Chapter Text
“Yeah, mom, I’m doing okay… yeah, yeah, I will, but- okay. I don’t know, I was… yeah. Alright, well… I will… Yes… Love you too… Bye.” He hung up the phone, flipping it closed and tossing it onto the desk. He turned back to face the floor-length mirror that hung on the wall, examining himself in his black dress shirt and tie.
“Do you think this looks stupid?”
“Patrick, chill, it’s fuckin’ Chris ,” his roommate, Joe, answered. He was messily eating cheese puffs on the futon, eyes locked onto an episode of America’s Next Top Model. Patrick wouldn’t have pinned him as a reality TV guy, especially not in high school, but being roommates with someone tends to reveal a lot of unexpected things about them. “Dude’s probably pissed we’re throwing him a funeral and not a rager.”
Patrick slumped down in his desk chair, staring at the glowing desktop screen in front of him. He scanned the screen, bouncing the mouse back and forth on the desktop with no clear direction.
“We could always get shitfaced before we go and turn it into a rager. I bet you’d prefer that, too,” Patrick said, a little more aggressively than intended.
His ferocity was justified. He was barely seven months out of high school, and he had already attended the funerals of five guys he had grown up with. Guys he had run around the city with after band practice. Guys he smoked for the first time with. Guys he had come to trust more than anyone else. And now, all of them were gone. Except for Joe, who had somehow managed to escape the wave of death that had suddenly overtaken Patrick’s life. Although, sometimes Patrick wished that he was dead too. He could be a total prick sometimes.
Joe slammed the plastic barrel of cheese puffs onto the shitty excuse for a coffee table, fingers covered in orange dust. He turned the TV off, stood up, and walked over to his closet.
“You’ve got mail!” chimed Patrick’s computer, interrupting the thick silence in the room. Patrick shot up in his chair, practically falling over his computer.
“Christ, would you turn that shit off?” Joe complained, kicking his pajama pants off and storing them carefully in a ball on the floor, “they’re not gonna email on a Sunday.”
For once, Joe was right about something : the office of financial aid hardly cared about the students they were supposed to be financially aiding, but somehow cared enough to not make them panic over dollar signs on a weekend.
Patrick cleared his throat and read the email. It was not from the financial aid office, but Illinois State University Office of Student Safety: “As we mourn the tragic, sudden loss of another beloved student at Illinois State, we would like to send a reminder to our students of the new 9pm safety curfew. This is a mandatory precaution and will be enforced beginning tonight. Any student found outside of their residence hall past 9pm will face prosecu-”
“Oh bullshit, they’re gonna arrest us?” Joe said, walking over and pressing the power button on the computer, now wearing dress pants and working on buttoning his shirt. He looked surprisingly put together, despite his constant messy stoner aura.
“Don’t they know serial killers attack during the day, too?”
“Not this one, apparently,” Patrick said dryly, “let’s go.”
-
Aggressive knocking at the door woke Patrick from his drunken sleep. After the funeral, he’d had four shots of shitty vodka that Joe somehow obtained (he wasn’t going to ask how managed that with his empty bank account), which only ended up knocking the two of them out cold. Patrick rolled off the futon; wincing when his bare feet hit the cold dorm tile. He grabbed the bottle of vodka from the coffee table and haphazardly shoved it into the freezer of the mini fridge. He scuttled over to the door and opened it.
Two RAs, a male and a female, stood outside the door with clipboards and flashlights. They looked Patrick up and down, slowly. He realized he probably looked insane, still wearing his shirt and tie and a severe case of bedhead.
The guy was a football team reject. It was obvious that he never really got over it, judging by the fact he still wore university football attire, but Patrick had never seen him at a game. The girl was definitely a sorority type, and the type that absolutely partook in heinous hazing rituals that should get her sent to jail. She was chewing gum, loud smacks and all. If she wasn’t so intimidating, maybe Patrick would be into her.
“Curfew check,” the guy said flatly, “can we come in?”
Patrick silently gestured at the dark dorm cell behind him. The RAs entered, turning on their 6000 watt flashlights to scan the room. They locked the windows, checked the walls for spoon tunnels, and searched for any sort of paraphernalia they could bust the two boys for.
Patrick didn’t mind the search. Legally, the housing staff couldn’t open any fridges or drawers, and his “buzz” was dying off, so he couldn’t care less about what was found.
