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I looked around for an attractive blood donor. So many of the blood groupies looked so cheap. If you had to drink from them, it might as well be pleasurable in all ways, not just the taste of the blood. I finally decided on a leggy blonde. She seemed a bit nervous, like maybe this was her first time. I wasn’t a big fan of breaking them in, but all the others were so blase.
“You’ve not done this before?” I inquired.
She shook her head.
“Well, don’t be scared. It won’t hurt.” I took her and and flipped it over so the underside of her wrist was exposed. “It’s probably better not to start with the neck,” I told her. “This is a lot less personal.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
I kind of wondered why she was here, when it was clear that she was scared out of her wits. I didn’t care enough to ask her, though. She’d tell me when she was ready. They always do.
She gasped a little when I sank my teeth in, but I knew it didn’t hurt her. She gazed at me when I’d finished feeding.
Oh great, an imprinter. Just what I needed. I didn’t want to have to deal with her following me around, watching me with puppy dog eyes for the next millennium. Not that she’d be living that long. I certainly wasn’t going to change her.
I tried to be gracious. “Stick around if you want. I have some stuff to do but I’ll be back later.”
“Okay,” she breathed. I pointed her in the direction of the bar before I left. “You’ll need plenty to eat and drink. Mark will get you what you need.”
I was so relieved to get out of there. Such a meat market. I still wasn’t used to having people throw themselves at our kind. Like we’d deign to change them. I had really strict criteria. I didn’t think Blondie was going to make the cut. Of course, someone else might think otherwise. I hoped she’d get over me quickly. You could never tell who was going to be hit that way. Otherwise I’d never have picked her. Some vamps got a rush from the imprinters. It was so easy to take advantage of them after that, treat them like shit and have them crawling back for more. But I wasn’t that sadistic. I hated a groveling human.
I knew that the next time she came in she’d be dressed like all the rest of them, looking like a girl from an 80s heavy metal video—teased up hair, fishnets, black leather, stilettos. Not my type at all, and a far cry from the Oklahoma farm girl sitting there today. It seems like all the blood groupies think they have to dress rocker chick or Victorian. If they'd ever bother to ask they'd know that isn't the case, and they'd probably manage to please me for longer. And wasn't that their ultimate goal, to make me happy?
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