the shower. Running the water full force, he stepped in, eager to wash away the repercussions of the previous night. The sight of his bandaged penis stopped him dead in his tracks. Reminded of the stern advice given in the earlier that same day, Frankie looked around the bathroom. With nothing in view to use as protection, he took a risk.
Unravelling the grimy dressings from his genitals, Frankie’s eyes went wide as he stared down upon his family jewels. The fact something so anatomically fragile could heal so quickly was nothing less than astounding. Again, there was not time to waste thinking about it.
Flushing the bandages down the toilet, Frankie jumped back in the shower and scrubbed away any remembrance of the previous few hours. Hastily drying himself off, he dug through his luggage and put on a pair of loose-fitting Diesel Jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Wrapping his signature bandana around his head, Frankie stole a second to ensure his famous jet black locks stood out just right. Last, Frankie dawned a pair of mirrored Aviators before he was out the door without another thought to what he left behind.
 
 
 
After what felt like a wildest limo ride on Earth, Frankie arrived at the airport tarmac just as the boarding doors to the band’s private jet were about to close. In a last minute mad dash, Frankie cursed every one of his bandmates. It was any wonder the guys hadn’t come looking for him before leaving the hotel. But again, Frankie knew better than to think they would ever do that.
From the beginning of their career, the band lived by a simple motto. You fuck up, you're on your own. Over the short years together this particular saying produced some extremely hilarious, if not completely humiliating stories which would one day create a flavourful biography of the band. That was if they survived long enough to write one. Bolting to the top of the stairs and into the plane, Frankie praised to the one above that he had arrived in the nick of time, and in one piece.
As he fell into the closest seat, the man with only one name gazed silently back him. Dark eyes stared fixed and unfazed back at Frankie from beneath the brim of a black cowboy hat. With long, dead straight, jet black hair silhouetting against gaunt features, Pluto really did resemble a living, breathing version of the Grim Reaper. Although not his given name, it summed up the man in the simplest way ever. Cold, distant, and considered by many to be from outside their solar system.
Pluto was the oldest, and most experienced member of the band which affectionally earned him another nickname, father. He’d looped around music industry block a time or two, a gypsy guitarist playing with whoever was up for a jam session, before finally settling down entirely and forming a musical circus act with a bunch of wet behind the ears drug scouts. Ironically enough, it turned out to be the most successful thing Pluto had ever done.
But as the old saying goes, fame comes with a price. Having to babysit grown men almost a decade younger than himself to keep them from killing one another, or themselves, undoubtedly earned Pluto his parental status.
Over the years, Frankie had become close with the skeletal elder staring emotionlessly back at him. Having grown up without a fatherly figure, Frankie had found parental solace in Pluto, confiding his deepest feelings with him, and in return receiving a few words of random, cosmic advice which in some strange way always worked out. Yet, as it goes with any parent-child relationship, some things just didn’t need to be known about one another.
Frankie chose not to answer the unspoken questions hanging between them. Home sweet home was only a few hours away, and Frankie was certain he could hold up his end of the silent treatment. The other two band mates couldn’t be more opposite.
Tyler strutted down the aisle before plunking down in a seat with a satisfied sigh. “Thank God the tour is over. Man, I’m not sure I could take anymore women throwing themselves at me.”
A few rows down, a dishevelled stewardess straightened herself upright. With a look of pure bewilderment streaked across her face she composed herself the best she could. As she pulled her panties up around her waist, she cringed, yet a hint of a smile betrayed her utmost gratification.
Sporting a crooked grin, Tyler added, “You know what else I’m grateful for? Not having to listen to anymore of your singing, Vance. Man, it’s just as good as your looks, which is saying a lot.”
Vance ran a hand through his long, feathered blond locks, offering a picture-perfect smile and a roll of his baby blue eyes. "Screw you, man. Your scrawny ass is just jealous. Besides, I’ve heard you sing in the shower. Pretty sure you couldn’t pay people enough to listen to that crap.”
