New South


***Hey, y'all! I wanted to tell you about my first novel, which was just released! Also, you can catch up with me at a number of places, I always love hanging out and shooting the breeze, perving, etc., so don't be a stranger ***

Sugar Daddy, by Rie Warren:

She needs a job. He wants a mistress. Hearts and contracts are bound to get broken.

Shay Greer is pure GRITS—a Girl Raised In The South–but nowhere near a demure southern belle. She's looking for a way out of her broken down marriage when she lands an unexpected job offer she really should refuse. Position? Mistress. Fringe Benefits? Of course. Fraternization with sexy CEO Reardon Boone? Required.

You can find Sugar Daddy at all ebook retailers! The live links for everything, and how to reach me, are on my ffnet profile ;)


All live links to everything are on my profile, including links to Sugar Daddy:


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Disclaimer: I own this shit. Rebelward, Confeddie, whatever you wanna' call him, as well as this Em and this Jazz; these boys are totes mine! As for the underlying characters and story of Twilight, y'all know whose copyright that is under and that certainly does not belong to me.

And now, may I proudly introduce Rebelward!

Y'all better buckle up, because it's gonna' get bumpy!

The hell is this?, I thought as I read the Moldy News that landed half-assed in my gravel driveway, littered with shotgun shells and Lucky Strike butts, the plastic-wrapped edge dangling into the nearest pothole-filled mud puddle. I splattered out of the house, full of the warm blood from the stinkin' possums I was forced to devour last night. The memory of the grey and white striped fur on their tiny, taunting bodies made me shudder. Fuckin' possums. Hated hitting that shit. I needed some gators, and soon.

Stupid Moultrie News and their dumbass Police Log that practically shouted 'Vampires in Our Midst!' If only these ignorant, self-important snooties would open their bedazzled fuckin' eyes to the truth staring them in the face. What. The. Hell. So what, dead and drained animal carcasses littering the lowcountry, like that was anything new with all the good ol' boys in the vicinity. I skimmed and chortled over the details of dead foxes and the odd, grizzled, black bear body that had recently been discovered. Pshaw. It was another article that beckoned me: We Want Your Guns! Food for Exchange!

I rolled my golden eyes right back into my head; as if that was ever going to happen. This was gun-totin' territory! Why turn in the weapon you could use to hunt your own food, trading it for food? Did anyone else sense the complete, vicious circle of this argument? I friggin' doubted it. No fuckin' matter, there was no way in hell I would ever give up my state of the art, perfectly tuned, and custom-designed bow or my shotgun. Not that I needed them, but they were part and parcel; they defined me as much as my old school Ford Bronco, complete with a faded and torn bumper sticker that read 'You should see my other ride' referring to my Ford F2500HD. The beast that spoiled the shit out of tires that reached Emmett's linebacker shoulders, mud-splattered splash guards revealing the superb silhouette of a buxom woman reclining and jutting her perky tits out, gun rack jauntily stacked across the rear window, truck bed filled with the debris of our scandalous nights.

I was not all that into auto-art, but I had to give credit where thanks were due and toting several well-phrased bumper stickers certainly cast me as one of them. Lining up the sticky plastic just so, I had artistically plastered the tags of American Confederate, No Fear (natch), and Honk if Parts Fall Off to my rear window. On the other hand, Em's ride was clapped out and colored over with a plethora of completely at-odds banners; South Carolina Cracker: Endangered Species, Cat: The Other White Meat, and My Child is a TERRIFIC Kid! – the pillock most definitely did not have a kid–just like a toddler who had gotten his hands on a 99 cent, Dollar General sticker book and run amuck all over Mummy's front parlour. Such a child.

This goddamn recession was ruining my lifestyle. With the downturn, the fucking plummeting of the economy, people became more suspicious, quicker to cast stones, faster to lay blame and search out oddities such as us; we had to be beyond reproach. We Cullens, (Esme, Carlisle, Emmett, Jazz and myself) looked to all intents and purposes like just another humdrum, fair-to-middlin' South Cackalakee clan, but it was a farce that became a reality out of necessity. A ruse to remain under the radar of the Volturi. Forcing our hand to be that much stealthier and inconspicuous. To avoid notice and attention I became ever more devoid of my previous decades of humanity. Humanity! Ha! I barked out a harsh laugh at that thought twinned with my total inhumanity. I was a vampire and no amount of animal blood would ever quell the desire for the thump and throttle of the crimson, hot, corporeal fluid spewing forth from a pierced jugular.

