The convenience store was stiller than a painting past two in the morning. Without the buzzing fluorescent lights and idling refrigeration units, you could have heard a pin drop. Everything was pristine in its abandonment, save for the store's lone sentry; a young man behind the checkout counter scrolling his phone in a trance of boredom.
Much like his surroundings, he was equal parts polished and neglected. His hair was sandy brown, jaw-length, and left unattended to the point that it had started to curl at the ends. A scratchy expanse of stubble across his face became a thin goatee around even thinner lips, set beneath eyes with dark circles prominent enough to be engravings. His eyes were just one of the many symptoms of his job, including a resting frown and perpetually furrowed brows.
Despite the appearance of sleep-deprived misery, Michael had found his niche in the late-night shifts. They were his lone escape from the crushing boredom of an insomniac's bedroom. Customers were rare and that suited him just fine—dealing with people in any capacity tended to be a headache he preferred to avoid. For the most part he never had to, since seeing any other soul past midnight was a rarity, but every so often some creature of the night would find its way into the store to bother him.
The electronic entry chime made a stale two-note announcement at the front door's opening. Michael's expression turned sour in response; he'd been getting to the good part in an article on the history of banana species. Rolling his eyes, he adjusted the collar on his cheap company-branded shirt with a hooked finger and looked up from his phone at the door. He was halfway through the motions of regurgitating some scripted greeting when his focus finally settled on the figure in the entryway, and he faltered.
A garish, neon pink hoodie cut her initial profile, acting as a canvas for her back-length expanse of wavy brown hair streaked with blond. It was unzipped entirely, revealing a black half-shirt and a pair of denim cutoffs that left little of her striking curves to the imagination. She met Michael's shell-shocked gaze with pair of bizarrely rich brown eyes that hid behind lashes so long and bold he wondered if they were real.
She studied him for only a passing moment before she turned to wander down one of the aisles, a smile tugging at her pale pink lips. Michael returned to staring at his phone, but all of a sudden he couldn't get invested in reading about bananas. This woman was completely at odds with his usual late-night clientele—yet somehow just as inscrutable. He hadn't seen a woman so striking from head to toe in years, and never at such an ungodly hour.
He stole quick sidelong glances at her from his phone while she drifted between shelves of snacks and trinkets, but each peek only served to deepen his sense of bewilderment. Each of her sashaying steps was accompanied by the click of her thick high-heeled sandals. Her jewelry clinked as she walked; polished half-hoop earrings, several matching necklaces of varying length and thickness, and a series of bracelets that each contributed their own unique jingles. At first sight her jewelry appeared to be golden, but a more talented eye might notice it was all brass.
The next time he looked up from his phone, she had made it all the way to the cash register, placing a pack of bubble gum on the counter. Her nails were a deep shade of scarlet and sharpened into points. Her exposed midriff was adorned by a simple navel piercing: brass wire shaped around a small red gemstone.
"My eyes are up here, mijo." Her voice had a smooth and confident Spanish accent to it.
Michael lifted his head with a start, scrambling for something to say in his defense. "I-uh... Yeah. Sorry. Cool, uh... cool ruby you have there," he said, pointing a weak finger at her piercing.
Her eyes were still unbearably sharp, and her smile was wolfish. "That one's a garnet. I've got a ruby or two on my wrists, though."
"Nice, nice. That's awesome. I've thought about, like, getting a piercing myself some day. I don't know though, needles kinda freak me out." Michael's chuckle came out as a sputter. "But, uh... is that everything for you tonight?" He couldn't believe how awkward he sounded. Talking to anyone was hard enough, but talking to this woman felt impossible for some reason. She was like a visitor from some world he'd never been to, where the people were all charming and bold without fail.
"Yeah, just the bubblegum. Sucks when I run out of this stuff. Need something to keep my mouth busy." She ran her tongue over her teeth, and he swore there were points on a few of them. He didn't chance another stare.
Just reaching out to take the pack of gum made Michael feel like he was putting his hands near a domesticated snake. He scanned it with haste, and put it back on the counter to find her studying him intently.
"Cash or card?" he asked, half-mumbling.
She raised her eyebrows in clear amusement. "You know, this is a big purchase for a girl like me. I'm gonna have to put it on my card."
From one of her pockets she produced a short clasp wallet, then leaned against the counter to open it with a dramatic crack. Michael flinched. She took two dollars from her wallet, holding them between a thumb and a forefinger, and offered them to him with the tilt of her wrist.
"Just kidding," she whispered. She gave Michael a broad smile that oozed some vicious sense of humor he was struggling to appreciate.
He met her eyes and put on a stilted smile, taking her cash in an unsteady hand. Her gaze fell downwards to observe his slight tremor.
