Except you would probably be fired for drinking on the job.
I laughed nervously at my own lame joke while I continued to work my nail deeper into my flesh. A knife would have been good, except I didn't have one handy. Besides, my nail worked just fine.
The first thick drop of blood appeared around my naturally sharpened nail. I kept pushing and slicing, and soon I opened up what I thought was a sizable incision.
Blood flowed. Languidly, granted, but flowed nonetheless. I positioned the empty juice bottle beneath the cut and caught the first drop of blood as it dripped free. The red stuff flowed free for precisely ten seconds before the wound completely healed. No scar, nothing. Just a dried trail of vampire blood.
I repeated the cutting process, caught the fresh flow of blood, and did this eight more times before I was certain I had enough hemoglobin. Eight cuts, no marks. My arm completely healed.
Yeah, I'm a freak.
I swirled the contents of my blood in the container. A smoothie fit for Satan himself, minus the wheat grass and bee pollen, of course. As I swirled the contents, I thought hard about what I was doing. I even paced the small area in the bathroom and rubbed my neck and debated internally, and in the end, I packed the sealed juice bottle full of my dark plasma into a small Styrofoam container.
I had a friend at the FBI crime lab in D.C. A good friend. I was going to have to trust him, especially if my blood came back...irregular. And if it didn't come back irregular? Well, I had nothing to worry about, then, did I?
I'll cross that bridge when I get there.
Most important, I needed answers, and this was the best way I knew of to get them.
I next checked on the packets of Blue Ice that I had stashed in my mini-fridge's mini-freezer an hour or so earlier. The packets were hard as a rock. Good. I placed one under the bottle of blood, one each on either side, and finally one on top. I closed the Styrofoam container, taped it shut, and placed the whole thing in a small cardboard box. I next went online and found the lab's address in D.C. Once done, I placed an order for UPS to swing by the hotel tomorrow morning for a same-day delivery. The same-day delivery was going to cost me $114. I shot off an email to my friend in D.C., telling him to expect a super-sensitive package from yours truly. I ended my email with a smiley face, because I like smiley faces.
When that was taken care of, I switched outfits. I stepped out of my sweats and tee shirt and into something decidedly more slutty. Interestingly, the slutty outfit was something I had borrowed from my sister and never worn.
Anyway, I was now showing more cleavage and shoulder and back, and when I was certain I looked like a skank whore, I grabbed my freshly packed box of blood and my car keys and headed out.
No Wal-Mart run his time.
At the front desk, I dropped off my package and filled in the front desk clerk - whose eyes had bugged out of his head and onto my boobs - to expect UPS tomorrow morning. He nodded distractedly. I wonder what he was distracted about? I made him repeat what I said twice before I headed out.
It was kind of fun being slutty. I think every woman should dress like a slut once in a while. It was very liberating.
Now, acting like a slut was something else entirely.
Maybe that would be liberating, too.
Giggling, I gunned my minivan and headed off to Colton. I had a stripper job to apply for, after all.
Chapter Forty-nine
I parked in the far corner of the dirt parking lot, near where a van was currently a-rocking. I considered a-knocking, just because I hate being told what to do, but ultimately I decided against it, since I really didn't want to know what was going on in there.
And besides, I had a job interview.
Of sorts.
Feeling ridiculous and self-conscious, I strode across the parking lot and up to the front entrance. I didn't see Danny's car, which was a damn good thing.
The bouncer was big and black and scary as hell, even to me. Suddenly insanely self-conscious, I reminded myself that my body still looked like a twenty-eight-year old.
"Excuse me," I said.
"Yeah?" He barely looked at me.
"I hear you're hiring."
He jerked a thumb behind him, toward the inside of the club. "Talk to Rick."
I winked and stepped past him and as I did so, his hand dropped down and grabbed my ass. I convulsed slightly and continued on into the dark club. I entered a small hallway, with an opening at the far end. I passed through the opening and was met by thumping music, losers, and boobs. To my left was the raised stage, which was brightly lit with hundreds of little white light bulbs. The stage was made of dark wood and was heavily scuffed. A single brass pole rose up from the center of the stage, and a single white stripper was currently cavorting around said brass pole. At the moment, just her breasts were out. Her breasts were nothing to write home about, if you ask me. They were fake and probably three or four years past their expiration date. Don't be catty. Glitter sparkled between her breasts and over the upper half of her chest. I wondered if any of the men cared about the sparkles. I wondered if any of the men even saw the sparkles.
The place was only half full. Men in varying degrees of drunkenness and physical deterioration sat around the raised stage. Most were drinking beer. Some were drinking shots of the hard stuff. All were staring at the woman with her glittering breasts.
I stood where I was and took in the scene. So why did Danny keep coming here? So what's the draw? Glittering fake breasts?
Maybe. Men have fought for far less.
I continued scanning, realizing I was going to need another hot shower tonight. Smoke filled the air, even though it was illegal to smoke in such establishments. I continued scanning. No one acknowledged me. No one cared that I was standing there at the entrance. A man to my left was currently getting what I assumed was a lap dance, although it looked like a lot of hard grinding. We called that dry humping in my day.
My stomach turned.
Other strippers were making their rounds, running their hands over customer's shoulders and through their hair, offering them some sort of service or another. The men smiled and politely deferred. Many wanted to touch the women, and seemed to forcibly control themselves. Touching the women, I was certain, was highly illegal in such an environment. And, of course, this strip joint was a model in adhering to local laws. Minus the smoking and the dry humping. One man actually took a stripper up on her offer, and she promptly led him by the hand into a back room. Another very large man stood outside the door to this room. I shuddered to think what was going on in that back room.
Oh, don't be such a prude, I thought. It's just sex and lots of it.
I went over to the bar. A Hispanic bartender was talking to a customer with a thick neck. The bartender didn't look at me. I finally got his attention and told him I wanted to speak to Rick.