Until the girl’s eyes landed on the gray duffel bag sticking out from under Patrick’s bed.
He couldn’t care less about what they found, except for, well… that.
The duffel bag was zipped up, thank god . Patrick knew she didn't have the authority to open it. She stood there and looked at it quizzically, as the guy examined the sleeping or possibly dead body of Joe Trohman.
She leaned down and picked up the bag. It reeked of alcohol, cigarettes, and cheap perfume. She caught a whiff of this concoction and her head immediately turned to Patrick.
He held his breath, thinking about the embarrassment he’dl never be able to live down for the rest of college if that sorority girl opened that bag.
While the guy checked to see if Trohman still had a pulse, the girl quietly placed the bag on the floor, unlocking the dorm room window behind her.
There was a glance between her and Patrick; a glance that said I know.
The guy dropped Joe’s arm and nodded, “Come on Greta, next room.”
The two left the room without so much as a “have a good night.” As soon as their footsteps faded off down the hallway, Patrick grabbed his bag and opened the window.
-
Patrick sprinted through the streets to arrive on time, trying to push aside the thought of his secret being revealed to the entire college as he ran. He made it with thirty seconds to spare, flying into the dressing room like a fucking tornado.
The duffel bag immediately met the cracked leather of the “wardrobe” chair in the fluorescently lit poor excuse of a dressing room. It had more of a sixth grade locker room vibe than anything else. Some of the girls had spruced it up with Christmas lights and disco balls, and the mirrors did have bulbs, which were all mostly dead. As per usual, there was no one in the room with him. Most of the dancers would just go in and out for their short time slots. No one wanted to hang out at the deadest strip club in all of Chicago.
Patrick stripped down- all the way down - and tore through the duffel bag. It was an explosion of glitter and sequins, his personal specialty (and club dress code). A gasp broke him out of his search, causing him to jolt upright and lock eyes with none other than Greta , the sorority girl RA. She was standing literally three feet away in a bathrobe and studded stiletto boots, drinking an iced coffee at 11pm. Patrick smiled and squeaked out an awkward “hi”, before remembering his dick was out on full display.
“Oh! Sorry, sorry, my bad,” he said hastily, grabbing a towel off of the makeup counter to cover himself. “I’m usually… the only one back here.”
Greta sipped her iced coffee and stared at him. Patrick laughed awkwardly to fill the silence. He wasn’t sure what to do. Getting dressed in front of her wouldn’t make it any less embarrassing, but she’d already seen his entire birthday suit, so it’s not like things could get any worse.
“Nice,” she said flatly, placing her iced coffee on the vanity table. She sat down, swiveling her chair to the mirror, turned on the mirror lights, and opened a tube of mascara. Patrick was frozen in place, fascinated by how nonchalant she was.
“Are you gonna put your dick away or just keep staring at me?” Greta said, not even looking in his direction.
Patrick shook his head, clearing the fuzz from his brain.
Fuck it. It’s nothing she hasn’t already seen.
As he put on his outfit for the evening — a red, sequined thong that was scratchy as shit on his junk, a devil horn headband that squeezed his head too tight, and a red blazer, opened — he couldn’t stop staring at himself in the mirror. It wasn’t his first night working, but somehow each night always feels more anxiety inducing than the last. It’s not even that he didn’t have a private dance booked that night, he already had done that several times with several men who were definitely cheating on their wives with young boys in strip clubs and he was getting sick of it. For some unknown reason, he was just unbelievably nervous tonight.
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the girl in front of him could very easily ruin his life and he just had to pretend that he was totally fine with that.
Patrick sat down in his chair, the one next to her’s, and began to do his own makeup. It’s quiet between the two of them, but the background noise of the club was obnoxiously loud for whatever poor, underpaid dancer was taking the stage at the time. Undoubtedly, she was performing for no one. Knowing that likely fewer than five people would see Patrick dance always calmed his nerves.
Nonetheless, he felt electric with nervous energy in the silence that filled the dressing room.
“Hey, um… Greta, was it?”
Greta nodded.
“Uh… Thanks for leaving my window unlocked.”
“I’m surprised that you work here, but somehow, not surprised at all,” Greta replied, not breaking eye contact with herself. “You always struck me as the nerdy band kid down the hall, not a stripper.”
“I mean, you gotta do what you gotta do,” Patrick argued, not sure if it was even something worth arguing. He was poor and needed money for school. She was probably in the same boat. They were no different.