Tyler’s crazed brown eyes twinkled from behind his bushy bangs. Jumping out of his seat, Tyler pulled down his spandex pants and his well endowed best friend down below made an appearance. Not a day went by he wasn’t whipping it out for one reason or another.
"As they say, sex sells, right? All I have to do is flash this bad boy, and that's all the marketing I need."
Vance cringed as Tyler got a little too close for comfort. “Man, that thing is as ugly as you are. Even with all the tattoos and piercings decorating it. Good thing your hidden behind those drums of yours.”
The thud of heavy boots reverberated down the aisle. “God, you men are so disgusting. Put that thing away before someone losses an eye.”
Tyler obediently complied with Natasha’s request, yet still chanced one last swing at Vance behind her back. But once Tyler’s hands were free of his private parts, they ended up in even more trouble. 
Natasha stopped dead in her tracks, turning on one steel-toed heel. Pointing a stern finger up at Tyler, she stated, “I’ve told you a million times before, if you grab my ass again, you're going to end up drinking through a straw in your throat.”
Tyler laughed back giddily. “Come on, I can’t help it!” Fixating down below again, he gestured a grasping motion. “It’s just there!”
Natasha offered one more warning before balling her hands into fists. “Man, you’re up for a beating today, aren’t you?”
Tyler bent down and turned one cheek toward her, wishfully anticipating she would finally follow through. But Natasha knew better, knowing all too well Tyler liked when things got rough.
Vance cut in before one of them ended up in a hospital and the other in a jail cell. “Hey, now, a little respect for the lady, ok? Not like she doesn’t have enough to do already. The woman has kept us alive this long which is saying enough.” His gaze trailed across the aisle to Frankie. “Speaking of which looks like history is repeating itself. You ok, man?”
Squinting back behind shaded eyes, Frankie could barely muster up the energy to answer. Overwhelming fatigue had swiftly washed over him, so much so Frankie felt he could have sleep for an eternity. And it seemed every glimpse of light were going to set fire to any exposed skin. Even the colours of the fading sunset were enough to feel the burn. In that moment, all Frankie wanted to do was curl up and die.
The sight of a fully equipped tactical belt blocked the view line between bass player and lead singer. Natasha’s tone was too firm not to follow through with orders.
“You come with me. Now.”
Frankie tried to pick himself out of the seat, but nearly collapsed to the floor instead. Natasha stabilized him, acting like a mini human crutch as she assisted Frankie toward the rear of the plane. He all but dropped dead on the leather couch next to the in-flight bar. Taking a seat beside him, Natasha placed her fingers gently on his wrist.
“Sorry to have to haul you back here but I believe there’s still such thing as patient confidentiality, even in your line of work.”
Looking down at her watch, Natasha made a mental note of his pulse rate. Next, she pulled a penlight from her shirt pocket, lifted Frankie’s Aviators, and ran the light from left to right, then vice versa. Frankie cried out, pulling his sunglasses back down as fast as he could.
Natasha sighed. “Eyes are equal and reactive, to say the least.”
Digging through her side pant pocket, she retrieved a blood pressure cuff. Wrapping it around Frankie’s arm, Natasha readied her stethoscope from around her neck and placed it in the crock of his elbow while pumping up the inflatable restraint. Natasha let the pressure build as much as possible before allowing it to deflate. Her eyebrows furrowed at the numbers presented.
“Not looking so good. I'm worried I might to have to kick start your heart again. Any chest pains?”
Frankie shook his head weakly.
Natasha partially removed her glove, holding the back of her hand to his forehead. “You’re stone cold. Even still, I think maybe you might have an infection from that kinky action you got last night. Let me have a look.”
Frankie flinched, offering the only verbal protest he could. “It’s healed.”
No matter, Natasha would always need to see firsthand for herself and this situation was no different. Lacking energy to refuse her examination of his lower region, she tipped Frankie back into a supine position before undoing his belt. Peeling back his jeans, Natasha’s mouth went agape. "Wow, that fast?”
“Would I lie to you?”
Natasha snickered. “Do you want me to answer that, or was it meant to be rhetorical?”
