The roar of an engine clearly too powerful for the average late-model sedan carried the gorgeous body of the '71 Mustang down the night-blackened street. The driver's window was down and an arm hung out the window, buffeted by the sounds of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" blasting out loud enough to wake the dead. In one very literal sense, it just might. But then, the driver was neither alive nor dead. Such was the state of one who had succumbed to the eternal powers of the undead. But who said vampires had to act dead?

Robbie was hardly one to go to an opera. He was more the rock concert type, such as the Eagles concert he'd just come away from. Z Z Top would've been preferable, but someone had stolen his CDs of that collection; apparently, he wasn't the only fan. When he found out who did it, he'd rip their head off and shove it up their ass. You just didn't steal from a vampire; not only was it not nice, it wasn't smart. And yeah, he was a thief...he admitted it. You did what you had to if you wanted to get out of the gutter. But then, being a vampire put you above the law. The Amman didn't seem to get that. Oh, well.

He pulled up to the club like he owned the place and two guys in the back seat quickly followed. They were burly guys, the kind you didn't fuck with unless you had a death wish and a will. They were also vampires. They weren't sired by anyone Robbie J knew and they weren't that old - but they were tough as nails and had probably seen more body parts ripped to shreds than Robbie cared to think about. Unlike them, he wasn't Tarepha. The Tarepha weren't someone he cared to deal with, but they were good in a fight and bad-ass enough to feed you your own spleen if you looked at them the wrong way. Also, some of them liked money.

A lot.

The club was pretty dull compared to the eleven o' clockers, but one o' clock was still a pretty kickin' time. Half the people there were on the dance floor to the tune of some new metal band Robbie hadn't heard of yet; tonight was apparently freak night, or so it seemed from all the odd piercings and rashly done tattoos and strange hair. Still, it was better than the seventies; who the hell came up with the afro, for god's sake? That was one style he'd never taken to and was glad had died long ago.

The waitress at the bar brought him his usual as he sat down, having recognized him at once. He kept to the shadows when it came to the too-public eye, but blinding their lidless gaze didn't prevent people from knowing him; it was always good to have a little fame, even if he wasn't too friendly with the vampire police. What right did the Amman have to tell other vamps what they could and couldn't do? It was simple, really: they had more power together than any single vampire could boast, the kind of power Robbie and most other vamps his age or younger wished they had. That was why no one fucked with the Amman: they were even more dangerous than the Tarepha, or could be if they wanted to.

He sipped his mojito as he casually surveyed his surroundings, wondering if any racers were at the club tonight. He didn't see or smell any, but that didn't mean shit. He was pretty sure at least four of the best were blood-suckers. He tried not to think about the girl he'd killed just two nights earlier or the clean-up he'd had to pay for. He didn't usually drink live, but a vampire had instincts; every once in a while, he found he just couldn't resist. Maybe he was weak.

"Dude, Jesse, why the hell do you come here? This place sucks ass." Janie growled as she slumped into the booth they'd gotten.

"Hey hey, this place it pretty sweet you know!" The black haired man said defensively.

"Please! This place is full of emo freaks and stupid ass punks." She muttered, glaring around the place. "I wanna go back to White Mice. At least there I know who the fuck we're dealing with." She got up again, this time grabbing her bag. "I'm going home. Find some chick to shack up for your ride just like you'd planned to before." She said with a rather dismissive wave of her hand.

Yeah, this place was a hell hole. At least at the White Mice, the Tender's knew her, the bouncers weren't statues and the usually crowd wasn't a bunch of ex-cutters and cry babies who looked like they graduated high school a year or two ago.

With a glare of disapproval around the room, she made her way out, the expression on her face clearly unhappy.

Subtle hints of suppressed anger and a supercharged desperation to escape from the world beyond the neon light and the large, thick doors reached the hypersensitive nostrils of the vampire watching the crowd. One in particular was leaving without so much as having a single mojito, irritation stronger in her the others if only because hers was immediate; it wasn't anger she was used to. No, it was sudden and unexpected, the kind of anger that comes on when someone does something that just rubs you the wrong way. Around the tables and to a boot near the bar had come the boyfriend and his girl.