Stupid George Dubya. I'd like to hit that, I might could even lift my embargo against mortals! Scratch that. First I'd get Laura, she looked like a prim and proper tasty little morsel, then I'd probably just kill her jackass (pun intended, I may be a revamped redneck, but I got the brains of the family) of a husband. Dildo. He needed a good head ripping off. I'd seen enough in my time, and contemplated all the ways I could get to the current cunty POTUS as he systematically fucked up the country. But I never did.

In the end, I was too busy buffing my guns, mud running, and sticking my harder than wrought iron hard-on into the swinging door of dripping wet waitresses at Mama Brown's. Mama Brown's Diner and Pie Shop. Yeah, Pie Shop, how very fucking apt.

I might have a lucid profound thought here and there, but Emmett kept me grounded.

At that I eased carefully from the aluminum chair that completed our mish-mashed dining set (foraged from a night of successful dumpster diving) and stalked silently, panther-like, to Emmett's bedroom door. His otherworldly snore rattled the door on its frame and made the plasterboard walls of our scrubby, doublewide trailer creak and groan. His snuffling was a masterpiece of thespianism, making him appear more earthly until it became second nature to pass out and feign sleep, wall-vibrating whistle and all. He played possum like a pro, and yet again my throat smarted against the flavor of those vermin.

Dickweed needed a wake-up call. I pummeled the shitty ply board door until my fist went straight through and still he snuffled on. The noxious scent of cheap booze swilled through the air as I stepped inside. Leaping from the doorway onto his bed, I ripped the mingin' chenille spread back from his giant's body and shouted with all the unnecessary air in my lungs, "GET THE FUCK UP, ASSHOLE!"

With a groan, a twitch (by twitch, I mean a shiver that shook the entire house and spread across the swampy ground we were perched on, causing a fissure to glide from porch to dirt road), and a light-hearted curse "Sonofamotherfuckinbitchyoucuntyassmuncherwhore!", Emmett rolled over and eased his aching ochre eyes open.

Unpleased that I'd punched a hole in his crude, crass, bellicose, belligerent brand of bonhomie that made Em the quintessential manifestation of a person in these here parts, he kept up, "You're such a feisty cunt, Edward. Why don't you just get you some good lovin' already?"

Emmett needed a spittoon and I needed a toss-pot for all the jerking-off-induced jizz that flew from my giant beanstalk ten thousand times a day, all to the tune of one fucking impervious, tiny, almost woman-girl. A mere waif. Wastrel. Wasted. A goddamn conundrum of wantonness! Fucking waitress no less.

Dipshit. Fucking Edward. Here and now, I was Eddie Cullen. Not Edward Anthony Masen Cullen, I'd dropped that last bit of my former self by the wayside long ago. Only a stupid-ass, South-of-Broad mama's boy with the last name of Legare would be caught dead sporting the name Edward. He knew better than anyone I wasn't gettin' any good lovin' because of some irritatingly, beautiful brunette at Mama Brown's who was making my balls turn an unsightly shade of blue. Not my style, at all. I wanted to rip her head from her shoulders, spit in her face, slap her ass, suck her empty, and fuck her six ways to Sunday all at the same time.

That was the problem.

I didn't know what I wanted more.

Kill the bitch.

Or fuck the shit out of her. I wanted to gorge myself on her pussy pie, up and down and all around town.

And since that wasn't happening, I power-smacked Emmett upside his scrungy head with all the force of a cement block.

A wheedling whine mocked his behemoth size, "Sumbitch, all right! Eddie!" Before he could even shake his eyes back into place I jumped to the other side of the room, I wasn't stupid. Emmett was twice my size, but not nearly as fast or lithe as me. I just needed to stay one step ahead of him.

"Listen bitch," I muttered, "I might could go for something to eat. Those maggoty possums are hocking back up on me. What the hell were we thinkin'? We are never that desperate, dude. Remember that!"

A sparkling light illuminated Emmett's formerly faux-sleep-hazed eyes. Huntin' and chicks, that's what we lived for. Men. Vampires. What the fuck was the difference really?

"Let's hit The Pig!" he squealed and then snorted; if nothing else Emmett had the gift of animalistic impersonation.

"What the shit for?" I demanded.

"Them is good huntin' grounds!"

I swear to fuck, if I rolled my eyes one more time in the space of this thirty minute interlude that was my never-fucking-ending life, I was going to go apeshit and take down every sexy smelling, lusciously perfumed woman in a five mile radius. I needed release, NOW. If he was hell bent on The Pig then Piggly Wiggly it was; the local store had its own abattoir, and the blood promised to be fresh from the slaughter. It was an easy meal ticket, and one that definitely would ease the bitter queasiness from the previous night's shitnanigans. Not to mention the sexy, tight-ass, red-haired girl behind the hot lunch counter who swooned every time Em flexed his brawny biceps in her direction.

