A Match Made in Hell (bxb)

Chapter Two: Isn't this Wound Fatal?

Chapter Two: Isn't this Wound Fatal?

Nightclubs- a demons natural habitat. The bright flashing lights in tune with the pounding music shaking the ground was euphoric, almost is if the beat itself was pumping my blood through my veins.

The bartender luckily had a first aid kit, and after seeing a quick flash of my fangs, he was happy to give my rubbing alcohol and bandages. My lip bled as I tried not to cry while dabbing I'm alcohol, and finally tightly wrapped the wound.

A cut straight down my arm. Shouldn't that be fatal?

It hurt like a bitch, but it didn't feel like I was dying, which was always a positive.

I threw my head back as I drained the 'complementary' drink the bartender gave me. The burn in my throat was a helpful distraction from he burning along my forearm.

What alcohol was this again? Something hard. I ordered another.

The buzz kept my thoughts off of my failure. Someone must have snuck in and changed the symbols, and now my love was stuck in her hiding place while angels were getting closer and closer.

I leaned my head back, playing the images of her perfect blonde hair and hazel eyes twinkling as they met mine. God, I miss her. Not just for the sex, but still also for the sex.

Her name was more bitter in my throat than any liquor ever could. Lillian. 

She was like a flower. And by a flower, I mean a plant. And by a plant, I mean a Venus Flytrap. She would bite off a mans head so fast if you so much has doubted her ability to plan a mass murder.

Just my type.

Not to mention she could hold liquor better than me, and she was a sexy drunk. Half of he time I didn't even remember making it to the hotel room, just waking up in the bed naked with her.

Always the same hotel. The ratty, run-down place hiding from the health inspectors. But god did I learn to love the path there, filled with kisses and caresses and bites in sensitive places.

The memories didn't turn me on as they sometimes did. Instead they only made me yearn for even a simple touch of her hand against my cheek. I hadn't heard from her in months before this, and now that I had screwed up, I probably wouldn't hear from her again for twice as long, if ever again.

Shut it, brain. You're in a club. Enjoy yourself.

I marched to the dance floor, dancing as only a drunk demon could. Demons danced strange, despite nine of us ever being taught that way. We heard a beat that no one could, dancing to a rhythm that only we understood. I swayed my hips, the memories and pain fading as I bumped into strangers, flashing fanged smiles and winks.

Screw angels. If they don't get to party like this, I didn't want to be one.

—-

How long was I dancing? How many drinks have I had?

Doesn't matter, I still have room for another. I always did. My throat was practically raw, and the alcohol wasn't sitting well. I would swallow it down nonetheless and go back to the dance floor.

"I'm sorry sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

The demand was a sharp rock thrown on my glass house, shattering my perfect party into pieces.

"Make me," I snarled.

"Your bandages are soaked with blood!" The bartender insisted. "You have to go to an emergency room."

I flipped him off in response. No one could make me go to one of those stupid ass places. Anyways, I was too drunk to find a nearby one and taxi drivers pissed me off.