The John – Corinne Duyvis

The John

by Corinne Duyvis

ME

All the damn roles they ask me to play—I guess Julia Roberts might as well be one of them. “Five hundred,” the john said earlier, right after he finished up with me. “Five hundred to come to a party, play nice like a regular girl, an’ fuck a friend of mine. That so hard?”

Asshole.

But the money kills all thoughts of walking out, whispering at me from my purse—enough to pay my rent, get me a few hits, buy me and Danny some food. Worth the risk.

Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be careful. Safety first, right? That’s what those cops told us the other week, what Ginger never got—probably why she’s gone now.

Me? I take precautions.

So I stay at a distance for a while, eying the john’s friend through the martini-sipping crowd, getting a feel for what I’m supposed to go after. He doesn’t look dangerous. Too thin. But then, if you believe the newspapers, the word on the street, this guy’d be a victim alongside me. The john, though, I can see being risky. Not because he looks tough (though he does), and not because he’s an asshole (though he is); I’m used to both. He simply screams bad business.

But bad business is still business, and a risk is just a risk, nothing more. Not like this job is ever safe. Ginger proved that one.

First things first.

With the john a dozen feet away, eyes on me—gotta make sure he gets what he’s paying for—I’d better give a show. So I run my hand over my slinky new dress—one the john picked up for me on the way here—and put a sway in my step, ’cause that’s what the assholes like. The carpet masks the sound of my heels. I catch my target’s eye before we’re even in speaking distance.

He smiles.

Maybe this won’t be too bad. The john’s friend is all dark-haired and fair-skinned, with pointy cheekbones and bright eyes. I’ve had them worse-looking. Not that it says anything about their habits in the back of their car or a dingy motel bed. Travelers excepted, it’s usually the other way around: the good-looking ones can get their kicks elsewhere if they’re vanilla enough.

But I smile back at him anyway, and run my tongue over newly painted lips. He likes it. Not hard to tell. Looked like the john’s knew his friend’s taste well.

I slide onto the couch next to him. The two business-type people sitting on the other end frown at the interruption, perfectly groomed eyebrows knitting together disapprovingly, but they don’t do a damn thing about it. Too busy staring. My purse thumps next to me.

Have to play a normal girl. Right.

Don’t see why. In my experience, men respond pretty well to a straight-forward dick grab . I knew that before rolling into this line of work, and it’s become a universal fucking truth since then.

Still, for five hundred bucks, I’ll play.

“I hear you own this place.” I put my legs on the table and tap the head of his beer bottle with the toe of my slinky boot. “And that’s the best beer you can get? Gotta say, I’m disappointed.”

He bites. Of course he does. The john picked me because I’m this man’s type. Until I figure out what this guy’s kink is to be worth so much money, it’s easy to feign the interest. He doesn’t seem suspicious for even a minute. I guess that when you’re good-looking and rich like hell, you don’t put question marks by scantily clad women chatting you up.

So we talk and I flirt and I edge a little closer. He sends the business types away and introduces himself as Yves, so I introduce myself as Yvonne: that means we’ve got something to bond over or shit, but it barely seems to matter. He has some wine brought over that takes effect too damn quickly, because he goes from good-looking to handsome to eminently fuckable in four minutes flat.

Suddenly, the closeness isn’t as bad as usual.

Been a while since I was genuinely attracted to a man. That’s gonna make this job so much easier.

I’ve only finished half the wine when he gets up and extends his hand, which I take without hesitation. Screw the wine. Time to get this started. Dimly, I remember to grab my purse.

Yves guides me away from the secluded seating area, past the bar where the john is still sitting, eyeing me but pretending like he isn’t. He reaches for his bag and disappears from my view.

I don’t care, ’cause suddenly Yves’s lips are on mine, hungry, cool. I press myself close. He’ll warm up soon enough. We stumble onto the stairs. Around us, people watch, but I only catch it from the corner of my eye. I steady myself on the railing, purse clanging against it, one arm wrapped around his neck. In the upstairs hallway, yellow pools of light on carpet guide our way around the corner to a set of oak doors. The noise downstairs fades to a background buzz, more distant by the second.