I smelled my wifebeater, cringing at the slight stench from the bootleg hooch Emmett forced down my incinerating throat last night before he sicced me onto that Christly possum family. Two minutes later saw me showered and Old Spice soap-on-a-rope smellin'. Dipping into my closet I pulled on fresh clothes care of the laundress talents of Esme, bless her. My hair was a mess, but I did not give a shit. The chicks seemed to like the fact that it looked like I was always sullied from a rollicking roll in the hay; I could read their lewd thoughts and knew, without fail, they thought of their own hands grabbing my stray strands in their little hot fingers, pulling hard for all their worth, until they had my head grasped in a death grip between their legs or to their lips. That was cool with me.

That brought to mind Jasper. My mate, friend, and our other brother. As the newest member of our clan, coven, family, what have you, he had earned himself the nickname of Junior. If he was a girl, with girly-bits, I might have considered him a soul mate. As it was, he had a dick, and he used it most mightily, indiscriminately, and in a very admirable way against all and sundry. Chicks, dicks, hoes, bros; he was the most un-racist, un-sexist un-dead I'd ever met. Me, I was all about pussy. Poontang. Of all of us though, Junior was the master-hunter. I was always amazed he found the time to hone his skills outside of the boudoir.

The only hippie I tolerated, he was all about the Free Love. If it had a hole, he had the pole, and he enjoyed nothing more than dipping it in, bobbing it, and reeling that shit in.

He had his own abode so he could shoot his motherload in some semblance of peace… If the trailer's a rockin', don't come a-knockin'! Never was a crass adage more true, and I knew I'd be thankful for that in the days to come.

Eh, Jazz had his coming. A chill skidded over my already icy skin at the thoughts I kept to myself.

As if speaking of the devil himself, Jazz tore through the front door, all unaware grins at another languorous, sunny, spring, lowcountry Saturday. It was just our kind of day with the pea-soup-thick fog. And it was days like this that made me irate every time I sped past the outpost of Sun Stopper Window Tinters, because apparently black windows were a must for every vampire in the southern climes. Just in case we dazzled too much in the lazy sunshine. What-the-fuck-ever, I rolled my eyes around in my head one more time, giving myself an unpleasant headachey feeling. The douchebags were so glaringly obvious they might as well hang a neon, flashing sign proclaiming, 'We Serve Vampires Hear', typo and all!

Too dazzling in the sun. Fuck that. Dazzling was a pussy word anyway. What were we? Chicks with dicks? Naw. I preferred the phrase "sweaty sheen". My glistening skin only the byproduct of this deliciously hot climate and the alcohol. A little sun never friggin' hurt anyone. I'm a man, therefore I sweat. Fucking deal.

On this day, a dense, misty Saturday at the ending of spring, Jazz wanted to surf.

Em wanted to purloin some platelets from The Pig as aforementioned, and then muff dive. In that order.

And I… I was a goner. Pathetic. A loser. Losing myself.

I was beginning to hate this human world.

I had already started to despise this earthly ceaseless existence, again.

Then I'd met her, two weeks ago. And was suddenly wondering where she'd been all my dormant, deadened life.

We-ell, we didn't meet so much as collide, as the fucking clumsy miniscule twit with sienna-glowing, long, wavy, messy, strawberry-scented tresses, perfectly formed globes that pranced about as boobs, and long legs that seemed most unlikely on such a petite frame, raped against my unforgiving, nefarious, nacreous physique. With two choices, let the bitch face plant on my Carhartts or wrap her up against me, I took one whiff of her wrecking-ball blood and deigned not to drop her.

Biggest cunt-ass mistake I'd ever made.

When she'd looked up to me with so much gratitude shining from her warm, doleful, umber, beguiling eyes, smiled with those luscious bee-stung lips, my non-stop thoughts… stopped. I couldn't hear a goddamn thing! Not the cacophony around us, not the clinking of ice in glasses, not the clatter of forks on plates, not the chewing and swallowing, and most definitely not the sluice of her thoughts. With her in my arms, I could only read the galump-rush of her heart, blood flooding that organ until it triple-timed, a flush billowing up her pillowy skin.

She had not left my mind since.

I did not want to get attached. Least of all to a human being. A blushing klutz of a pathetic, teeny-weeny, wan-faced, destined-to-die creature. This was a joke. It had to be a lark! My comeuppance for being such a dickhead the last half century at least. Yeah, God was having a grand old heyday with me now! God was taking the piss.

