Author: Chelsea Yates
Being undead sucked literally because you’re all like, “Braaaains,” and then you envision sucking them out with a straw. Double yuck. With being this type of undead you didn’t have any nice sire to dig you up from the grave, no pointy teeth to make getting at a brain easier (heads were not like walnuts; you couldn’t just crack them open), and soap didn’t erase that undead stench no matter how much you lathered Dove’s enchanting new fragrance on.
How was I to know that the guy checking me out at the bar hadn’t been tested for rabies? In the pitiful existence of my life I had been with only one guy and that was my kindergarten sweetheart, Noah, whose sign of affection had been putting chewing gum in my hair. So who was I to judge when said bar guy had a bit of a mumbling problem, needed some serious breath mints, and kept inching way too close for comfort?
I’m not much of a “public displays of affection” person, but one love bite wouldn’t hurt. Then, it did and I may have thrown my gin and tonic in his face, but by then it was too late. A hickey to die for.
Turning took all of one bite. Due to me having a bit of a woozy at the sight of blood problem I fainted, was pronounced dead, broke my nails crawling up from the grave, yada, yada, yada, and here we are. You think I would have sworn off guys for a while. With my newfound penchant for digesting brains, all of that smartness had to have gone somewhere. Nope!
Blonde locks fringed his face, showcasing those gorgeous heavily lashed blue eyes. My gaze drifted lower to where he had the top two buttons of his shirt undone (not one, but TWO), revealing a yummy expanse of chest.
Mr. Blonde and Beautiful took out a flash of metal. What was that? Beside him, an unattractive male fell to the ground with a handle sticking from his side. Mr. Blonde knelt down, drawing out a plastic plate, napkin, and a fork from his backpack. Churning eyes look up towards me.
No, no, no. I drew the line at cannibalism. Daydreaming and breaking into morgues suited me just fine, thank you! Backing away slowly, I gave a little wave hoping he will think we are like-minded souls and dialed 9-1-1.
“State your emergency.”
“Hello, I would like to report a case of… cannibalism.”