“I don’t know. I figured you would like, teach kids how to play trumpet for extra cash. Couldn’t see you whoring yourself out here,” she replied, popping her lips in the mirror as she tossed the tube of lipstick on the counter carelessly.
“I guess I could say the same,” he said, stretching his eyelids to apply thin, straight eyeliner, “Sorority girls already have money, why should they need more?”
“ Sorority girl?” Greta scoffs, swirling her iced coffee obnoxiously. “The hell’d you get that from?”
Patrick shrugged.
“You’re blonde and judgemental, and you chew gum really loudly, and…” he trailed off and pointed to her ongoing iced coffee swish. She halted her movement, setting the plastic cup back on the plastic “wood” vanity table.
“Safe to say we don’t really know each other, do we?” She said, smiling lightly.
The music in the front of house ended. Only the applause of a singular drunken regular filled the gaps in noise. The place was dead. Like, almost to a comedic degree.
“Sounds like my cue,” Greta said, standing up from the chair. She removed her robe to reveal the matching pink set she had donned before Patrick got there, “See you tomorrow.”
Patrick turned back to his reflection in the mirror as she left. Fuck, she’s hot. Abandoning the makeup, he rushed to the side of the stage to watch her.
I’m just scanning the crowd, he reassured himself. I’m not being weird.
The “crowd” he scanned is the middle aged man who treated himself to a show nearly every day at The Ruby. He was at the front like he always was, his pockets not eager to empty themselves. He was rubbing himself through his sweatpants in classic pervert fashion.
When Patrick finally looked over at Greta, he couldn’t blame the man… but at the same time he was violently disgusted by whatever that fucker was thinking while he watched her.
As he glanced back to him with disdain, Patrick noticed movement at the rear of the club. Andy, the club manager, was sat at his table with the comically tiny lamp in the corner, keeping tabs on the inevitably empty private booking list. There was a man, shorter in stature, making his way from the entry to Andy’s table. As the man stepped into the glow of the tiny lamp light, Patrick saw that he was in a suit tailored to fit his body perfectly… he had money . He couldn’t make out the man’s face or any other features from his view behind the curtains, but he watched closely as he sat down at the table with Andy. He was paying little mind to the show in front of him, but neither was Patrick. When he looked back to the stage, Greta was completely topless, despite having no earnings from the creepy man who was ogling at her.
She wrapped her set up, and the middle aged man stood and cheered.
“You’re supposed to pay her, asshole!” Andy yelled from the back, making Patrick jump slightly. It was always a little intimidating when he was mad, since he was usually the calmest person anyone Patrick had ever met in his life.
Greta exited the stage, picking up her bra on the way out but not caring enough to put it back on. She approached Patrick as he held the curtain open, making an effort to get as close to him as possible so her breasts brushed slightly against his exposed chest, and let out a giggly, “oops,” as she walked by. Patrick stood there, completely dumbfounded by this advance, feeling a spark below the waist.
“Yeah, you’re still the nerdy band kid down the hall,” she teased as she strutted back to the dressing room.
Patrick took a deep breath and shook his head, sending all the thoughts straight to his dick. His track started, and he shifted into the light to face the two entire patrons in the club.
As usual, the asshole in the front began jeering at him. Patrick didn’t even flinch or deviate from his routine, teasing the pole in the center of the creaky platform. He watched as Andy got up to drag the man out of the club, kicking Patrick’s confidence into high gear.
It was just him and this mysterious, suited man in the club together. In the shitty stage light, he could see the man’s neat scruff beard and blonde hair pulled tightly into a bun, tattoos peeking out of the unbuttoned collar of his dress shirt. Patrick’s gaze didn’t shift from the man as he swung from the pole, making a graceful landing to peel the blazer off and throw it to the ground. He went down with it, pushing his full chest to the floor to arch his back, and he felt just too much wind on his backside to know he needed to move on before he exposed himself completely for free (again). Patrick let out a moan that’s drowned out by the music, watching as the suited man reached his own hand between his legs. He smirked to himself on stage, but directed that smirk directly to the man’s crotch.
Andy returned from his banishing session, and the suited man was once again glued to their conversation. Patrick upped the ante in retaliation, sliding a hand down to grab at the glittery thong and squeezed . Sure enough, they lock eyes once again as Patrick finished his routine, winking at him as he picked up his blazer and exited through the curtains.