I was an insufferable sonuvabitch; Emmett reminded me daily. And Esme. Christly Emse. With her arctic amber eyes always lingering on me and hoping and wondering and waiting, watching and fucking baiting me to find my 'one true love', my mate. That was twat-talk, and I was not having any of that!

Dick in hand. Teeth bared. Cock-talking, swaggering, drinking, and sinking dick as and when I saw fit, no one had ever touched me. Not even the sibilant succubus that was Tanya. Not brace-face Jessica, not supermodel-wannabe Lauren.

I was Edward Cullen. Vampire first. Hard motherfucker last and foremost. And Eddie Cock-hard Cullen did not wax philosophical! This Bella bitch was twisting up my insides and warping my head, taking me back to the place I did not want to go.


We hadn't always resided here, in Cainhoy, aka Cainwhore. A Podunk town with a population of who-the-fuck-knew and no-one-the-fuck-cared. The numbers were continuously engorged with the influx of inbred legions that came to stay with momma/auntie/sister during hunting season, and fluctuated yet more, with a dip, on account of all the hunting and drunk driving accidents. Those were two things you could rest assured would not happen to a vamp! The hairy, smelly, rancid armpit of the lowcountry, located at the nexus of Daniel Island and Wando, a stone's throw from Awendaw, run-off for the exigent population pushed out of swelling yuppified Mount Pleasant. And those whose ancestors had lived on the same swampy, murky, low-lying, tropical scrub land for generations.

Why were we in South Carolina? It was the perfect hide. The Volturi would look pretty fuckin' conspicuous not to mention ridiculous in these here parts with those poncey cloaks. I could count on one hand the number of Goths residing in our midst, all fake vampire-like. I could make it real for them if they so wished! I called them all Snapes. Having a healthy dedication to all things JK Rowling, what the fuck else was I going to do with unlimited time but read a rousing good YA fantasy? Now, vampire fiction… that had me snorting just like Emmett in hog heaven. And what the hell was with True Blood and the resurgence of vampires as the hottest must-hit-that-shit around? I scorned and sneered, and read and watched. And jeered. Fucking idiotic.

Back to point, the Snapes. There was skinny, tall, scrawny, white-as-the driven-snow–and probably just as bloody pure–Library Snape. Ran into him often at the Mount Pleasant collections. A boy. Nothing more. His thoughts were minutely intriguing though. Pretending nonchalance and unawareness, his heartbeat sped and the tiniest of flushes spread, almost making his pallid skin look healthy whenever a particular MILF entered the library's alarmed doors. I snickered behind my cupped hand to read his less than pure thoughts of what he'd like to do to her, all the while shuffling his black, beaten, size ten Cons and burying his nose into the latest on The Leaky Lounge, utilizing the public's computers to indulge his own obsession instead of looking for a job as he should have been doing. The punk definitely didn't know occlumency as I could clearly discern his thoughts.

Then there was Missus Snape. Statuesque. I saw her in Millennium Records flipping through old vinyl of The Cure, Sisters of Mercy, Siouxsie and The Banshees. A lot. Her dyed, raven hair was coiled like Medusa's and made its way past her tight ass. Clad in onyx leather boots that enclosed her lean legs to her thighs, perched on 6" stilettos she clacked along with assuredness and dignity.

I'd hit that, and not with a wand. Except for the fact that her visions told of dungeons, and torturing the dragons of many a man. Not my style.

This slow-paced, lazy, easy life was a far-cry from what we'd known before in our last citizenship in good old Blighty. Moving was a necessity. An exhausting consequence for those who never aged and a race against the Volturi. We had preferred the northern realms to the flash and metro-trendiness of London and her sister cities; Manchester, Leeds, North Yorkshire and her surrounds. There was Whitby, on the eastern seaside with its fishy foul smell of famed smoked kippers and Whitby Abby, the home of Bram Stoker's Dracula. Now, that was a laugh and a half! As if we'd live in a cold, gloomy, stony relic! What. The. Hell. As if a mere stake to the heart would cause our demise…if that were the case I'd have done the deed long ago. Muted and sobered and deadened and despairing over this non half-life. I became a miserable git.

The North Yorkshire moors and Herriot's All Creatures Great and Small. We were great, and they were small. And not all that tasty. I'd had my fill of sheep, and cow, and was more than ready to hit a more exotic region. All I could think was thank fuck we'd departed that dour territory before the reign of BSE. The plebs knew it as Mad Cow Disease. No shitting wonder Alistair was half off his rocker with worry and angst. The guy was a timid, mousy freak of nature, and that was saying a lot for our kind. If it wasn't BSE, it was Hoof and Mouth with the sheep getting wiped out left, right, and center. Stupid mute mammals. They didn't have a chance against our superior strength, cunning and skill.

