Dead Girls Don't Cry

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Acknowledgements

About the Author

For Jane: Goddess of Grammar and Friendship

CHAPTER ONE

Life sucks, then you die
. It’s a universal truth. But here’s what’s scarier. Even in death, life can still suck.

Case in point … wait for it….

“Cherry! Get your skinny ass up on stage!” Jonathan barked through my dressing room door. How do I describe him? Pain in my rump? Benefactor? Reason for my current situation? None of them seem adequate. His main occupation? Yelling at me to perform and to make him money. And he’s always interrupting. Never lets a girl have even a moment to think.

“I’m on my way. Geez Louise.” I flung open the door, narrowly missing Jonathan’s long Roman nose. The tops of his fangs peeked out from his full lips as he smiled at me. This was a game we liked to play. I would try to smack him with the door whenever possible.

Okay, it was a game I liked to play. I’ve never managed to nail him in the face. My vampire sire is too damned fast.

Jonathan
tsked
and crooked his finger. A slow smile curled his lips. “Cherry, I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Of course you do. I’m your number one performer.” I flashed fang. My pearly whites are nowhere near as long as his, but they can still do the job. Due to feed soon, I tried not to stare at Jonathan’s jugular. I hated needing my sire’s blood to stay strong and avoid overpowering hunger. The kind, if left untended long enough, that made vamps go feral. I buried my nose in a bouquet of fragrant red roses, a gift from one of my many fans.

Jonathan smirked. Damn. I hated when he caught me eyeing him like a roast. Another game we liked to play – I pretended I didn’t need him. And he pretended not to notice. We both knew otherwise.

I needed him.

Crap on toast.

Before departing, I turned, throwing words over my shoulder to my long-suffering thrall, Jayakrishna, “Jay, are my parts on straight?”

The costume, part Marie Antoinette and part dominatrix, consisted of a cinched waist, a long train, multiple petticoats and a black leather peek-a-boo corset. After I seductively peeled off the layers, I’d remain in my birthday suit and thigh high stiletto boots.

Parked on my shabby, red velvet divan, Jay gave me a quick once over. “You’re fine.” He stuck his nose back in his book on astrophysics or something equally brainy. He could have been a brilliant scientist or inventor. But he ended up stuck as my immortal servant. Mostly, he’s my babysitter and closest confidant.

“What difference does it make? You’re only taking the costume off.” Jonathan smacked my ass cheek hard enough to leave a red welt. “Now move.”

I complied because I had no choice. Jonathan would have dragged me down the hall and forced me onstage anyways. Seriously, someday, I’d be free of him. Not sure how or when. But someday. That’s the plan at any rate.

I made my way to the main stage, careful not to catch the train on any of the backstage equipment, while checking the pins on my white powdered wig. Fang Bang wasn’t a run-of -the mill strip joint. A good old fashioned House of Burlesque, we catered to both mortals and immortals. The humans mostly stayed in the sleazier pole-infested front half of the club, watching dances I wouldn’t want my Christian mother to witness if she were still alive.

The exclusive, vampire-only theater was where the real show happened. We Burlesque gals, sang, danced, told jokes and entertained before stripping off the costume. Real old-school, Gypsy Rose Lee style.

Drunken laughter funneled down the hall. I heard the muffled sound of our emcee introducing me. Cheers and catcalls echoed off the concrete block walls. The noise level increased as I approached the corner of the stage. The boisterous crowd stomped on the floor, their footsteps in lockstep unison. A mix of lust and excitement on the other side of the heavy velveteen curtain, all for me.

My anxiety skyrocketed. Acid roiled my stomach. After so many years of entertaining, I still suffered from stage fright.

Ridiculous, but true.

I’m not bothered by removing my clothes in front of a room full of leering men. It’s the fear that, somehow, they can see right through me. Right down to my rotten, undead core. Deep inside, an animal resides. One that views them as food—vampire and human alike are equally tasty in their own way.