But she wasn't his. No, his scent wasn't on her; hers wasn't on him. Friends, perhaps? That meant she was open territory, and that was something the fifty-something knew all about. Of course, he didn't look fifty-something; that was the whole point: how could he have slept with so many women if he looked his age? Thankfully, he'd been turned. Now he would go on looking like a young stud forever. The older he got, the wiser he'd get; he already impressed people, sometimes simply shocked them, when he spoke of things that had happened thirty years ago as though he'd lived them just yesterday.

That's what happened when you got to be a vampire, it seemed: unnatural beauty was something written about, but you had to experience the looks of surprise on peoples' faces when you can connect with them in a way they never thought possible to fully understand what it meant to know far more than you should about something. With knowledge, too, came the wisdom of experience. It was this experience, and perhaps a bit of male arrogance, that carried the vampire forth. Mojito in hand, he conveniently stepped right in front of her around the corner of the bar as she was heading for the door, all the way on the other side of the bar.

"Oh, pardon me. I'm sorry; I didn't see you there. I didn't spill anything on you, did I?"

He made to look as though he had indeed spilled something on her, but he found nothing.

"I don't see anything...please, let me buy you a drink. Purely in apology, I promise."

His smile could have won awards or made Aaron Carter fan girls sweat, and that was what he counted on most nights to get him in good with a gorgeous girl. It was how he got his fun. On the plus side, he remembered the name of every woman he'd ever slept with; it was kind of his thing, the first and last name. He was very good with details, you see. But of course, tonight he was only being friendly. Right?

Right.

"Ugh!" She exclaimed as someone ran in to her. She brushed her hands down her clothing, making sure they were dry. If she got pulled over by chance and had alcohol soaked in her clothing, she'd be in trouble the the Agency.

"This is just one of the few reasons why I hate this place." She said as she glared at the man. The anger was hard though, he was handsome, even more so than Adam. That's why his apology sounded so insincere to her ears. Either that or she just knew guys too well from growing up with them.

"Whatever, I was just leaving anyway." She said dismissively. "No, don't bother." She waved a hand and turned away again. Her frustration and irritation made her ignore the man, simply because she was of the opinion that every man was just out to get some.

Even Jesse was out to get some, hoping to sweeten her up and make her forget about Adam for a night.

Sure she hadn't seen him for a while, and she was aching for their all night romps. But she'd promised herself that for him she'd give up the random sex. Besides he was the best she'd had so far, everything else would be lacking.

What the hell? Why were their so many people in this dump? She was having to push and shove her way through the crowd to get to the damn door! It was ridiculous! All she wanted to do was get home, she didn't even want to go to Mice anymore.

Most mortals that were young and bold enough to hit on women without them realizing it weren't smart enough to take a hint. They kept on, aggravating women until they either called the cops or used excessive force to get rid of them - typically a taser or pepper spray. If they were really stupid, they tended to get pissed and go after the women; this, of course, meant the women either got hurt or badly hurt the men. In truth, it was a bit painful to Robbie's ego; but he wasn't a complete idiot or an ass hole. Unfortunately, he also couldn't mezmerize or command mortals like some vampires could. He sighed as he leaned back against the bar, speaking to her as she started to walk away in a vain hope that she would actually stop and turn around for a chat - and possibly more.

"You're right; why bother with the gentleman at the bar of a second-rate dance club? Good evening to you, lady, and I wish you well."

He resumed sipping his drink, watching for a moment to see what she would do; perhaps she would consider herself a bit rash, or perhaps she would simply roll her eyes and push on through the thick crowd of dancers, drunks, and emo teens.

She turned on her heal and glared at him.

"Damn right." She nearly spat back at him. Jesse could find his own way back now. No damn way she was just sitting in the car and waiting for him. "I don't need some drunken jackass trying to hit on me."

Janie turned away again, checking her cell phone and hoping that Adam had called.

But he hadn't...

Out in her car, the '68 Camaro that she'd finally brought up from home, she turned the key. But nothing happened. "Shit..." She grumbled. "Not now baby... Please..." She moaned as she got out of the car.

She loved her Camaro... She loved it with everything possible. But it as really pissing her off. Well not the car, but rather her stupid brothers who hadn't kept up the maintenance and driven it regularly like she'd told him to.

Popping the hood she lifted it up, grateful that she'd parked near the light. "Okay, what's wrong baby..." She muttered. It was probably electric... something that was keeping the engine from turning over... Her hand ran along the cord that came from the battery. Checking for frays, anything simple that might explain the issue. She soooo didn't want to be stuck here...