"¡Ay! You're shaking!" she giggled, placing a hand across her mouth. When she looked back up at him, there was a sliver of pity in her eyes. "I promise I don't bite, mijo. At least... not too often."
"Oh, l-lucky me," Michael laughed, but it didn't come from a place of mirth.
For a moment, the only sound between them was the sliding of the cash register's heavy drawer, and the clatter of three quarters on the counter top.
"Your change is seventy-five cents."
"Not gonna even put it in my hand?" she lamented, making a dramatic sigh and regarding him with a pout. "Whatever happened to customer service?"
"Oh, uh, sorry about that." He scratched the back of his scalp on instinct. "Sometimes I forget."
"Can't blame you, must get pretty mind-numbing having to sit here all night and keep the chips company."
He shrugged. "Sort of. It's nice in its own way."
"How late do you work, anyway?"
"Until 4 am."
"What are you doing after work?"
The question caught him off guard. "Uh, taking shower... going to bed. Why?"
"You sleeping alone tonight?" she asked, leaning further against the counter's edge.
Michael froze, and looked her in the eyes once more. By that point the woman's expression was almost as smug as it was predatory. He'd never seen eyes of her color; like dark, exotic wood that had been stained and finished to a glossy shine. All of Michael's words felt out of reach under their scrutiny. The response might as well have come falling out of the sky.
"Unless you're coming with me, yeah, I'd be sleeping alone."
"Ooh, that's bold." Her interested stare become a vicious squint, but the close-lipped smile didn't budge. "I hate to say though, if you're not coming with me, there's no deal."
Reality was beginning to sink its claws into Michael's backbone. What the hell was he doing? Despite the realization, fear pushed him onward. "Sure, I guess. You just gonna pick me up after my shift is over, or what?"
"Yeah, I can do that."
"Well, uh... alright then. See you at four."
She snatched the gum off the counter and clicked her tongue, shooting him a wink before turning around. "See you at four, big boy." Waving over her shoulder, she left the store in a breeze of motion, abandoning Michael to his thoughts.
"What the fuck did I just do?" he whispered into the silent air.
***
There were no other customers for the rest of Michael's shift, but he didn't notice in the slightest. He spent the time until 4 am in a daze of nervous confusion, trying to untangle his encounter and figure out what he'd gotten himself into. His pacing and muttering was interrupted by the chirp of his watch reminding him it was time to clock out. Still immersed in thought, he went through all the usual motions, which included exiting through the back door out of habit. He was five paces out into the poorly-lit parking lot when a voice manifested itself to his right.
"Having second thoughts, mijo?"
"Jesus!" he blurted out, flinching momentarily. "You scared the shit out of me! No, I just—I always leave through the back. Wasn't thinkin' about it."
Her soft laughter had an unnerving allure to it. "I sure hope so. Wouldn't have been very polite to stand a girl up after she puts herself out there."
"Hey, I'm putting myself out here too, uh..." He halted with an embarrassed look. "I don't think I ever got your name."
"It's Valentina. Yours?"
"Michael. Nice to meet you."
"Likewise." She pulled a key-chain heavy with accessories from one of her pockets. "Let's get on the road already. There's sangria back at my place, and I'm ready for a drink."
He fell in behind her as they walked across the parking lot. "Sangria, huh?"
"Ever had it?"
"Not in a while," he lied. Michael had never liked wine, but he welcomed the conversational foothold. "What kind do you have?"
"Oh, I make it myself. Old family recipe. Full of tasty little twists—and a secret ingredient or two." She chuckled to herself for a moment, though Michael didn't see what was funny about it. He brushed it off as another one of her quirks.
"Must be pretty good stuff if the recipe's such a secret."
"It's to die for."
More errant small talk lead them to her car, and into a drive across town. Despite Michael's hopes, Valentina's obscenely charming manner didn't falter one bit as their conversations continued. By the time she parked her faded sedan in front of an equally dated duplex, his mind was racing with possibilities of the near future. He hadn't hooked up with a girl since sophomore year of college—practically ancient history to a drop-out like him—and she wasn't half the bombshell Valentina was. Would he be ready for this? Just how far was she going to take things? Would there be time for a shower?
"Yeah, I know it's not much," she sighed, commenting on his utter silence and distant stare directed vaguely towards her house. "But it's spacious when you consider the rent."
Valentina's words pulled Michael from his trance. "Oh! Um, I wasn't checking out your house. Sorry. I was just, uh... lost in thought for a sec. I space out sometimes when it gets this late."
"Mm. I'm sure you're tired, mijo..." she said in a much softer tone. "Let's go inside and unwind a bit, hm?"
"That sounds good," he responded, trying not to sound too eager.
