by John White

Created on: November 24, 2010

(Jessica wrapped her arms around Bo’s waist, pressed the side of her face against his chest and cried muffled sobs, her tears staining his starched shirt. Bo hugged back, comforting the confused cheerleader, his broad shoulders blocking her body from passersby along Stone Street. He moved her hair off her shoulder, exposing the alabaster sheen of her thin neck, her flesh soft where he had kissed it so many times.

“Bo. I’m so sorry,” she said, so softly he hardly heard. “I can’t—I can’t see you anymore.”

“Is it because of him?” Bo asked.

“No—No. That’s not it. Don’t you understand? I—I can’t love you. I don’t love you. I’m so sorry.”

Her long, blond hair had draped back across her shoulder. He pulled gently on it, once again exposing the lovely neck. He grinned widely, almost a grimace, his bright white fangs creeping slowly out of the gums, stretching long and sharp, touching his lower lip. Minute drops of blood dripped out the tips, and onto Jessica’s silk shirt.

“I don’t want you to love me, Jessica,” Bo said. “I want you to join me.”

He bit down hard into the base of her neck and sucked, then gulped blood, the excess dripping from his mouth. Jessica looked at first like she might scream, then closed her eyes and smiled.

She was his now. Now—and forever.)

*

Amanda stopped typing, rolled over onto her back, her feet knocking an oversized hotel pillow off the bed, and sighed deeply.

She’d finished her latest novel. Fifth in a series of young adult vampire books that would rock the publishing industry to its knees. This one was her best in the continuing saga of a coming-of-age vampire who fights a constant battle between his sexual urges and his bloodlust.

Bo Cadence. The name that would soon on everyone’s lips from nine to ninety-nine years old. He’d be the next Harry Potter and Amanda R. Proust, the next Rowling. All Amanda needed was a break, a chance to get her five manuscripts out into the public and then bask in the limelight, the fame, the money.

She looked up at the alarm clock. 8:45. She hadn’t noticed it was dark. How long had she been writing? Three, four hours? Tomorrow was the first day of the writer’s conference but she always liked to arrive a day early, just as she had at the twenty-seven other writer’s conferences she had attended so far that year.

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