Chapter 2: Why you don't cock-block the slayer

Oh look, an albino. Haven't seen one of those around for a while.

What, you think I'd let a vamp come up to me unawares?

Pft. I'd be stone-cold dead by now if that was my modus operandi.

"Hey pretty lady, you wanna join me on the dance floor?" he propositions me, twisting sinuously to the sluggish percussive bass, his skin tight ripped leather and lycra hiding none of what appears to my jaded eyes to be a damn hot physique.

Hmmm. This might be fun.

I allow myself a lazy smile, and tip my head back a little to give him a good long look at my assets as I stretch.

"Sure." A moment later, and I'm following him, weaving my way between jerking, writhing bodies, acknowledging a few people I've come to know, and smirking at a few I have known to come. One particular green-eye-shadowed brunette winks at me as she runs her hands down her pert breasts and licks her lips. I can't remember her name, but I remember how she writhed beneath me, her movements not far removed from how she dances.

Clumsy, but still sexy.

It is at this point that Albino Guy comes to a halt and begins to sinuously gyrate, moving a little like a snake.

Hmm, interesting, I never realised guys took belly dancing lessons. I say as much to him, leaning in close to shout in his ear, as the music, whilst not being too obnoxious for a club, is still pretty loud.

Albino Guy laughs, yelling back something about his sisters teaching him a few moves, as he shimmies, showing that he doesn't have a spare inch of fat on his well-toned physique.

Mmmm this one is going to be delicious.

I join him in his dancing, sometimes attempting to mirror his moves, much to his amusement, but generally just framing myself, moving slowly, allowing Albino to get the right idea of what he might get tonight if he doesn't fuck up.

I see him grin almost carnivorously, and I raise an eyebrow at him, blatantly measuring him inch by inch with my eyes, before leaning forward and pressing my body against his as I fondle him through his excuse for trousers. Wordlessly letting him know that if he takes me up on my offer, he is going to be flat on his back tonight, and that any ideas he might have otherwise are laughable.

I smile at him dangerously, and I can tell he has got the message, if the shocked blush is any indication.

I love teaching these peacocks that the only control they ever have is whatever their partner cedes to them. There are times when I am perfectly happy to lie back and let them take over, but they have to be taught the way of things first, to break them of any bad habits.

Like thinking that I'm offering for his sake.

Bitch please. Multiple orgasms are the best thing about being female. If a guy can't do that to his woman, he isn't trying hard enough. If he doesn't try at all... then goddamn, girls, you don't know what you're missing. I don't care how pretty, rich or whatever my partner is, if they can't make me half-mindless with ecstasy at least once per encounter, then they just aren't worth it.

After a while more of foreplay on the dance floor, I step away from my partner, smirking at the rosiness I've pulled into his lips from hard kisses.

Not so pale anymore.

I beckon to him with a well-practiced come hither look, and weave my way once again through the writhing bodies, noting with satisfaction that there aren't any vamps in the room tonight. Sparks is a refuge for me, my special harem for when I decide I need a break from executing my bed-partners. I am refused sometimes, but not often- I have learnt which people are better marks than others, and Sparks is always full of plenty of people ready and willing for a good fuck, no matter that my tangles and trysts with vamps have left me a little scarred up in places.

On the other hand, while I am certainly no centrefold, I am no Quasimodo either. Actually, if I was wearing a grey tracksuit, in broad daylight, slumped at some bus-stop I'm well aware that most people wouldn't look twice at me.

Unless they piss me off. I'm told I'm memorable when I'm pissed off.

It's amazing though, what an aura of confidence, some striking make up and clothes that accentuate rather than simply baring all or striving to fit in with the fashion can do for one's desirability when trying to catch the attention of a potential fuck. Standing out by appearing as bold as brass and with an air of class to boot is a great way, I've found, of differentiating myself from the crowd.

Mind you, it's only an air of class. The second I open my mouth, doesn't matter how patrician my cheekbones look, or how expensive my dress, I've got the mouth and morals of a hoyden.

It's fun being a contradiction.

We exit Sparks, and walk down the street outside, breathing in the chilly, car-exhaust-ridden air, participating in the usual pre-one night stand banter. Amongst the flirting, nuggets of information are tossed about, mostly to make sure that no unwanted consequences will arise from this temporary partnership.

My Albino's name, I discover, is Lawrence Jason Wright, and by day he works as a wedding planner in his sister's company, usually designing the layout of the reception rooms and working as a liaison with the various cake decorators, florists and formal-wear hire places that are all involved in the creation of the happy couples' perfect day.

By night he tends to be found trolling the clubs, and uses his unusual looks to pick up. He's adamant about using a condom.

Good boy. Silly to take risks these days. Always nice to know I'm not fucking someone who's stupid.