Tucking his family jewels away, Natasha stood, placing her hands on her hips. It had always been hard to meet her gaze on a good day, yet this time Frankie found it to be particularly trying. Those same wheels were turning around in the pretty little head of hers again. If it wasn't an infection causing his condition, it was apparent she thought it was only one other thing.
“Other than the situation you got yourself into last night, is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
Frankie moaned. "Nat, you know everything. There's nothing I can hide from you. We both know that."
Natasha wasn’t buying it. “Listen, if you slipped up and took another a ride on the wild side, the blood sample I took will tell the truth. So, either you tell me, or we do this the hard way.”
Frankie wished his condition had been due to an abundance of the same opioid concoctions which had ended him up just shy of the pearly gates when his heart finally gave out from all the abuse. By some random stroke of fate and luck, it had been Natasha who had brought him back from the brink.
Less than twenty-fours hours before his near fatal overdose, Natasha had been assigned to the band as their tour medic by a boss who had it out for her since her road record was impeccable. Not a single rock star life lost during anyone of her shifts. Thankfully so. Frankie owed her his life and in exchanged vowed never to let the grip of addiction grab hold of him again.
"I swear, on my broken heart, I'm not doing that stuff anymore. Believe me."
Natasha stared back with a look that could kill. If only it could be physically possible. But even if it had been, there was not enough time for it to spontaneously occur. Not a second later, Natasha’s attention flew back down the aisle. Her sternness turned to anger in a flash. Frankie knew that expression all too well. It was ass-kicking time.
“Hey! How many times do I have to tell you to put that thing away!” Natasha yelled as she stomped back down the aisle.
 
 
 
As the night rolled in, Frankie found himself in a much more stable physically than he’d been all day. The only exception being the lingering pounding reverberating throughout his skull. It had subsided the further away from the airport he got, yet by the time the limo reached the heart of the downtown core, it felt as if someone were playing a thousand piece drum set inside his head.
Finally arriving at his beach front condo complex, Frankie jumped from the vehicle and hastily made his way through the empty front foyer toward the elevators. Striding onto an empty elevator car, Frankie leaned his head against a marbled and mirrored panel and closed his eyes. As the doors shut, the Neil Peart drum solo abruptly died down to a single monotone rhythm of a metronome.
Arriving at the penthouse level, Frankie sighed a breath of relief, wholeheartedly awaiting the rest and relaxation he desired after so much time away from the comfort of his homestead. Pulling the key from his pocket, he unlocked the suite door and stepped in.
The sound of stamping footsteps echoed across the upstairs hallway before daintily making their way down the stairs to the lower level. Halfway down, Amelia jumped. Being a professional gymnast and a part time erotic yoga instructor, she elegantly embraced Frankie, wrapping him with her toned arms and firm legs.
Next, she planted a lust induced kiss, virtually sucking out whatever life Frankie had left. Coming up for air, Amelia pulled back, her smoky, hazel eyes full of sexual excitement, slightly hidden by the abundance of bouncy curls dyed purple and black. She pushed her voluptuous breasts up against him, almost suffocating Frankie as they threatened to fall out of her skull studded halter top. "Hey, babe, did I ever miss you!”  
Frankie smiled back the best he could as the drum solo flared up again. Draping his arms limply around her tiny waist, he replied tiredly, “Yeah, I missed you too.”
Unlatching herself from him, Amelia slide down, landing gracefully. She looked Frankie over, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. By this point of initial physical contact, what minimal clothing Amelia wore should have been sprawled all over the floor. Frankie hadn’t even taken the effort to unhitch her bra.
One heavily ringed finger twirled a curl as Amelia’s perplexed gaze fell upon his genitals, laying limp behind designer denim. She pouted, with lips painted the colour of the twilight sky. “Aren’t you excited to see me?”
"Of course, it's just I'm not feeling that great. Think I'm coming down with something."
The smile returned to Amelia’s face at the sound of the challenge presented. Frankie managed only a few steps back before she had a hand down his pants. “Well, why don’t we head upstairs? I’ll make you feel good in no time. Trust me.” Amelia slid her hand out and took hold of his belt strap. Next, she led Frankie helplessly up to the second floor.