Yes, the doom and gloom of England suited us just fine for a very long time. The relics, the ruins, Gothic and Victorian, centuries-old and knowing the endless revolutions of the sun. But even that became stale and moribund. After too many decades of wary, somber, anxious, depressed attitudes, enough was enough!

Life had been mundane, trivial, tedious, and insipid. A repetitious nightmare of unending days.

That all changed when we moved to Cainwhore, eschewing the dreary dull scrim of the Northwestern states. Incongruous with all of our previous incarnations, Esme, Carlisle, Em, and myself welcomed this live-life-to-the-fullest, free wheelin' existence. None more than Em and myself. There was much to be said for acting first and thinking… never. Especially to me. Having been anesthetized, immobilized by over a century of being beaten by the heedless thoughts of others, having to run from the Volturi, remaining one step ahead of them, worried for my family much more than for my own safety. I felt protected here. Those denizens of ether, those Italian monsters, and the mafia of the vampire world at large had been after me since Carlisle sired me. My formidable skills called to their egomaniacal need to have every superior supernatural being beneath their scaly, paper-thin thumbs. Yeah, they craved to get their long-taloned, gauzily-fleshed fingers on me and into my mind, who didn't? Aro, Caius, and Marcus, the triad of evil wanted to enslave me.

I was nobody's bitch, I didn't give a toss if they were vampire royalty or not!

Their unyielding searching led us to this place. Impelled us to artistry in our latest, greatest worldly act. Adept, blending in with the scenery, I inhabited this boyhood, this cusp of manhood completely. Unable to even remember through the murk of my long lost memories to my own childhood, I embraced this juvenile masculinity and became a purely physical being! With Em and Jazz at my side, good ole' boys.

I used to be full of piss and vinegar, now I was broiling with vim and vigor!

Life had transformed upon our immigration to stateside. And was ordained to be altered once again with the advent of Bella.


The trip to The Pig to fill up on bovine blood was followed by my decisive behest to git ourselves to Mama Brown's. I was testy as a bear and needed to lay my eyes, if not my hands, on Bella. My testes were seething with venom at the smallest thought of her. The drive was nothing for us, cruising along 17 at breakneck speeds, spilling onto Chuck Dawley Boulevard and over Coleman with our windows rolled down, piping out AC/DC's Back in Black, hooting and hollering and screeching to a halt on the scree of gravel that made up the parking lot. Just before the Ben Sawyer Boulevard rose to the turnstile bridge that dumped fishermen, snobby credit card living cunts, and crunchies alike into the seaside haven of Sullivan's Island. The ospreys nesting on the manmade platforms over the intra-coastal waterway took flight at our savage approach.

Ditching us back at the trailer, Jazz had taken his leave for a date with coochie. I couldn't blame him. Biting my tongue I called out a less-than-genuine farewell when I really wanted to shove his face in the penultimate preposterous person who was about to rock his pussy-filled world inside out.

Ever attuned to the emotional fanfare around him, Jazz caught whiff of something other than snatch, and that was my mendaciousness. Scrolling through my reeling emotions that spread through sick, amused jibing to anxious, lip-gnawing, unyielding, gut-clenching fear, he scathed me with a perplexed look from his burnished amber eyes, and I heard his thoughts, What the fuck is going on with you lately, man?

Caustically, I shrugged and dipped my head. Willed the worry away. Refused to meet his gaze. I had never held such a secret before, and could not even understand the reason myself for such refusal to 'fess up. Hoping he'd chalk it up to the chestnut-tressed, human, trussed waitress I was fucking craving to encounter today.

Slamming the trashed trailer door that had seen too many debaucherous Cullen nights, with its shredded screen slightly soothed back into place beneath torn silver lengths of duct tape, so that it banged back and forth whining with a rusty scream, the kid needed to control his own emotions, never-the-fuck-mind about mine!, Jazz was still suspicious, but too intent on cocking off to bother me further.

