This story is entirely dedicated to Pam Roberson's "Seduction in a Construction Zone" hub and Christoph Reilly's hub "Captive of the Night," both of which I have stolen from shamelessly for plot, theme, storyline, style, setting, characters and all other elements beyond a smattering of minor changes here and there that I mustered soley for the sake of avoiding legal action. Frankly, glaring ripoffs of this magnitude should be dealt with on some level by someone, even if someone at HubPages just calls me a stink face or other marshmallowed epithet, and I fully expect it, my head bowed and nearly ashamed.
The sun loomed heavy in the summer sky, baking the dirt and steaming the air to molten humidity. Men worked beneath that white-hot orb, bent by its weight, digging, lifting, making. Some drove tractors, sheltered by small patches of metal roofs as they stirred up clouds of dust. Others worked shovels and picks, covered by yellow hard hats and dust-streaked tank-top tees clinging sodden to the corrugated sculpture of labor-chiseled flesh.
Pam sat behind the wheel of her minivan and sighed wistfully watching them work, the air conditioner blowing a lazy strand of mouse-brown hair that fluttered against her pale and slender neck. Traffic moved slowly through the single lane of orange cones, and, a bit impatient, she finally found herself at the front of the traffic line.
He stood in the center of the intersection, tall and swarthy, his leathery skin taut across muscles that were tone and deeply carved, sinewy and glistening with a sheen of sweat that reflected the sun’s hot rays.
“Good lord,” she thought. She watched him directing traffic through the intersection from her left and inhaled in deep delight. His arms were strong and brown, his biceps young boulders shifting each time he waved another vehicle through. A thrill ran through her body as her eyes traced the lines of his powerful frame.
Finally he turned to wave the cars in her lane through. He paused, caught her gawking at him and gave her a knowing, deep-eyed look. He grinned, almost a smirk, and his eyes narrowed just enough to let her know he’d read her mind, that he sensed the girlish thrill coursing electric in her loins. His grin widened with her blush.
He was waving her onward, his sign turned to the “Slow” side, and the car behind her honked. She shook herself and drove past him, mortified. He stared as she went by, watched her every moment as she crept through the orange corridor of cones. He gripped the shaft of his long stop sign and leaned upon it with a single-noted laugh, the wind of humor expanding his brawny chest. His cheeks dimpled, and his grin became a smile.
The whole way home she wrung the steering wheel and swung back and forth between laughter and gasps of nearly teenage delight—and her at forty-something too! “Good God,” she giggled.
She thought about him constantly as she trudged through the tedium of another suburban day, and as the late afternoon approached, she could not help but wonder if he was still there.
Stupid, she thought even as she was walking back out to her car. What are you doing? But she got in and started it and headed back to the construction zone. It was after five, there was little hope that he’d still be there. But he was.
She pulled up and waited her turn. He was turned away from her, and she had time to admire his wide shoulders and the angular taper of his strong back, his wedge-shaped grace. It made her think of a manta ray; simple, brown and elegant; a thing of Nature. She noticed a large tattoo on his right shoulder and squinted, leaning near the steering wheel straining to make it out. A vampire, rendered in black, supporting a woman collapsed over his arm, her head back, tender throat exposed to the predator hovering above her, teeth bare and prepared to bite.
Something about that tattoo thrilled her, and she was startled when he spun to face her suddenly, staring straight into her eyes and staking her to her seat with the raw ferocity of his gaze. He shimmered in the super-heated air. She blinked several times. Did he just shimmer? That had to be the heat. Right?
He grinned and waved at her. She raised a hand and, with fingers barely unfurled, waved back. She could see him sort of chortle at the meekness of her wave, and he moved to her left as she passed. Something compelled her to roll the window down an inch.
“Pull over,” he said. Just that. He pointed to a stretch of dirt alongside the road with the simple motion of his head. One side of his mouth twisted up a bit.
Only an idiot would pull over.
So why was she doing it? She couldn’t even believe it as she put the minivan in park. He was walking over to her, his stop sign thrust unattended into the open mouth of a traffic cone behind him, left to mind the traffic on its own.
Shit, shit, shit, she thought. Her heart was racing. She kept thinking about the tattoo on his back. The vampire. He was almost there.
He approached and she rolled the window all the way down. He presumed the invitation and leaned in, veined forearms resting on the window’s edge, a film of dust sticking to sweat-damp hair that looked very soft. He paused, closed his eyes and inhaled the air-conditioned air. Or her.
He looked at her. She could smell him, hot and near. “Follow me,” he said. Half command and half question, his voice barely rising at the end.
Of course she wasn’t going to follow him.
Were his incisors longer than normal?
He straightened and walked past her car, climbing into an old pickup parked not too far away. It had a stretch of red tape bandaging a broken tail light.
There was no way she was following him.
He drove off.
She blinked, incredulous, and gaped inwardly at herself as she pulled out behind him, following him a few miles before finally pulling into a dilapidated old trailer park near a riverbank.