Upon entering the grand master bedroom, Amelia skipped across the room and climbed onto the bed, propping herself seductively up against one of the four cherry wood bedposts. She toyed with the set of handcuffs attached to it while playfully draping one sheer curtain around herself. Frankie’s manhood swelled, but the pain up above was proving too much to ignore.
“Hey, babe, I’ve got quite the headache, not sure if I can do it tonight.” Not necessarily a lie.
“Aren’t women supposed to use that excuse?” Amelia joked, unbuttoning her frayed jean shorts.
Frankie rubbed his temples. “That’s what I thought.”
Amelia smiled. She was not going to take no for an answer. “Come on, I got all you need to forget that headache.”
Frankie wasn't so sure. The more worked up the encounter became, the more rampant the pounding. But he knew better than to deny Amelia the sex she lived. Without it, he was sure she would die.
Trying hard to buy some time, Frankie said, “Listen, why don’t you put on that little red lacy number I like so much. You know, the one I got you for Valentine’s day. That one really gets me in the mood.”
Amelia gazed back at him, lost in sexual fantasy. “Honey, you destroyed that one the minute I put it on.” She held a finger to her lips. “But I have one I bought the other day. I totally forgot about it. This one's made of leather, much more durable than lace. I'll be right back.”
Swinging off the bedpost, Amelia bounced across the room to the walk-in closet. As soon as she was out of sight, Frankie pressed his palms to the side of his head. There was no way he could even contemplate pleasing his wife in his condition. Anger, rage almost, at the pain he felt began to erode his desire and lust for sexual escapades. More fuel would douse the emotional fire as Amelia stepped back into his line of sight.
It was any wonder she wore anything at all. Spaghetti strands of leather adorned with diamond studs hung scantily across Amelia’s pixie-sized frame, doing absolutely nothing to hide her God-given personal effects. Simultaneously, the constant pain and expected pleasure altered Frankie’s ability to think. But as Amelia slid two fingers down below and parted her lower lips, teasingly inviting him to take full advantage of her, a sudden, much more sinister realization broke through Jason’s mind.  
In one swift move, Frankie took Amelia in both arms, slamming her down on the bed. She giggled as he tore through the leather nightie like a hot knife through butter. Laying himself upon his wife, the white noise in his mind grew deafening. Voraciously taking one breast in his hand, Frankie hungrily suckled her hardened nipple. The taste of sweat and hormones made him want to bite it clean off. Running his tongue along Amelia’s bare chest, Frankie could feel her cardiac muscle madly beating below the surface of her sternum. The homicidal urge to rip Amelia open and devour her from the inside out erupted from deep inside his mind,. Meanwhile, Amelia moaned unceasingly, begging for Frankie to thrust himself inside, desperate for sexual mercy as her lady parts soaked the sheets beneath. Frankie barely heard her erotic pleas. Taking Amelia by the wrists, he held them down above her head, ensuring there was no chance of escape. She cried out with pleasure to the harsh force applied. Arching her body toward his in a gesture of subtle yet naïve resistance, Amelia quickly gave into willing surrender, awaiting the sexual punishment. Staring back at him crossways with bedroom eyes, the left side of Amelia’s neck lay fully exposed. The primal means in which to quench the carnal urge lay just below the surface of her soft skin. Frankie brought his lips to her throat. Baring his teeth, he went for the jugular.
 
 
 
Another rhythmic beat unexpectedly joined the symphony in his mind, growing ever louder. One steady in its tempo, in between the rapid patter and the slow, dull thud radiating inside his mind. Frankie’s curiosity won the battle over the animalistic blood lust long enough to turn his attention toward the doorway.
A moment later, Natasha stepped into the room. Not dressed in her typical uniform, instead, she wore skin-tight, acid wash blue jeans and an animal print tank top decorated with the symbolic logo of her favourite underground lesbian death metal band. Tattoos which had never seen the gaze of anyone outside her bedroom adorned each arm from shoulder to wrist. Her hair was loose, falling halfway down her spine in a sea of golden curls. Natasha had also painted her eyes the same colour as her hair. They glimmered like sapphires in the dim bedroom light.