Fucking someone until they're stupid on the other hand...


He tells me he wouldn't turn down a suggestion for a long term relationship if he ever received one.

I laugh a little at this, and tell Lawrence that sorry to disappoint, but I am a one-night only sort of partner. I feel no pity, as he sounds like a nice-enough guy and is sure to eventually find what he is looking for, so long as he doesn't act like a dickhead.

He is about to reply, when he is suddenly crash-tackled from behind by a man dressed in black.

What the fuck?!

Lawrence is flat on his face on the cement, being straddled by a man whose most distinguishing feature is his trench-coat. That and his sunglasses. It's night, and he's wearing sunglasses. And he just crash-tackled my potential one-night-stand.

Easy Bela. Hold back the rage.

"What the fuck do you think you are doing?" I demand politely as Nightglasses pins a struggling Lawrence down.

Comparatively politely. Hey, I could have kicked him in the face. That's a lot less polite.

How the hell did he sneak up on us like that?

Fuck, hope I'm not losing my touch.

"Run for your life Lady, and be glad I was here to save you from this horrid vampire!" Nightglasses proclaims.

Oh fucking hell, it's an amateur saviour-type. The idiot sounds like he's in one of those five dollar novels you can buy out the front of newsagents. You know, those ones that people read on airplanes and then throw in the bin when they're done, because no one really wants to read that crap once, let alone a second time. "Horrid"? I'll give him "horrid".

And I'd been having such a nice, non-violent night too.

I kick Nightglasses twice in the ribs with the point of my boot, giving Lawrence a chance to roll out from under him as Nightglasses wheezes.

Pulling Lawrence to his feet, I glare at Nightglasses, who is currently dragging himself up using a convenient brick wall. He nearly overbalances when he puts his hand down on some hour-fresh chewing gum and flinches away from it. I thought I'd smelled mint.

"I don't know what your fucking problem is mate," Lawrence hisses, rubbing his elbow, "but I'd thank you not to give me shit about my condition. It's not my fucking fault I was born without pigment, and I am fucking sick to death of hearing that I'm a Vampire or a goddamn anime character."

From my position beside him, I tilt my head contemptuously at the still wheezing Nightglasses. Man, I must have got him good. Either that or he's a bit pathetic. Either story would amuse me right now.

"What he said," I smirk. "Learn to tell people with rare genetic disorders from things that go bump in the night. The difference is subtle, but it's there." If my sarcasm was any thicker, I could have used it to beat him with.

The thought is more attractive than it probably should be.

No, get your minds out of the gutter. I don't do BDSM.

A little of the old ultra-violence though? That I sometimes indulge in.

I hear Lawrence move and then hiss again, this time in obvious pain.

"You alright?" I ask, concerned. Me and Nightglasses were going to have a little, much needed talk, so I quickly concocted my favourite cover story. "My fucker of an ex didn't just injure you did he?"

Nightglasses took this as his cue to gasp. "Ex? What the hell are you talking about?"

Great. I have a regulation fucktard on my hands. The sunglasses-at-night thing should have clued me in, but no, I had to hold out a tiny bit of hope that he wasn't completely stupid now didn't I.

I sigh in exasperation. Fan-fucking-tastic. I turn to Lawrence. "I am so sorry about this. Look, I need to kick this dipshit's head in for him, and there is probably going to be a lot of loud yelling and shrieking, and afterwards I am going to be in no mood to fuck someone as nice as you."

I pull my wallet out of my left boot and flick through the cards I had in there. Ah, perfect.

"Tell you what. This girl whose number I have here is one of my favourites, and she's a nurse-in-training so she'd be likely to have stuff for patching up whatever scrapes you might have just got from this dickhead."

Surprised but with a look of interest in his eyes, Lawrence appears to consider this for a moment, and then nods. I'm not offended by his apparent ease of deciding- what was supposed to have been a simple let's-go-back-to-my-place-and-fuck-no-strings-atta ched had turned into a domestic situation, and let's face it, comforting a stranger sex is never as much fun as "I think you're hot, let's bang" spontaneous sex.

Believe me, I'd know.

I give Lawrence the number and a goodbye kiss (it might have been just me, but I thought he might have been walking a bit funny after that, heheh), then wait until I know he's out of earshot, heading back in the direction of Sparks. He's already dialling the number I gave him. Typical. I'm not too worried about his safety, as we had had yet to turn off the road that Sparks and a few other such clubs front onto. If he got into any trouble around here there are bouncers practically lining the street. At least half of them are bored enough that it's a wonder they don't start more of their own trouble.

I turn back to Nightglasses, who fortunately (for him) evidently decided to not try and piss off. I'm annoyed enough already at losing my chosen one for the night, and chasing after some amateur slayer in my trademark stilettos would not have improved my mood any.