Greta was gone by the time he wrapped up. Figuring it’s not much use to stick around, as his set was always scheduled last on purpose, he started tossing his makeup into his duffel bag, until there was a calm knock at the door.
Andy entered the room with a clipboard. The clipboard.
“Fantastic show, kid,” Andy said with a smile. “Private dance in your room whenever you’re ready. But don’t keep him waiting. He doesn’t like that.”
-
“I fuckin’ told you I would take care of it!”
Pete was yelling into his flip phone as he sped through the empty Chicago streets. It had been getting harder and harder to feed at night. They were being brought into the light they had fought so hard to stay out of. It was getting on Pete’s last fucking nerve.
“You haven’t been keeping a low profile,” the voice on the other line said, far too calm, “you’re the reason there’s a search party for us-”
“He fuckin’ deserved my teeth in his flesh, Trav, ask me if I give a shit about the search party,” Pete barked, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, “I’m fine doing this on my own, I don’t-”
“Clearly you can’t keep shit under wraps right now,” Travis replied, “Gabe’s doing the job. You’re checking up on The Ruby tonight. No more questions until you get your fucking act together.”
Travis hung up.
“Shit!” Pete growled, throwing his phone against the windshield. The phone exploded into a million tiny plastic pieces, leaving the windshield unharmed. He hadn’t fed in days, and it was starting to get to him. Throwing him into a club full of humans wasn’t going to keep him from killing again, no matter what Travis thought. It would only make matters worse.
Of course, Pete knew the true purpose of the clubs. Sure, they made them buckets and buckets of money, but they were mostly just blood farms- or bait farms to lure enemies. The dancers were interviewed loosely, mostly screening to see if they had any immediate family or friends who would alert authorities if they went missing. It was a fucked up and horrible process they’d come up with centuries ago, changing its facade every few decades. But so long as everyone could stay fed without drawing attention, it didn’t matter.
Pete, however, avoided the clubs like the plague. He was still new, still learning to control his hunger, and still learning how to let go of being human. He felt too much sympathy for the dancers to feed on them. They were just people trying to make a living. He much preferred to maul people who deserved it.
Not to say that he wasn’t tempted by the dancers. It was his primal instinct to need the blood that coursed through their veins, and that instinct, if not acted on, would surely kill him.
Maybe. He still wasn’t too sure how it worked.
The tires of Pete’s BMW came to a screeching halt in the parking “spot”- he was parked crooked between two other cars- outside of The Ruby. The club’s neon light was broken, just saying “The Rub”. It had been like that since before Pete was turned, and he was sure it would be like that until he died. If he ever got the chance to, that is.
He slammed the car shut, marching towards the entrance. Standing against the doorframe was Ricky, seasoned bouncer of The Ruby; he wasn't one of them, but he knew too much to ever be let go from his position. Pete had expected to walk by him and get his shit over with, but Ricky put a hand on his shoulder.
“Woah, woah, woah, not in here, buddy,” Ricky said, his grip on Pete’s shoulder tightening. “Too risky.”
Pete shoved his arm off, taking a step forward. “Fuck off. I didn’t come here for your opinion of me, Ricky,” he spat, “Travie put me on a job, let me the fuck in.”
Hesitantly, Ricky removed the velvet rope, allowing him to walk through the shitty curtain beads.
It was absolutely dead inside. Andy manned the private dance booking table, with not a single name on the list. One middle aged man sat in the front and center of the floor, manspread, watching the young college girl on stage dance to a shitty Britney Spears song. She donned a neon bright pink set and matching pink studded knee-high heel boots, flirting with the older man as much as she could to try and get a dime out of him. There wasn’t a singular bill or even coin on the stage.
To his type, every human being had a distinct blood scent that goes beyond what blood type they are. Scientifically, Pete was never too certain what went into it, but no one cared enough to tell him the answers. The sole man in the audience reeked of sweaty gym socks and day old grease. He’d never have an intent of killing him for a feed, even on an assignment- even if he had to.
The stripper on stage played the part well, as she ignored the pathetic excuse for a mortal. Maybe they could keep her and move her up. She had exactly what they needed: blonde, sorority type, chewing bubblegum elegantly while performing, it was impressive… but she also had what he needed: the strawberry copper liquid coursing through her veins. It overpowered the stench of the man in front of her.