Only a fellow vampire can sustain us long term. Our blood is rich and sweet: a succulent steak dinner with a baked potato, green beans and a slice of cherry pie for dessert. A human is more like a candy bar to tide you over until the next big meal. The energy rush is nice while it lasts. I haven’t lost control in over a century, but the aftermath of my last rampage… cringeworthy.

The chanting intensified. The noise hurt my ears. P.T. Bryson, the emcee, shouted out my introduction, “… Amazing. Entertaining. Y’all behave yourselves for our sweet Cherry Cordial!”

I swiftly moved into position: center stage, arms upraised, hips posed seductively.

My entrance music blared out. Trumpets and low brass instruments played the classic ode —
The Stripper
. The official anthem of the bump and grind.

The curtain shot upward as if on springs instead of ropes. Applause surged. For a moment, bright spotlights blinded me. The dark edges around the light shielded the faces of the audience.

It was just as well I couldn’t see them. Once the curtain rose, I was the act.

The entertainer.

No longer me. I was a character.

Cherry Cordial. The stripper.

~ * * * ~

So how does a vampire end up a stripper? Isn’t it a lowly, degrading job? Maybe to my old, dusty, and bygone Victorian generation. Not so much now. Morals change with the times. Humans who take off their clothes for a living call themselves “exotic dancers.” Some of them make a lot of money.

The vampire world functions differently from the human one. Humans are born, live and die. Vampires, we’re born, then die and are re-born. And we have a lot of free time. We live in clans or families. First thing I learned as a newborn vampire: your sire is your god, your protector, your life (as it were). My sire’s chosen profession was entertainment. Raunchy, adult-oriented entertainment.

Jonathan
is
a good sire. He makes sure the paying customers keep their hands and fangs off of us. We aren’t whores after all. Well, most of us aren’t. There’re a couple of the gals and guys who take side jobs. Jonathan doesn’t care as long as the family gets its cut. I’m strictly into dancing. I can’t do the sex thing without feelings for the guy. I know. Call me traditional.

I’ve done the relationship dance with humans and vamps. Here’s the problem: humans die on you or demand to be made into a vampire. And vampires, well, after a long enough time, we get sick of each other. Maybe I haven’t met the right man yet, but so far I’ve gotten duds. My asshole magnet works fine, thank you very much.

Exhibit A – the creep in the front row, greasing his own pole. I don’t have a problem with men masturbating to my act. Heck, self-pleasuring comes with the territory. No, my issue was with the vampire, Morton J. Vandemere III, regular customer and all around pervert. He enjoyed ejaculating on my picture, smearing his cum across my photographed face and proudly displaying his handiwork to me. Like I’d jump off the stage an award him a gold star.

For a while, Jonathan banned him from the club. But everything changed when Morton made Jonathan an offer he couldn’t refuse. Like any good capitalist, Jonathan accepted Morton’s money to get his freak on in the front row. And I hear Morton paid handsomely for the privilege. Six figures.

Cripes, I can’t stand Morton and men of his ilk, the kind who think money can buy them whatever they want. Thankfully, there are limits. Morton may look to his heart’s content. If the perv even breathes on me funny, he’s out on his ass.

The music changed tempo, the cue to remove the rest of my costume. I winked at Morton to please Jonathan, now observing from the wings, shook my derriere and then moved to the finale.

I deftly slipped out safety pins, letting them clink onto the floor one by one. The percussionist timed a beat to each fall. The pins were another homage to the great Gypsy Rose Lee. She used to drop them into the tuba in the orchestra pit. Our tuba player was a grouch, so I made do by flicking a few into the audience. The crowd shouted encouragement of the raunchy variety. I used to be embarrassed. Not anymore. I’ve pretty much heard it all.

The final parts of my costume fell away. Left with a G-string and pasties, the collective male animal came to life. The pungent odor of lust perfumed the air. For us vamps, sex and blood go hand in hand, like peanut butter and chocolate.