Inside the room, he shoves me onto the bed. I barely hit smooth satin sheets before he climbs on top. He’s heavier than he looks, and he kisses me so hard I forget to breathe, but I can’t pull away.

This isn’t how it normally goes. Something feels different. Different, but—

I don’t even want to pull away, despite pain searing through my leg as his weight pins it to the bed. No time to even zip down my boots or put my purse on the nightstand—don’t even know if there is one.

After forever, his lips leave mine. I suck in a breath. I need the air—but I need his lips even more. A moan escapes as I turn my head. His mouth trails a path of sticky sweet saliva down my chin, onto my neck. I try to find it again. I want more; need him closer. Crave him closer.

He grunts, not taking his lips off my throat. They’re cool relief to my achingly hot skin, but it’s not enough. I wrap one leg around him and try to bring him closer, still searching for his lips on mine. My heart thumps in my chest, hard and fast. The feeling of his skin against my own—god, not nearly enough—speeds up my blood, sears me from the inside.

One hand in my hair, pulling my head back, exposing my neck. I make a sound of pain, but even the pain feels good—

And then it doesn’t.

My throat locks in a scream—no sound will come out, no air is coming in. The world shrinks to his scorching lips on my neck, no longer cold. I try to find air.

My back spasms.

They’re not lips. They’re not lips.

Something hot and viscous runs from his mouth, down my throat and shoulders.

I still can’t make a sound; still can’t breathe.

My blood feels like poison, soaring. His lips are locked to my skin but they’re not lips, and—

My hand fumbles on the sheets. Can’t turn my head, can only stare up at the ceiling, wide-eyed, body quaking with every sucking sound he makes. I finger the opening to my purse. Goddamned lock. The goddamned—

It clicks open. He doesn’t notice. Like we’re fusing together everywhere his skin touches mine, and I sicken myself arching my spine away from the bed, closer to him.

Trembling fingers creep inside the purse, touching metal.

The gun is loaded, small, about the size of my hand. Just need to take it off safety. I’ve only done this once before, when I tried it out right after getting it. Safety first. Safety fucking first, right?

Yves slams me back onto the sheets. The bed squelches. Drenched. Everything is hot and smells like iron and blood, but I can’t turn my head to see, not with his hand still grasping a fistful of my hair and twisting it away. He rocks his body against mine and grunts.

He doesn’t notice the click of the safety mechanism. My body is slow. Barely listens to me. As much as this burns and burns, I want it, the closeness, the feeling of him on me, drinking me, needing me the way he does. Makes me gasp and close my eyes. Fight the pain for the ecstasy.

The gun feels heavy in my hand, and I try to lift it up. I raise it an inch—then it slumps against his body.

I need more. Just a few moments more.

He notices, now, and freezes up. My body cries out for more, but there’s no time. Eyes squeezed shut, I press the mouth of the gun against his side. My finger hugs the trigger close.

#

THE JOHN

Gunshot.

This ain’t going the way I planned. The sound’s muffled, and if I’d been downstairs in the music and bullshit chatter, I wouldn’t have heard it. From where I am, top of the stairs, it’s hard to miss.

I take off. The crossbow’s in my hands already, and I let the bag slam onto the carpet by the master bedroom doors. Why didn’t I come upstairs just one damn minute sooner?

The bedroom doorknobs are all cool metal, with intricate gold figures that make ’em feel lumpy to the touch. No sound inside.

Where the ever-livin’ fuck did the gun come from?

I twist the knob. The first thing I notice is metal eying me coldly.

“Wh…” the hooker says, her voice slow and shaky. “What the hell…”

I force my eyes away from the gun. The hooker’s drenched. Blood pours from her neck, seeping through her fingers onto her skimpy dress, more red than white now. It runs over a few inches of naked leg before dripping into and over the hooker boots that reach to her knees. They almost buckle under her weight.