“Slow night, huh?” Andy joked, breaking the silence as Pete stood in the entryway, jolting him out of his hunger filled haze.
Pete perked up; the two hadn’t seen each other in over a month. Andy never lived at the main house, never got too involved with the family, even after he was turned under the radar. Of course, he was still involved ; he was too valuable to ever be nomadic, even if that’s what he wanted more than anything.
“Isn’t it always slow?” Pete said with a laugh, sitting down next to him at the booking table. “Good to see you, man.”
Before he was turned, Andy always smelled clean . He’d always assumed that Andy would be the one person he’d be able to control himself around, especially since they’d been friends since birth… Pete hated being like that, but was beyond thankful to have the ability to save Andy’s life.
“Slow, even before your dumb ass started causing problems,” Andy yelled over the music, always bumping for its lack of patrons. “Don’t know why we keep this place open.”
“It’s a lower-risk hunt. Nobody will notice if their favorite dancer at The Ruby disappears, but they might at The Celestial,” Pete said, raising his voice appropriately and facing Andy so the performer couldn’t hear. He didn’t care if her sole viewer heard- he was too wasted to understand.
The song ended, and when Pete looked up, she’d taken her bra off. The drunken man was standing and cheering. Still, no money on the stage, tits out for free. He made a mental note of that for hunting, but damn if she didn’t have nice-
“You’re supposed to pay her, asshole!” Andy yelled over the man’s obsessive hollering. He didn’t notice.
“How much for a private dance with her?” Pete asked as he watched her leave the stage.
“We need her. Can’t afford to have you sink your teeth into her,” Andy laughed as Pete punched his arm. “But, I’ve heard she is a good fuck if you wanna pay the price.”
“We aren’t supposed to be prostituting here, Hurley.”
“Prostitution and murder, what a double fuckin’ whammy.”
The next song started up- of course it was fucking Sexyback by Justin Timberlake, it always was with these dancers- before Pete could respond to offer money for the woman’s time, the next performer entered the stage.
To Pete’s surprise, it was a man . A strawberry-blonde-haired-man adorned in a long, red blazer, a devil horns headband, and a red thin, glittery thong that barely covered his junk. His scent was strong , it filled Pete’s lungs with tangerine and champagne and a tinge of cigarette smoke. It was almost enough to send Pete lunging over the entire room to tear him apart.
To Pete’s not surprise, the middle aged man began to boo. The performer didn’t flinch and kept going, putting on an absolutely phenomenally sensual show before Pete’s eyes. Andy practically threw himself out of his chair to grab the drunken man by the collar to carry him out. When Pete looked around, he sees that William left, too. What a waste of budget to pay a bartender who never stayed the entire night.
It was just Pete and the mystery dancer in the empty, shitty club together. The mystery dancer locked eyes with him, every hip sway and squat dedicated to him . Sure, he’d fucked around with plenty of guys, but Pete had never been into a man like that before; he felt himself getting hard as he watched the man slide off the blazer and fall to the floor, arching his back and nearly flashing his asshole to the only person in the audience.
Subconsciously, Pete’s hand roamed down to the growing bulge in his dress pants to get some relief. He didn’t think about it as he squeezed his length through the fabric and glued his gaze to the dancer’s jaw-opened and bright pink face. He couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to tear the boy apart with his fangs and watch life leave his eyes as he filled himself up with the nectar in his veins. He also couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to shove his cock down his-
“Like what you see, huh?” Andy’s voice cut through the spiraling imagination in Pete’s head, his hand immediately leaving his dick. “That’s Patrick, the only male we’ve-”
“Why’d we hire him?”
“Desperate for money, vulnerable mental state, avoided all questions about a personal life,” Andy began, “he checked all the boxes. None of the rules said we couldn’t hire guys, and we’ve got a few female members, y’know?”
“Bold of you to assume any of those girls are straight.”
Pete turned back to staring at him. Patrick didn’t have much else to take off, but Pete wanted- no, needed - to see him take off that thong in the next thirty seconds or he might just have to kill him over it.
“Room three,” Andy interrupted Pete’s train of thought as he slid the clipboard and card reader to him. “He’s here another hour if you want a dance, but please don’t kill-”
“I’ll pay him out of pocket,” Pete replied as the song ended, getting up and nearly sprinting down the dark hall of private rooms.