Disembarking in the deep gravel of the parking lot, in front of the ramshackle run-down hole-in-the-wall joint that was battered and beaten as the populace that frequented it, I nimbly jumped out and inspected my appearance in the sparkling reflection of the window. My wrinkled, chamois, button-down shirt decidedly unbuttoned. Sleeves hastily rolled up over the defined slopes of my forearms, the sinews of my chest a craggy landscape of toned stone flesh. Below, my stomach muscles were unmoving, packed with pure power and snare-drum-taut above the low-rise faded jeans held in check at my narrow hips with a tooled leather belt, the buckle of which gleamed with meticulous care. I raked my strong un-calloused fingers through my hair that looked as if it'd just been through a wrestling match with Em, or had recently escaped the clutches of one woman or another, or two or three at a time.

A sardonic grin tried folding over a nauseating new nervousness. No fucking doubt my body could play out all of Bella's fantasies. But what of my nonexistent heart? My frigid, other-worldly being?

Fuck. Off.

I opted for the panty-dropping crooked smile instead and deemed myself ready… to meet my own destiny. Or my death. Or another meeting with a raging case of an egregious erection of epic proportions. Same fucking thing.

End this.

Pulling myself together, I struck the dirt off my shitkickers against the tires of the truck and straightened my shoulders.

Just inside the door emblazoned with Mama Brown's, Better than Downtown's, Emmett slid to a nearby table and proceeded to make a scene as soon as we were seated, hollering out to Rose, "Hey, Betty, come serve over here!" The pugnacious pudwhacker really did think he was living in the New South. Sporting a threadbare green t-shirt with the motto I Don't Need a John Deere to Pull Hoes, he was trying to channel Bubba Sparxxx. Even though I rolled my eyes until they were sore with the revolution, I had to admit he made a pretty decent impression. Good thing the yocals were used to us, and we were very nearly able to pass off as their own kith and kin.

Rose was a professional. She'd been here long before us and had been none too happy at sharing this refuge with a many-numbered kinfolk.

All gum-smacking and smoky-voiced drawling, "Honey, sugar, baby," charming the grizzled elders, the sweet-tempered dawdling old ladies, the wet-behind-the-ears young'uns alike. Until she got to us, every damn day and twice on Sunday.

Rose was not at all pleased as she came prancing over to slam our usual bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon, affectionately known as Pabst Blue Blood, on the creaky three-legged table that tottered beneath her unnecessary might. Apparently we deserved no greeting.

Getting liquored up was just another way of blending in with the scenery, and a method we found much enjoyment in, to our amazed amusement. These southerners enjoyed their drink just as much as the English; both breeds were complete lushes who found it necessary to repent their lavish ways beneath the punishing dome of Christianity come the Lord's Day. We'd developed a taste for it, quite simply, out of boredom. Living in the incessant gloomy climes of Britain, what the hell else was there to do? Em and I began our explorations with single malt whiskey; he had a fondness for the peaty, tawny, thick liquid of Laphroaig while I preferred the oak casket coarseness of Highland Park and other of the Orkney's offerings.

Even Esme and Carlisle broke with tradition and took our lead with red wine, the most dense and like blood, although Esme found that a vodka tonic or four perfectly complemented the sweltering summer nights. Rose was already a hard drinker when we met her; cheap pitchers of beer, cheap bitch. She was right up Emmett's alley.

Taking some getting used to, the inferno-burn scraping down my gullet and roiling in an unusual swish about my stomach was well worth it. Crawling out of the tumbler, tankard, Mickey's Wide Mouth, undulating ferociously and only finding release from our bodies in the dappling arch of the diamond-encrusted gleam that rebounded off of our prism-like flesh. Finally we found a use for the 70's disco-ball refractions of our tissue! It wasn't just all about Staying Alive; Travolta could kiss the hard pristine ageless musculature of my seventeen-year-old glutes.

The way the alcohol permeated my being allowed a pseudo-slumber and inert senses and desensitization. A slip-hole. Less feeling, less hearing. Muted. It made us more likeable and less suspect.

Fucking Pabst Blue Ribbon. Blue Blood was the best. Townies left a bad taste. I'd gone there once. Slipping up and supping where I shouldn't have. We were on a strict diet of non-homo-sapien shite. Diabolical and predatory, and accursed. Cursed with senseless killing gifts coupled with a Carlisle-gifted conscious. Sometimes I hated that bastard; my father, my mentor, my maker. He who had stolen me from life on earth, eternity in heaven and instead gave me ceaseless survival at my mother's request.

I'd once had a LaCoste wearing, seersucker-suited King; he lived South of Broad. Dude wouldn't have known ass-up from a real broad. Foppy fucking prince. Tasted divine though, but not nearly as splendidly as his broad whom I inveigled with just a shallow exhalation of my saccharine breath upon her collagen-fluffed lips. Now, she was the Queen and no refuting that. I ate her out before I bit her clit while she threw herself back in ecstasy. It was so easy to suck every last drop of hoity-toity blood out of her as she dropped into her cum-face glaze. Didn't even know what had hit her, besides my boner of beatific, Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man's proportions.