The gun’s still looking at me. Past it, a dark stain covers half the bed, barely visible in the faint light leaking in from the hallway.

No sign of Yves. “Where is he?”

“What the hell was that?” Almost a shout.

Jesus. What makes her think this is a time for chatting? “Put the gun down. Lemme kill him.”

“He’s dead, okay?” Her voice skips on itself. “He’s fucking dead and I’ll kill you too, you goddamned—you—”

“He ain’t dead.”

“I—I shot him—”

“Where is he?”

She’s confused, weakening by the second. Gun’s probably heavy—not that I’d know. I’m a crossbow-and-stakes kinda man.

I chance it and step inside, but then she clenches the weapon with all her might again. “Don’t!” she snarls. “You put me in here. You made me—you let him—I don’t even kiss! How—”

“He’s a vampire. All right? An’ trust me, he ain’t dead. Let me fix that for you.”

I usually like hookers all right, but if they’re gonna act like this—probably better when the vampires just kill ’em first.

“You—you—you’re him, aren’t you?”

“This ain’t the best time to start a conversation.” Where’d she shoot him? If we’re lucky, we’ll have a couple’a minutes. Ain’t risking it, though. She’s a goner anyway, nothing I can do about that, but ideally, I can walk out with my own sorry ass intact. And take out another one of these monsters while I’m at it.

“You’re the guy,” she says. “The guy who’s killing the johns and hookers and—and sets them on—and burns them.” The gun’s shaking. She’s too far for me to make a move.

“Job’s a job. Believe me when I say I’m doing more good than harm.”

“You killed my friend!” she shouts. “You—”

Yves. He’s moving. Must’ve rolled off the bed and landed on the floor, out of sight. He’s climbing to his feet now, behind the hooker. A dark spot on the side of his ribcage spreads over a silky blue shirt—one that probably costs more than my rent. His spine cracks. A split second to survey the room.

I spin, raise the bow and aim—too late. Nothing but a blur left.

Something slams into my shoulder. A scream tears loose. I stumble back, the doorframe the only thing keeping me upright.

That’ll teach me to make sudden movements around a jumpy prostitute with a gun.

Yves knocks her aside like a weightless puppet and then he’s on me, pinning me down. Two fingers press into the bullet wound by my collarbone. I grit my teeth not to scream.

“Been wondering who was killing us off,” he growls, blood on his breath. He leans in deep. Red smudges paint his face, and two drops splash from his chin onto my stubble. He rips the crossbow from my grasp one-handedly, crunches it by my ears without even looking.

I force through the pain stabbing my shoulder—can barely think—to knee him in the crotch. No use. His weight keeps my leg down. The rest of me ain’t moving an inch, either. Not the first time I’ve been in this position; that’s fucking thing about this line of work.

He buries his nose in my shoulder. “Smells good.” His voice shrinks to a rumble, a soft bubbling sound in the back of his throat. Bullet probably pierced his lungs. They’ll heal soon enough.

My hand reaches for the remains of the crossbow, but it’s too far. Nothing else around I can use as a stake—nothing I can even grab to knock him off with and distract him. Don’t know why I’m even looking: of course he ain’t gonna leave weapons around for his victims to grab onto while he’s sucking ’em dry.

A long tongue extends, and he laps up some of the blood. I grimace.

He’s gonna make this last.

The extra time’d be more helpful if I had any clue what my next course of action is gonna be. As it stands, it don’t look like it’ll matter if I’ve got two minutes or twenty—I’m still gonna be a dead son of a bitch after they’re all up.

This is why I send in the hookers first. You can’t beat these guys in a fair fight. Too strong, too fast, too damned good. Distract ’em with T&A and a heaping of fresh blood and you might stand a chance.

Definitely gotta change my MO if I get out of this alive. When the hookers start carrying guns, it’s time to bail.

A claw tears into my shoulder. I don’t bother keeping in the scream. It sandpapers my throat till it’s raw and  won’t even work anymore. Then it’s all in my head, where it keeps on going.

