Ira's POV 0.1
When you start to hear those words it’s almost enough to stop your hardly-beating heart altogether.
When you and Fitch hit the town tonight, you weren’t expecting to see the master in action. With his ‘hey man, whatcha doin’, we should go out’ it was just supposed to be drinks and, possibly, some cruising. So you got dressed in some nice jeans, kicked on your newest obscenely expensive sneakers, pulled on a graphic-t with fancy writing that you knew hugged your body just right, and you were good to go.
Fitch hadn’t seemed to take any more care with his appearance than you had. In fact it looked like he’d taken even less. He’d shown up at your door in some jeans you knew for a fact weren’t his best, a simple t-shirt, and a denim jacket. It didn’t even look as though he had raked a comb through his ‘Jew-fro’ as he affectionately refers to it. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time.
But you’ve been at the bar for precisely ten minutes, and his plan is becoming abundantly clear. Fitch is sitting at a table, already with some young thing—short, blonde, eighteen if she’s a day—hanging on his every word. When you start to hear those words it’s almost enough to stop your hardly-beating heart altogether.
His eyes are fixed at some indistinct point on the table top. “I’m a vampire.”
“You’re a vampire,” she says, tone skeptical, but there’s an unmistakable eagerness in her eyes.
He nods, his downcast face almost comical. Almost, but she’s eating it up. She brushes faux-blonde hair out of her face, an attempt at casual, but her eyes are storming his castle, hunting out every clue.
“I’ve never told anyone,” he drags out, mournful. “But I just couldn’t keep it in.”
He looks up, enough hope in his eyes that she comes closer. “You won’t tell anyone, right?”
“My friend Shelly slept with Marc Cooper, and I didn’t tell a soul,” she says, taking Fitch’s hand. “You’re secret’s safe with me.”
A slow smile spreads across Fitch’s face. “Do you wanna, like, get out of here?”
Before she can respond he’s turning away and making a disgusted noise. “God, that sounded so—I’m not good at this. I’m so bad at…at talk.”
Bullshit, you think, nearly laughing aloud. Fitch? Bad at talk? He’s not ancient at only ninety, but the guy is fucking religious at talking, and it should be obvious at how easily he’s playing her.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Her voice is mother-gentle, as if she’s the frightening one. “I think you talk just fine. And yes, I do wanna get out of here. I can barely hear you in here.”
“I’m glad,” Fitch says as they get up. “I like talking to you.”
He catches you looking as they head toward the door, and he flashes you a familiar grin. Well, fine, you think, dismounting your stool. No sense letting him have all the fun.