Booze, broads, and blood. Embroiled in a fractured subsistence. Not even seeking completion anymore. What could be said of our predilection for alcohol was also true of our prurient penchant for pussy of the populace; took some getting used to but merited the neck craning, back breaking, cock-jarring discharge. And there simply wasn't enough vampire vadge to go around. Restraining the need for blood, crushing the monumental capacity that made us want to rip through flesh and bone and tissue to veins during orgasm… no doubt it was easier to go at it full throttle with a mate of our own making, but it was that much less of a thrill and held no bragging rights. Mortal women were much more gracious, especially sweet talkin' G-R-I-T-S, and I was not talkin' about the ecru-colored, limp, watery, grainy foodstuff either. I was all about Girls Raised in the South and I could nail and rail them for days on end! Giving new meaning to Southern Comfort, these gentile ladies were most thankful. Demure and hot, sweet and wild, it boggled the mind that the men they were used to could not get their heads around the idea of a slow, long, hard fuck. What was the fuckin' cuntnundrum?

On partaking of real blood in the very rare instance and parlaying before the splayed legs of fragile women on a nightly basis, I let it all ride. I didn't have a Christ complex, crucifixion wouldn't kill me anyway. What was the point of guilt when you could sin at will, love forever and feel nothing? Fucking enlivened me, booze deadened me. They were my own personal brand of uppers and downers.

Salvation? That was for mortals and whackjobs.

For the here and now, in Mama Brown's I was all about salivating and slavering over Bella. And I'd yet to hear her skipping little heartbeat.

In Bella's stead, Rose strode about the room that was lit by pathetic Tiffany-style reproductions caked in soot, sticky expectorate, and holding the skeletal see-through wings and desiccated bodies of moths and flies in the plasti-glass pseudo-leaded bowls. Hot and haughty, primitive and regal, this statuesque vampire waitressed the shit outta' Mama Brown's and scooped up dollar bills like a stripper working a pole, when all she did was serve coffee, cold lager, steaming apple pie with a swish of her sinuous hips. This cock and twat tease, verbally sparring and physically fisting each other between her and Emmett was getting goddamn old. I wished they'd just fuck already.

Bouncing the black, round tray against her unbreakable hip, sticking her tongue out at Chief Mother-Fuck Charlie Swan behind his back, and then sliding her sub-zero fingers up his arm so that he twitched and tilted in his aluminum, beer-sticky chair, Rose deigned to make another pass at us, knowing full well that even though we wished to order no food, Em would soon cause another ruckus if she didn't make an appearance.

Gleefully, I watched the theater of Rose and Emmett unfold. Nearly tearing up the cracked, off-kilter, yellowed linoleum and on the warpath, her honey-blond high ponytail swaying in a long, thick, rope-like braid, Rose could definitely give Em a run for his money.

Halting before Emmett, hands on perfect hips, hopping from foot-to-foot in a perfect imitation of the frailer race, "I swear to all that is unholy, Emmett, if you call me Betty one more time, I'll rip your cock off and feed it to the hogs out back!" As if they heard that siren's temptation, those very pigs tussled against the rear door of the diner and squealed vigorously! Poor sad piggies, little did they know that they were being fed-up for the next pork-pulling. A good old spit-roasting was nigh in their futures.

I leant back on the rear legs of my chair and smirked at her audacity. Nuthin' better than a little showdown to break up the monotony of my day!

A raging bitch with killing instincts, Rose continued with a sneer that smacked of superiority, "First of all, asshole, every time you call me Betty I am bombarded with images of Ugly fucking Betty! And if that's what you think of me, then this," she reached forward lightning fast and tugged hard on Emmett's dick… we both flinched, "And this," Rose stood straight up, model tall and proud to cup her denim-clothed crotch through the tiny, frayed, worn cut-offs that were a Mama's prerequisite, Thank you, Mama Brown!, so that me, Em, and every other man in the joint groaned collectively and loudly until Emmett cut us all off with a harsh growl, leaning forward to catch her next words, "Will never fucking meet, Bubba!" She sneered and swayed away.

Emmett massaged his abused meat, I imagined it as road kill under Rose's vice-like grip, and smiled goofily. His thoughts: Aaaah, hope springs eternal. Fucking Emmett, the undead woman of his dreams had just threatened his family jewels, and he thought she was proposing marriage!