Yves smiles and licks at gleaming dripping teeth before bowing his head again, sealing himself to my throat.

Didn’t know it felt like this.

At least the girls, he seduces first, makes ’em want it. Makes ’em struggle less. Makes the pain easier to bear.

Figures he ain’t gonna grant me the same favor.

#

ME

All black turns into a scream, and air rushes to fill my lungs. My hands feel wet. So does my face. The world spins. There’s red—red and black all over. In the distance, I hear him feed. My pulse breathes in my ears: slow. I claw at the floor to get away, but it’s not me he’s feeding on.

My breath sticks in my throat. I’m alive.

I clutch my hand to my neck. Like it’ll make a difference. I want the dark to come over me again, but my body won’t listen. I can’t tear my eyes from the two of them, only a few feet away.

The john’s arms jerk. Blood seeps and spills onto the carpet from where they touch, Yves’s head buried in the crook of the john’s neck, bobbing up and down, and that sickening slurping never stopping.

A vampire. A damned vampire. I wish I had the luxury of telling myself it’s not real, but that hasn’t helped in a good long while. Denial won’t  stitch up my skin and whisk me to safety, will it?

My hand almost drops from my neck, but I can’t let it, not yet. He won’t get away that easily.

The world dances before my eyes, but the gun stays the same. I reach with my free hand, but my body slumps onto the floor face-down. My fingers scratch the carpet, clawing for the gun. My hand is slick. Takes a long time to get a grasp.

Even if my legs felt like they could handle my weight, I know I can’t get up. I need help. Need to get to the phone in my purse…

I roll over and thump onto my back. My breathing is shallow; it makes the world dizzy.

The gun weighs down my hand. I can lift it—barely—but not aim. Not from this far, not with my eyes this useless.

The john’s arm lies stretched on the floor, palm open, shaking with every movement Yves makes. Fingers thick and calloused like earlier, when they squeezed my tits too hard and grabbed my hips. Ragged nails grope at the air. A hairless scar runs around his wrist, and his ring finger lacks the tip.

He’s still breathing, sharp, in and out. Whimpers tell me more about his agony than any scream could.

I drag the gun over the carpet. Yves doesn’t notice. I slip it into the john’s hand, hold it down with mine, and let go. My arm slumps to the ground, used up.

He doesn’t hesitate. With fingers wrapped around it tight enough for the skin to go white, he raises it up and puts it to Yves’s head, which snaps up sharply. Thin veins creep into the white of his eyes. His pupils widen—no more of the charming light eyes from before. His nostrils flare, a fraction of a second before the john pulls the trigger.

The sound he makes is like an animal’s, like the stray dog I saw getting hit by a car a month back. Saw it coming, and no way to stop it.

Yves hits the bed. His legs hang off the side. He doesn’t move, holding my eyes for longer than I can afford.

I’m still hurting. Still burning up. Still can’t breathe right.

There’s something in my blood.

The john wasn’t down as long as me, and he gets up quicker, too. He doesn’t even look at the shape on the bed, just staggers over to grab a piece of wood from the ground—an arrow, I think. His other arm stays limp by his side. A dark trail leads from elbow to fingers, where it hangs suspended in thick drops, before splashing to the carpet.

The vampire doesn’t fight when the john plunges in the arrow, using all his weight.

My air comes in short spurts.

“You shot him in the head.” My voice sounds a million years away. “That not enough?”

“He’d be up. Less’n ten minutes, is my guess.” He looks at me, and as an afterthought, adds, “Thought you were dead. Nice job.” He sticks the gun in the back of his pants and walks to the still-open door, grabbing his bag. He grimaces as the weight pulls on his arm, but he doesn’t say anything—doesn’t even utter a moan or a whimper.

The john pulls out a bottle containing a thick liquid, transparent and pungent. He gushes it out over the slumped body on the bed. Part of Yves’s head has gone all black. It’s barely close enough to the edge for me to see. One eye is gone.

