Once Bitten - Clare Willis

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house while they were on vacation in Bermuda.

      In the kitchen I poured a glass of orange juice and toasted a slice of bread. My stomach was churning and the last thing I wanted to do was eat, but I knew it would be good for me. The juice tasted strange, a little metallic. I checked the expiration date but it was fine. The toast seemed gritty and I wondered if Kimberley had changed to a health food brand, but the bag was the same.

      After breakfast I went to my closet and put on a sober black pantsuit with a crisp tuxedo-tailored white cotton blouse, hoping the conservative attire would counteract my feeling of being a crazy vampire-chasing slut.

      I had just sat down at my desk when a knock came at my office door. Steve sauntered in, wearing a gray three-buttoned suit with a blue pinstriped shirt and a silvery gray tie. A matching pocket square peeked out of his breast pocket.

      “So, the Empress of the Night arises from her coffin. How were the nocturnal festivities?”

      The smile on his bronzed face was wry and his dark eyes twinkled with mischief. The thought occurred to me, not for the first time, that I was glad he was gay, because otherwise his handsomeness would make me too nervous to be his friend.

      “Steve, you’re not going to believe what happened to me last night.”

      Before I knew it the whole story came pouring out, of my tryst with Eric Taylor, the vampire capitalist. The whole story—except the part about the blood on my neck. Steve, who usually interrupts all the time, listened with his mouth open. When I finished I waited, hoping he would say something reassuring.

      “Well, I sure wish I still smoked, because now would be a good time for a cigarette. So, are you going to see him again?”

      “The prudent answer would be no, but to be honest, I just can’t say that. There was something about him that was so…” I couldn’t think of a word that would do him justice.

      “Say no more, honey. If he was half as good looking as you say he was, I’d have let him suck my…”

      I interrupted him. “…your blood, I know.”

      Steve sat down and crossed his legs, revealing lavender socks and shiny black loafers. “Let’s get serious for a moment here. Did you say you passed out?”

      “Yeah, I think so, but I’m not sure.”

      “How much did you have to drink?”

      “One drink, I think.”

      Steve wagged a finger at me. “I saw this on Oprah. The guy drugged you with that date rape drug, Rohypnol.”

      “Oh, come on, Steve.” I laughed, but the idea wasn’t that farfetched. It would explain the hangover.

      “I should have gone with you last night. I blame myself. Where was Kimberley while this villain was manhandling you?”

      “Where I should have been. Talking to the clients,” I answered guiltily.

      “But at least you’re okay, right? Nothing happened?”

      Nothing except I can’t stop thinking about the guy.

      “We exchanged cards.”

      Steve leaned closer and squinted at me. “This was no date rape. You liked him, didn’t you, princess?”

      “How would I know, I just met him. Anyway, it’s almost time for the meeting and I need to check my voicemail. Let’s talk about this later.”

      He didn’t move.

      “Steve, I need a little time to myself.”

      “To call this guy? Don’t do it, it’s too soon. You’ve got to wait forty-eight hours.”

      “Get out.”

      He sighed heavily but obeyed my command, flashing a four and an eight with his fingers before he left the doorway.

      I listened to my voicemail while skimming my email for my new love’s name, the only dull thing about him. He had said he preferred traditional methods, but I was too addicted to electronic communication to believe that anyone in this day and age who was younger than ninety wouldn’t use them. My palm was sweating on the mouse as I scrolled through my inbox.

      The first voicemail was from Les Banks, the graphic artist, asking me to call him back, not saying about what. The call had been placed last night at 5:45, after I left the office. I saved it and made a note to call him later. The second message was from my mother, made at 9:02 this morning.

      “Honey, I know you’re really busy, but your father and I haven’t laid eyes on you in weeks. Could you come over for dinner this Sunday? I’m making your favorite meatloaf…”

      Normally, the way to my heart is through my stomach, but the way I was feeling this morning, eating was the last thing on my mind. Still, I saved that one and made another note to call Mom back.

      The last message was a guy obviously reading a script, inviting me to a conference on online marketing in Austin, Texas. I deleted that one.

      The emergency meeting was in the Ferlinghetti Room, which overlooked the Bay and was decorated with photographs of the author and poet standing in front of City Lights, the bookstore he founded in North Beach in the 1950s. When I got there everyone was already seated. Dick Partridge was at the head of the table, tapping his pen and looking at his watch.

      On his right was Kimberley, looking like she had suffered no ill effects from her late night. She was dressed in a more somber than usual blue suit with a short-sleeved jacket, in deference, I supposed, to the unfortunate circumstances of the meeting. Around her neck was a necklace bearing a cashew-sized, presumably real, diamond pendant.

      To Dick’s left was Lakshmi Roy, the other Consumer Products account executive, so small she looked like she should be sitting in a booster seat. A native of India, she was the classic American success story. By the age of thirty she had gone to Yale and worked in Hollywood and had already amassed credentials as grand as she was little. According to Steve, who worked for her, Lakshmi’s managerial style was as different as night and day from Lucy’s. Lakshmi was kind and fair, open to suggestions and gave credit where it was due. On her left was my pal Steve, watching me closely like he was expecting me to fall down at any moment from the after-effects of Rohypnol.

      Next to Steve was Lakshmi’s other AAE, Chase Johnson, a recently graduated frat boy whom Steve referred to as “the human beer keg.” Theresa was also there, with her laptop open, ready to take notes. Her silky red shirt plunged to reveal two prominent collarbones and not much else. I took a seat next to Webster Northrup, manager of the Creative department. Web tried to bridge the sartorial gap between Creative and Accounts by dressing in Levi’s Dockers and button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up. In his mid-thirties, he had a round, pleasant face with brown eyes, thick dark hair, and a bit of a belly. Also in attendance were a copywriter and a media coordinator.

      “Now that Angie is here, we can commence,” said Dick. “As you all know, Lucy Weston has not been at work since last Friday. She hasn’t called in or answered her phone at home. We apprised the authorities yesterday and they are looking into the situation. Naturally we hope for the best. Our task now is to reassign the more pressing duties to ensure that our clients do not experience any discontinuity of service.”

      Lakshmi gave me a smile from across the table without moving her lips. She was the reigning mistress of account executive telepathy.

      “Our clients at Macabre Factor called me this morning. They were very pleased with the presentation. I would like to offer my commendations to Angie and Kimberley, who stepped in and took over that meeting at a moment’s notice yesterday. Laudable work, ladies.” He smiled thinly at each of us. “They have specifically asked for Angie to manage their account, even when Lucy returns. Whatever you did in there, Angie, it was well-received.”

      I looked down at the table to hide my confusion. Why in the world was Macabre Factor giving me their account? I hadn’t taken the lead

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