Frankie rose off the bed, unable to take his eyes off the vision before him. Then again, it was all too obvious the reason she'd dolled herself up. Time does make the heart grow fonder. Natasha focused solely on the undeclared love of her life laying spread eagle on the bed.
“Amelia.”
“Bitch.”
Natasha’s smile came easy. “Oh, you were always so good with words, weren’t you? I always loved how you talked dirty to me and were never one to keep anything vague.”
Amelia scoffed. "Why don't you tell me? You're the expert. Are you still writing that book you'll never finish?"
"Hard to get anything finished because I'm always so God damn busy taking care of this one here. I really don’t know how you could have left me for him, let alone marry him.”
Placing both feet on the hardwood floor, Amelia straightened herself the best she could. “It’s because you were never there for me, remember? You were always working, studying or writing. We did nothing together as a couple. Hell, you never even offered to take me on tour with you!”
The smile all but dropped from Natasha’s face. “I never took you on tour because I knew what would happen. And guess what? The one time I finally gave in, it proved me right. You just never could get enough sex no matter where it came from you fucking slut.”
Amelia’s only response to the insult was the sickening sound of smack on skin.
Steadying herself after such a hard blow, Natasha's smile made an encore appearance. “I really miss that French flare of yours." Rubbing her reddened cheek, she added, “Want to go for a round for old times’ sake? I like the outfit. Wore nothing like it with me.”
Amelia rolled her eyes. "Been there, done that. I'm not getting trapped in that cycle again. We do it once than before I know we're back together so don't even try to tempt me.” Wrapping her arms around Frankie, Amelia offered back a sly smile.  “Besides, I got all I need right here.”
Natasha shrugged. “Well, it was worth a shot.” Looking back at Frankie, she got straight to the point of her unexpected arrival. “So, I guess I should tell you the other reason I’m here. The results of the blood sample I took this morning came back. Funny enough, it proves what I've been basing my writing on all along. Sexually transmitted mythological blood disorders.”
Amelia’s condescending elatedness instantly turned to vile contempt. Stepping in front of Frankie, she waved her arms wildly. “Eh! I stated in our vows I don’t care if you mess around, but the only thing I asked was for those whores to at least be clean, you know dere!” Turning back to Natasha, Amelia got up in her face next. “What is it? Gonorrhea? Herpes?” Her hands flew to her face. “Ah, Tabernac! It’s not---"
Dismissing her like she had so many times throughout their rocky relationship, Natasha said, “Oh, believe me, sweetheart, you'll wish it was just an STD. Loverboy here has something much worse." Letting the answer hang between them, Natasha couldn’t help but go for a hat trick in one night with another one of her rare smiles. “Frankie, you have what they call Morbus Vampyrus. The first case I've ever come across. Ironically enough, it provides solid evidence on the main thesis of my journal.”
Frankie didn't need to understand Latin to know what she was talking about. He laughed back harshly. “Nat, please, this isn’t Hollywood. This stuff only happens in the movies.”
“Hey, we’re just south of La La Land, so I guess anything is possible. The lab technician I discreetly asked to run the sample thought so too. I had to sign over half my monthly pay cheque under the table for him to keep his mouth shut about it. By the way, Frankie, you owe me back ten grand next payday.”
Pulling a piece of yellow legal paper from her back pocket, Natasha presented her findings. “Now, on a more serious note, I noticed a few symptoms associated with the disorder after my assessment on the plane — sensitivity to light, lethargy, almost undetectable pulse, hypotension, abnormally low body temperature. I could have sworn you had fallen off the wagon hard, but you kept stating you'd been clean. Not going to lie, Frankie, but I totally thought you were pissing down my back and telling me it was raining.” She paused, and her eyebrows furrowed as she looked back at him again. “But then I got the results. So, let me ask you a question. On top of all the things I’ve observed so far, I’ve got to know one thing. Have you been having any unusual cravings?”