Jumping from his tiny seat so that it toppled over, Emmett raced up behind the retreating Rose and grabbed for her ass. Dickhead was truly asking for trouble! Swiveling around before he even made contact, Rose cuffed him hard across his ear, "Fuckin' swine!"

Emmett guffawed his way back to our table. All jaunty and satisfied, sighing, "She sure is purty." As if that bit of repartee was the stuff his wet non-dreams were made of. Caveman clearly thought he was still in the Paleolithic era.

"Way to go, Bubba," I muttered with a smirk. That rapidly disintegrated as the longed-for sound and tripping tempo of light soles I'd been awaiting for approached the table next to us.

My palms would have been sweating were there anything other than toxin coursing through me. All that poison did was jet down to my cock and harden me instantly. My non-beating heart would have pounded. My head did spin. And I still could not hear a word within hers. Bracing myself, struggling to maintain my composure all the while decomposing, I lifted my eyes first over slim feet in worn flip-flops, creamy calves and battered knees and plush thighs. Curvy hips and a waist that would easily be encased within my hands. Up her ribs, over her round, high, not-too-big tits. That neck–that fucking neck!–that I wanted to lick and stroke up and down… I swallowed a throat full of poison! Her face was turned towards me even while she set down steaming bowls of Beaufort Stew, in front of the truck drivers. Beaufort Spew, the lowcountry's favorite delicacy, was filled with smoked sausage, pink shrimp, corn on the cob and baby potatoes and was enough to make me shudder. As if simple fare itself was not repulsive enough.

Shivering with Bella's proximity, the heat of which propelled over the untouchable, previously unreachable plains of my snowy being, I tuned out the licentious thoughts of the disgustingly unkempt, beer-bellied, truck-skunk-skanks so I could tune into her. Pouty lips trembling into a smile, revealing perfect, tiny, pearly whites. Suck-me, full-sized, glossy, fruity, bitten-red lips that I wanted to suck on. Then up to her eyes. Opened, widened, unblinking, staring, wondering, with a tinge of terror. Good, she needed to be scared of me! Toasty fucking Bambi-brown with flecks of shimmering gold and a hint of ebullience. How those delectable orbs would heat up and melt while I fucked her, first softly and then hard! Dazzling this Miss Bella, entrenching her in my gaze, holding her still, reading only her pounding heart that fluttered the flimsy, filmy, white short-sleeved blouse that taunted my wanting-to-tear hands, I sped again to her mouth and slowly licked my own lips, watching the gasp and gathering of tiny beads of sweat that trickled down her neck and into the slight swells of her cleavage.

That, my brother, is how you trap your prey.

Hours later, minutes and seconds that had crawled by with tortoise-like, torturous, infinitesimal slowness, surrounded by more minutiae of creating the reenactment of a life, Emmett, myself and Jazz were back at the house. No more than a look and entangled feeling of lust had passed between me and Bella. No words spoken. No thoughts divined. No one else understood the depravity and longing this witchy woman entangled about me. And nobody knew that she alone held a fortress of her mind, barbed and barren against my omniscient talents.

That I had observed Bella, heard her voice, seen her trip and traipse and flail with all of her awkwardness that met grace and substantial sensuality, and still had not said two words to her, rankled me. Painted me as a pussy. A sadomasochistic voyeur. A sucker. A bloodsucker. A sick motherfucker. Her Circe's blood was less tempting, her minge much more so. And the secreted wanderings of her mind that were suggested at through the shuffle of effervescence and dimness of her dolorous eyes mocked me. Talked to me silently. Called my name. Would not allow me my previous imperviousness.

This was but the end of an interminable day for the people we surrounded ourselves with, and just the beginning of our infinite nighttime.

As Dylan said, the times they were a-changing, and not solely because of Bella. I continued to hold my cards close to my chest, not breathing a word of this upcoming upheaval to Jazz. I'd sensed her and she'd seen us. In our stagnant cesspool, inhabiting this stifling trailer on the edge of the snake infested swamp. Waiting. Watching. Biding her time. Jazz in her sights.


A time of reckoning was near. The winds were blowing from a different direction.

Stale and unmoving, immobile for too many decades, we were about to experience something I was not prepared for. Had I possessed one drop of civilized feeling I would have been scared. I should have been.

I shook these unbidden thoughts from my mind and focused on the now. I was good at that. At this. We were off to trailblaze the forest and hunt the creatures of the night. Good ol' boys with good ol' toys!

"Don't forget to cut out the lights," I hollered.

"When the fuck'd you get so concerned about the electric bill?"

"Everyone should be concerned about the wasting of our world's finite resources, Bubba."