Together they left the car and ascended the steps of the duplex, with a brief pause for Valentina to find the right key and unlock the front door. Michael followed her inside and wasted no time taking in his surroundings. In most respects it resembled an unremarkable living space worn by the years; a couch that looked older than the wallpaper, carpets rendered flat and discolored from decades of foot traffic, and sickly amber light bulbs clinging on to life by a few filaments. All told it was a strange mixture of homely and unsettling, skewed towards the latter by pairs of blackout curtains on every window caked in layers of dust.
"Nice drapes," Michael commented with a touch of sarcasm.
Valentina made her way towards the kitchen without looking back. "Sun makes the drywall peel. Curtains are cheaper than repairs."
"Makes sense," he muttered, wandering into the kitchen to find a filled glass and a large pitcher set out by the fridge. Valentina was already leaning against the counter next to them, drink in hand.
She made a small gesture with her free hand. "That one's yours."
"Oh, thanks. You've got me all excited to try this stuff." Michael took his glass from its resting place and surveyed the rich, perplexing smell of the sangria. It was earthy and tangy, accompanied by swirling notes of citrus, and the liquid itself had a mystifying coloration to it. A few sips revealed that the taste matched the smell—albeit to a far more nuanced degree. "Woah... that's even better than I expected," he said, visibly taken aback.
"You're hardly the first to say so," Valentina chuckled. She took a heavy sip from her own glass, but kept her eyes focused on Michael. Those enchanting eyes exerted some kind of tangible, supernatural pressure on him that could manifest shivers. "Drink as much as you like, mijo. I'm sure you're thirsty after such a long day."
"It's not that exhausting, I promise." He took another long drink, savoring the wine's ever-shifting flavor. Some aspect of it was impossible to identify. "You just sit behind a register for a couple of hours until it's time to go home. Sometimes things get real crazy and you have to restock a shelf." His laugh was a touch bitter. Silence followed, and he realized he was staring into the center of his glass. He looked up to find Valentina giving him another look of boundless amusement.
"So, are you just going to stand in the middle of my kitchen all night?"
"Yeah, right, sorry about that," Michael sighed with a grimace, twisting his eyes shut for a moment. The embarrassment was accompanied by a slight sense of vertigo.
"Come here." She patted the counter next to her, voice bordering on a salacious hush. "You look so stiff. Have some more sangria."
He took another sip from his glass and settled in next to Valentina. The sudden reduction in distance only made his nerves worse. His head was swimming, senses awash in the sangria and her cloying perfume. She met his hesitant eyes with a warm and comforting stare, reaching out her free hand to caress his jawline. Her fingers were frigid.
"Ven a mamá, mi fresita..." she whispered, gently pulling his face forward and licking her lips.
The softness of her kiss struck Michael as surreal. The points of her nails made soothing scratches under his chin, and her thumb caressed his cheek like it was made of velvet. Each second that passed made him dizzier and dizzier, until she pulled her lips away and he realized he was far too delirious for nerves to be the culprit.
"Ay, pobrecito... stronger than you look," Valentina murmured, her comforting smile turning sadistic. "You should be halfway into a coma right now." She ran a hand through Michael's shaggy hair as he struggled to discern what she was saying.
"Th-the wine?" he slurred in bewilderment, glancing at his cup.
"Mm, I'm afraid so," she purred into his ear, giving it a light kiss before trailing down to his neck. "A little slight of hand, mijo. My sangria's secret ingredient doesn't source itself." She suckled on his throat in a few spots, then nipped at the skin.
"Nnh... that—that hurts," he mewled in protest, the gravity of the situation lost on his deteriorating mind.
"Calla, pequeño... It's okay..." Her whispers were like warm honey against his ears; nothing but a steady and soothing drizzle of utter truth. "Mamá just wants to play."
Glass set aside, her other hand found its way to the front of Michael's pants, carefully rubbing the seam along his crotch until it grew taut from within. Her fingertips worked in tantalizing waves of pressure that came and went—light, then heavy—at intervals dictated on a whim. He was utterly helpless, adrift among the riptides of barely-restrained carnality she was creating and coaxing him through at the same time. The promise and frustration of it all was enough to make his blood boil, but somehow she kept it at an even simmer.
At the height of his fever-like arousal was when Valentina leaned in at last to sink her fangs into his neck with one firm, smooth bite. He gasped like the wind had been knocked out of him, eyelids fluttering in a mixture of deepened shock and confusion. Somehow it barely hurt. She held the bite for a moment, letting out a low moan of delight from the back of her throat, and then pulled her fangs out of his flesh.
"You didn't even flinch, mi fresita. Buen chico," her hushed voice was punctuated by a wet kiss on his ear, and the relieving chill of her tongue on his neck. "And such a rich taste. Mm..."
She lapped at the blood welling from Michael's twin puncture wounds in slow, almost reverent passes. Her breathing was shallow, and she couldn't stop making tiny noises of enjoyment while she worked. Huffing and cooing, her hands were all over him,