Meeting her gaze again, Frankie attempted to play stupid, but Natasha called him out. “Perhaps high iron foods such as, let’s say, meat? Preferably raw?”
Frankie thought back to the early morning hours at the hotel after she had left. The overwhelming craving, hunger really, he couldn’t resist following through with satisfying. Even though the binge had made him violently sick afterwards, the same primitive appetite was now consuming him again a hundredfold. Frankie stared back, unknowing of how to respond. Amelia did the job for him.
“What the hell are you talking about? Frankie doesn’t eat meat. Especially not raw for that fact.” Amelia's face cringed at the very thought. "For your information, he's now a vegetarian like me. Something I could never train you to be.”
Natasha ignored her, continuing her medical questionnaire. “How about this then? Have you been suffering from intense headaches? Does it get worse the more people surround you?”
Frankie couldn’t hide the truth as he rubbed his temples. It was amazing he could even hear what was being saying over all the clamouring in his head.
Natasha's response was deadpan. “I can tell you what the causing it.”
Taking Frankie’s hand in hers, she placed the tips of his fingers to her neck. The feel of her pulse was strong and steady, matching the beat marching inside his head. Just so much louder. The same sudden desire to feast upon the blood flowing through her veins was once again overpowering. Looking Frankie straight in the eyes, it was clear Natasha anticipated his deadly motive. Stepping out of grasping distance, she reached into her canvas backpack. “It looks like its feeding time.”
At the sight of what she retrieved, Amelia jumped back, squealing in between dry heaves. “Oh my God, how could you bring that here! Please don’t tell me that’s real animal blood!”
"It's animal blood, alright, the human variety to be exact. I know another guy who works at the blood bank. Unlike the last favour, this one was for free. They have so much surplus after that tragic terrorist attack a few months ago brought to light the need for blood donations. So many people across the country stepped up to help that now they’re practically giving this shit away.” Natasha focused back on Frankie. “Not that I don’t want you to drain this one dry, but you know how it will go. The cops will always put the blame on the jealous ex-girlfriend."
With more effort than he cared to admit, Frankie tore his gaze away from the gift presented. “Nat, I don’t think I can do this, I mean,” he hesitated, glancing at the mirror above the bed. The three of them stared back at one another. “I still have a reflection.”
Natasha laughed. “You have a disease, dumbass, you’re not dead, well, not technically.” Something caught her eye. “Then again, there is one thing I figured would be just a myth, but I guess I’m proven wrong. Rocking some epic incisors there, bro.”
Running his tongue along his teeth, a look of sheer disbelief crossed Frankie’s face. “This can’t be for real…”
 Amelia’s excited chatter broke the seriousness of such a supernatural situation. "Oh, my God! How sexy is that?" In a fit of giggles, she jumped up and wrapped her arms around him again, nearly taking Frankie down with her on the bed. "Come on, bite me, baby!" 
Natasha quickly stepped in, pulling them apart. “Whoa, not so fast, Casanova. I'm still not sure how this disease originated, but I know how you got infected. Dare I to mention that story in front of this one?" She pointed to the bag. “You might want to have a drink before continuing, or else I’m going to have two problems on my hands.” Twisting off the cap, Natasha picked up a table side glass and poured out the contents. "Here, this will make it seem more refined.”
Frankie fixated on the blood filled crystal, and his emerald green eyes held a predatory guise about them.  As the smell of copper filled the room, civil ability dissipated. Grabbing the glass, Frankie greedily threw it back. Amelia looked on, visibly disgusted yet simultaneously aroused. Natasha watched, steady and unfazed.
Licking the blood from his lips, Frankie felt utter relief washed over him. As the life-giving substance coursed its way throughout his body, the pulsing in his skull subsided, the fire in his veins ceased, and the threat of viciously ripping apart those who stood with him amongst the room retreated.
“Now, Frankie, before I go, I want to talk to you.” Throwing Amelia a hard look, Natasha added, “In private.”