“What? He doesn’t even… become ashes? Isn’t that how it works?” I remember the stories from years ago, from the TV back when I still had one. I try to get to my feet; it doesn’t work. “My phone…”

“That’d make this job a lot easier, wouldn’t it?” he says, grimly. “Wouldn’t have to worry so much about leaving any fucking evidence, for one.”

“My phone.”

This time, my legs listen. They’re unsteady. It feels like dragging dead weight along. The world tilts upside-down. Everything is sticky, and hot and cold at the same time.

I can feel it. There’s something inside…

My purse is still on the bed. Three feet from Yves’s head. I can see it better, now: there’s a hole in the back of it, all red and dark and an ivory glimmer of cracked skull underneath.

The bag is in the center of the sheets. It’s a big bed, king-sized. I’d have to reach over. I can’t—not without collapsing onto the bed and I don’t want to be by his side. Don’t even want to get close.

“You killed… the others, too. The girls.”

Ginger.

Dim. My mind is shutting down.

“They’d have died anyway. Or worse.”

No. No no no.

He grabs the purse, but keeps it from me, tossing it to lie on his own bag instead.

Wouldn’t want to lose his five hundred.

Keeping one arm stiff, he reaches into his pocket for a pack of matches. I point at his shoulder; don’t know how I find it in myself to raise my arm, but it works, and I don’t question it. “He did the same to you.”

He’s just waiting for me to fall, now.

“He didn’t,” the john says. “Didn’t pierce my skin none.” He shrugs, suppresses a wince. He takes out one of the matches. “It’s the fangs, see, that do the trick. He just lapped it up, ripped it open a bit. Ain’t harmful. You, on the other hand…” He looks me over, eyes narrowing. “You’ll get weaker. An’ if you’re lucky, the blood loss’ll kill you afore it takes effect.”

Eyelids feeling heavy.

Can’t think right. There’s only the nonchalance in his tone, barbed wire running through my veins, and the metallic gleam of the gun.

“You used me as bait.”

“Yeah.” He looks away. “Last time I’m doin’ that.” He lights the match, and as he turns to the body, I take the gun from his jeans and I shoot him. The sound makes my ears ring.

Last time. Fucking right.

“You son of a bitch,” I whisper, voice raw.

He stumbles and then he falls, and the match drops onto the body, wet with gasoline and blood.

Some gasoline made it onto my purse. So much for my money. I don’t think it matters much, now.

The heat singes my skin. I stumble to get away. Flames catch the john’s shirt. He doesn’t move.

The blood is still pouring out of me. Didn’t know I had so much of it.

My feet don’t connect with the carpet right. They bend and twist and won’t workanymore. I drop against the wall, leaning with my shoulder and side: that’s all that keeps me upright.

The gun’s still in my hand. Slinky boots squeal against each other when I try to push myself back onto my own feet, away from the wall, but I can’t get them to lift my weight anymore.

The party’s still going on downstairs, one floor away, stairs distanced by a hallway that stretches out until forever. The music barely reaches, overpowered by the ringing that lingers in my ears.

I stagger for the door.

Don’t know what’ll come first. My legs are giving in, and the door seems miles away. I want to lie down. Keep the carpet close.

Can’t move anymore. I fall, and sit against the wall, panting, my breathing awkward and shallow.

Blood is still coming. Less than before. What’s left inside feels funny.

The fire is still crackling, and it rises high onto the ceiling. It’s the entire bed, now. It’ll spread.

I look down at the gun in my hand; heavy, stained with blood, gleaming red like the hand holding it.

Don’t know what’ll come first. My eyelids slip shut.

Then, weakly: “Fuck.”

---

Corinne Duyvis spends her days writing, drawing, practicing overly violent martial arts, and sleeping an inordinate amount. In real life, she resides in Amsterdam. Online, she can be found at www.corinneduyvis.net and www.twitter.com/corinneduyvis

Find an RPP miniview with Corinne here!

© 2010 All rights reserved Corinne Duyvis

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