Searing the stupid dillbrain with my best scowl, I stomp over to him and grab him by the shirt-front, pulling him into the alley way he originally sprang from.

"Who the fuck do you think you are jumping randoms in the street you cretinous asshole of a disease-stricken whore?" I deliberately use the foulest language I can muster, and Nightglasses winces visibly. Pathetic. If I could make him cringe with words alone, then he was goddamned lucky to have run into me. Any Vamp would have him bitten before he could say, "oh golly gosh I'm in a bit of a pickle now aren't I?" And then knowing my luck, the vamp would decide they liked him or something, and then I'd have to deal with a sunglasses-at-night vamp. Those ones are always particularly irritating- they like to monologue. If I have to listen to lines from that godawful vampire movie (pick one) once more, I'm going to start sending death threats to the writers.

I say as much to the moron, and he gapes. I sigh. Oh. My. God. This twit would never survive the week.

"What's your name, Nightglasses, so I'll know who to look out for in the obituaries column?"

For the first time since he had pounced on my would-be conquest, Nighglasses speaks. To my amusement, he appears to be attempting to get some measure of composure back.

"My name is Damian Centurion. I beg apology for my rudeness, but I was looking out for your best interests. With Vampires around one cannot be too careful. There was no need to be insulting. If you feel the need to 'kick my head in' as you so aptly phrased yourself I must warn you that I am a black belt in karate, and bigger than you."

Fucking Christ on a bicycle. Bitch did not just attempt to condescend then tough talk me. I'm talking to a dead man walking, and by the looks of it he doesn't even know it yet.

I lean back against the wall of the alley and rub my temple with one hand. My feet are starting to ache from my boots, and the fact that my plan to have me some nice safe human sex for the first time this week has been effectively shot to hell by this monkey-brain isn't improving my mood.

"Oh, I am so terrified by your macho fake name and your black belt in karate," I execute a mock swoon. "Clearly only you can save me from the vampiric menace, by your simply excellent method of roughing up any old random with red eyes and a taste for leather." I roll my eyes dramatically.

Too-dumb-to-live looks affronted. "It was not a joke, lady, there really are vampires out here. And what's wrong with my name?" The dimwit is practically pouting. This is really too sad for words. I should be more sympathetic, I know I really should. I'm sure I was at least as naïve when I started out.

I look him up and down, even further unimpressed by what I see. The black belt thing might be true, but in this case the qualification could be as much as a handicap as a skill, giving the guy more confidence than his skills probably deserved. A stockily built caucasian standing at about five foot nine in his shiny black laced boots, he looks an utter try-hard in his slightly too-long leather trench coat, black muscle shirt and black pants. I can see gel in his obviously streaked brown and blonde hair, and is that a gun in his pocket?

And then there's the sunglasses. At night.

Somebody has been spending way too much time watching the wrong kind of blockbusters.

I fold my arms, taking petty pleasure in the fact that while "Damian" is in fact more heavily built that me, in my stilettos I'm almost half a hand-span taller than him. I decide to explain things to him. Despite the posh talk, he is clearly in need of an education.

Listen to teacher.

"You really are pretty slow, aren't you. What, you think that you can impress me with your black belt and your wannabe badass action hero persona? Seriously, I don't know what movies you've been watching, but in the real world, nobody is impressed by your black-on-black getup. 'Damian Centurion'? Really? Of all the names you could have picked for your alias you picked that pretentious shit? Who the fuck do you think you are, some goddamned Gary Stu comic book hero or something. 'Looking out for my best interests'. You can't even tell the difference between an albino human and a vamp, and you think you're looking after my best interests and I cannot believe that that's a gun in your pocket. Either it's loaded, and you were too stupid to try to shoot your mark in the back, or it's not, and you're effectively wearing it as the kinda jewellery that can get you a criminal record. This is Sydney, not Dallas. Besides, bullets don't work on vamps anyway- Buffy managed to get that much right. You're just lucky you didn't shoot that poor kid or you would be looking at an attempted homicide charge."

The guy is starting to sweat, but I'm just getting warmed up.

"You honestly think I'd make up that cover story of you being my ex just for ass-kicking rights? Puh-lease. That shit was just supposed to get rid of the Blinker case without hurting his feelings too bad. Feel free to take notes, because ninety percent of the time, panic is the very last thing you want to cause in a civilian. And that smart-ass tone you used on me before can stop right now, newbie. I doubt you've been in this business for more than three days, and I can assure you that if you continue on with that attitude you aren't going to last the first working week of your career."

It was about this point in time that his brain must have finally got into gear, as he suddenly gasped, "You mean to say you know about vampires?"

I couldn't help myself, I burst out laughing.

A/N: I repeat, this is in the middle of being edited. Any feedback you can give me to help improve this would be greatly appreciated.