Amelia stood defiant and unmoving. Natasha was no longer in control of her and she knew there was no need to heed any of her orders. Having firsthand experience with how stubborn her ex-girlfriend could be, Natasha swiftly backed down from the silent showdown, throwing a glance toward the door.
Walking out into the hallway, she ensured they were both out of earshot before continuing. “Listen Frankie, I have to fill you in about this disease of yours. In all seriousness, it’s not like how it is in the movies, but somehow it is. You won't burn in daylight, yet the effects of xeroderma can be painful, even fatal in most cases with long-term exposure. Try to avoid sunlight the best you can. But I don’t think it will be hard to do. Nocturnal insomnia will help fuel daytime fatigue, so, in essence, you'll be sleeping for most of the waking day. Also, let's address the one thing that is an actual reality and not just fantasy. The reason you crave blood is that your body has gone into a state of extremely delayed composition. This means everything is now in slow mode, and the only thing you body can process quickly to sustain itself is from the life source that will now be your permanent liquid diet. Speaking of which, let's discuss those headaches. From what I have concluded is that it's a strange form of telekinesis. When your body needs nourishment, it will flare up, a sort of super sensitive survival instinct. I can only assume as you become accustomed to your condition and regulate your feeding, I think they’ll taper off.” Natasha let a scoff pass her lips. “Funny how everyone laughed at me when I told them about what I planned to publish. Looks like you’re my proof in the flesh.”
As Frankie absorbed the reality of the diagnosis, one inquiry still hung heavily between them. Natasha beat him to it. “Are you immortal? No, though to be honest I’m not sure of how long it will take for you to perish like the rest of humanity.” She stared down the hallway, reflecting on another time and place. “I guess the whole ‘til death do us part’ has taken on a whole new meaning.”
For the millionth time, a pang of guilt sucker punched Frankie straight in the gut. Next, he did something he had always thought to do but never had. Taking Natasha’s hand in his, Frankie spoke from the heart. "Listen, I know I've said this a million times before, but I truly am sorry for what I did. But you out of all people have to understand when your given a second chance at life, well, you take it. I never meant to hurt you, especially not after all that you've done for me. Then again, got to admit there is just something about Amelia you just can’t help but fall completely in love with. I guess I just got caught up in the moment.” With a laugh, he said, "Who knew I'd be the marrying type, eh?"
Natasha kept her stare averted. A thin layer of tears began to film her eyes. She blinked once, twice, then they were gone. Giving Frankie’s hand a gentle squeeze in return, she said, “Yeah, I know what you mean. No matter what, I will always have those same feeling. Sounds crazy, right? I always figured I was just too young to fall in love, but here we are. Don’t know what you got until its gone, I guess. Anyway, that reminds me. There’s something else I want to tell you.” Pulling out a sharpened makeshift stake from her backpack, Natasha’s tone turned icy. “And if I ever see you showing those teeth at her, I’ll have the cure to that disease of yours good and ready.”
Frankie smiled, exposing his fangs, daring her into following through with her threat. Natasha stared back unflinchingly, pushing the base of the rough-and-ready weapon against his chest. “Don’t push your luck too quickly. I’m sure you’ll have all of eternity to do that. Well, close to it.”
A sense of underlying dread surfaced within at the sound of her response. "But what if you're wrong, and I live forever?"
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “What? Afraid you might miss the party up in heaven? Didn’t think you believed in that kind of stuff. Must have been something you experienced when you nearly had the final meet and greet with the man upstairs.” She waved him off dismissively. “Believe me, nothing in this world lasts forever, so trust me when I say I'm certain you'll be right on time.”
Frankie was only partial convinced. “Worse yet, what if you’re not around to do the job if it doesn’t happen? No one will know how to kill me in the end.”
Natasha responded as coolly as she always had. “Frankie, mark my words. As long as you’re living the dream, I’ll always know where to find you.”
Tossing her backpack over her shoulder, Natasha descended the stairs, departing without another word to where she was going. Yet Frankie knew for sure her promise would hold true all the same. Natasha had saved him once before, and he knew, without a doubt, she would do it again.