Jesus, she thought.
He got out of his truck and took a few steps towards a rather wilted looking trailer sitting on six blocks of cement. It was awfully small.
But she got out.
He turned and walked to the front door, opening it. She couldn’t stop staring at the tattoo. The vampire moved on his skin as his muscles worked with the small effort of turning a key. It had to be that, the movement. This close, she could see the vampire wasn’t looking at his inken prey. It was looking out. At her.
Inside the trailer was dark, the only light coming coffee-brown through a drawn window shade and helped some by a lance of sunlight cutting a plane of dust motes in the air.
He turned to her, reached around her to pull the door closed. The space was close. She could feel the heat coming off his body again; his chest brushed hers and she throbbed with the fervor of her pulse.
He smelled incredible. Unearthly yet entirely of the earth. Otherwordly. So unfathomably male.
She had to say something. This was getting intense. Her mind raced. Anything.
He turned and scraped a heap of clothing off the dilapidated couch, the motion scaring the dust motes to churning like a swarm of frightened gnats. She could see the vampire on his shoulder dimly as he stooped.
“Nice tattoo,” she said. Stupid! That’s not even what she wanted to say.
“You like it?” he said.
“Yes. Very much.”
“Me too. I like vampires.”
“I am one,” he said.
“I am one.” His voice was changed. Less baritone than she recalled. But the grin was still exactly as before. Disarming.
She gave a nervous sort of laugh. Looked at him. His expression was blank, only the grin. Finally, she stammered a nervous, “What?”
“Nothing.” He motioned for her to sit.
She drew in a long, speculative breath, but still her body placed itself beneath him on the couch. He sat next to her, turned slightly to face her, a long, sinuous arm stretched towards her and lying muscular along the back of the couch.
“You’re pretty,” he said.
“I like pretty girls.”
He leaned forward and nuzzled her neck. She could feel him breathing, heard the sound of air drawn in as he scented her. Warm skin touched her neck as his nose and mouth brushed the ivory flesh beneath her ear.
Her body quivered, but her mind still raced. What if he tried to bite her? That vampire thing was a joke, right?
He nibbled once, softly, mostly, and her hand reflexively moved to his chest, just beneath his shoulder, pressing fingers to bend gently against him. The skin was still damp and warm, his body yielding but firm, powerful beneath her touch that trembled some. She still hadn’t decided if she was going to push him away or pull him close.
He kissed the nape of her neck again. Down to the softest turn of her tender throat. She could feel the rough stubble of his jaw. She leaned into him, felt him shudder, his thick-fingered hand sliding into her hair, clutched tightly of a sudden, gripping an impassioned fist. He pressed against her and gasped, his breath a hot wind upon her flesh. He was going to bite her, she could feel it in her soul.
“Shit,” he said, and leaned suddenly away. “God damn it.”
“What, what?” she moaned. The silly side of her, the hoping side, wondered if he couldn’t bring himself to do it, couldn't turn her, unwilling to subject her the life of a vampire too.
He stood up and turned from her, taking the half step that brought him to the kitchen part of the trailer in, well, half a step. He seemed to be fighting within himself, his posture anguished, his powerful hand gripping a dish towel seemingly of its own accord.
“Damn it,” he said again. “I hate that. That always happens. Son of a bi…” He didn’t finish. He fumbled with the towel before him, out her view, then slammed his fist against the wall. “Bad vampire, bad!” he cried.
“What?” she repeated.
“Sorry.” He turned back to her, the towel jammed into his waistband, dangling like a tattered loincloth over the front part of his jeans. “I was hoping this wouldn’t happen again.”
“Wait, what?” She squinted in the dim light.
He stammered, looked away, mumbled something stupid doing everything to avoid looking down at his pants. Her eyes discovered by his ocular omission the vestiges of a still blooming patch of darkness. She froze.
“Woah. Wait. Dude, are you serious?”
He looked sheepish. She rolled her eyes and her head followed in utter disbelief.
A vampire? She must have completely lost her mind.
A plastic statue of Spongebob Squarepants stood on a shelf above the door, fangs and a black cape marking it as a kid’s meal toy dating back to Halloween. She saw it, shook her head and moaned, staring back at him, stupefied. He shrugged.
She stood and, with as much dignity as she could resurrect, left him. She climbed into her car, resolved to, in the future, fantasize about doughier but much more intelligent men.
-- The End --
More by this Author
A look at using familiar phrases in writing, this article discusses the nature of writers making choices, and considers what is at stake when using "tired" metaphors.
Christoph Reilly is a knave who deserves what he gets for his children's books hub at my expense. This will teach him to challenge me in a duel of immaturity, for there is none on HP more immature than I am. As I have...
A brief examination of the correct grammatical use and origins of the phrase "bad rap." The purpose being to provide research based confirmation of its standard use and to show the grammatical basis for...