I knew this. The crowd knew it too. I pulled the small sliver dagger from my boot and dragged the blade down my collarbone.

A male vamp surged towards the stage as the scent of my blood drifted into the crowd. The bouncers intercepted him well before he reached me. He must have been a young one, too new to handle his urges. The head of security would probably read the ushers The Riot Act before the night was over. They’re supposed to screen the crowd. No fledglings are allowed.

Like a seductress, I trailed the blood with my finger across my left breast and down my stomach. When I licked my fingers, the crowd went eerily silent for a moment as if savoring the taste with me.

I played a dangerous game. My bloodline is old and valuable. If Jonathan were a real bastard, he would sell my blood like a fine vintage wine to the highest bidder. Once the show was over, Jay, and only Jay, would wipe any traces off the stage to prevent others from discovering my secret.

The music reached its crescendo. I gyrated and danced across the stage. With lightning speed, I removed the pasties and the G-string. .

Naked, I granted a glimpse and no more. The house lights went dark. Applause thundered in my ears.

“Encore! Encore!”

I didn’t oblige.

I never do. It’s the one act of spite Jonathan allows me.

He killed me, after all. He owes me.

~ * * * ~

You’d think I’d hold more of a grudge against Jonathan for what he made me into. Believe me. I did. For a long time. But, I got something else in return besides immortality and blood lust: stability. After my turbulent mortal life, becoming a –

“Hey Cherry!” a sweet, perky voice called out from behind me. “Hold up a second.”

More interruptions. I wanted to keep walking. To go home, shower and sleep. “I’m kind of in a rush to leave, Pearl.” I turned to face her. A petite blonde with Shirley Temple hair, a large lollipop, and a skimpy sailor suit.

Pearl of Wisdom. That’s her stage name. And you don’t want to know what she does with pearls or the lollipop on stage. “Jay asked me to deliver a message. The tube sock is on the door. Whatever the heck that means. Toodles.” She flounced away, golden curls springing in time to each step.

Great. Jay planned on entertaining a guest. At least he warned me this time. Instead of me walking into our home and catching him boinking his latest hook-up.

The dressing room door slammed in my wake. I kicked my backstage robe onto the floor and viciously wiped the makeup off my face.

I shouldn’t have been mad at Jay. He didn’t ask to be my servant for eternity. That was my fault. Sort of.

I reexamined my feelings. Perhaps I was jealous of his nookie habits. I snorted. Not likely.

Besides, I had other duties to attend before I could go home.

In addition to performing, I also had the
fun
job of scheduling the club’s acts. Jonathan assigned me the position after noticing how deftly I handled the prima donna personalities. My method was not to give a shit and ignore the whining. Who knew that was considered a talent?

As a reward for my “management skills,” he also piled on bookkeeping and payroll. My affluent education apparently made me the smartest employee of the bunch.

Nice guy, huh?

Drone duties completed, I changed into my street clothes, gathered my hair into a ponytail and stuffed it under a baseball cap. One pair of large sunglasses later and I was on my way . . . except, I had completely forgotten about the Austin Jazz Festival. Earlier, I had parked blocks away from the club in a run-down alley and now I could make the long trek back to my jeep.

Bag in hand, I waltzed down the streets, skirting broken beer bottles and other debris. Slobs. Occasionally a drunk human would shuffle by. One even relieved himself in the street in front of me. He had a pecker the size of gherkin.

Like I said, no worries. None of them could harm me.

I whistled a tune. The song died on my lips. A sweet, musty odor, like grave dirt mixed with lilies stopped my feet. I scanned the area. Suddenly, I wasn’t the biggest, baddest thing on the block.

Revenants.

They always traveled in packs. Enough of them could take me down. Revenants were cousins to vampires, undead beings with too much spirit. Essentially ghosts with physical reality.

I picked up the pace, steering toward the middle of the street and well away from dark corners. If I had a heart rate, it would have been pounding. My blood was rare and prized. One sip and the revenants would keep me alive to serve as a drink dispenser.