UNLEASHED - a Valentine's Anthology

Vampire Story

We slide into the plush booth, and our server expertly pops the cork and fills the three flutes, leaving the open bottle in a bucket of ice that seems to have magically appeared. Along with a tasteful array of tapas and other small bites, served on a silver tray.

"That's the good stuff," Natalie says, studying the label on the bottle, then lifting a glass to her lips for her first sip.

I'm wondering why he didn't send four glasses, since he's obviously planning to join us. Maybe champagne isn't his drink of choice, at least for himself. It's not mine, either, but I appreciate its style. And the bubbles feel cool on my throat.

I glance back at the bar and don't see him, so he must be on his way over. I scan the crowd, but there are just too many people.

Natalie and Morgan are already on their second glass of champagne and doing serious damage to the platter, but I'm taking my time, savoring the feel of the sparkling wine on my lips, my throat, sampling morsels of the salty and the sweet while contemplating what kind of reception to give our benefactor when he shows up.

Not that his gesture isn't appreciated, but it was also presumptuous. Morgan and Natalie don't seem to mind. But if he thinks any of us are going to be spending the night with him just because he dropped $1000 on champagne and a booth, he's going to be disappointed.

"We should do something for Valentine's Day," Morgan is saying. "Since we're all single this year."

I shift my attention back to the conversation. The guy with the dangerous eyes still hasn't shown up and I'm starting to wonder if maybe he isn't coming over. But how weird would that be?

"We should come over to your condo for a pajama party, Lena." Natalie smiles at me over her champagne flute. "You've got that kick ass sound system and the biggest screen. Morgan can make her killer sangria and we'll watch movies and eat popcorn and chocolate all night."

"Hmm. I don't know," Morgan says, as our server comes back, lifts a card from her tray, and sets it down in front of me, simply says from the gentleman, and leaves. "Lena might have a date."

I pick it up and the three of us stare at it. It's a black card on expensive stock, with just a name printed in burgundy on the front.

"Miles Belmont," I read, then flip the card over. The other side is blank.

"That's weird," Morgan says. "I mean, how are you supposed to get in touch with him?"

"I guess he'll have to find me."

And something tells me he will.

* * *

I have no time to think about the mysterious man in black. I'm consumed for days - maybe weeks, as I've lost all track of time - with the need to paint, and I barely come out of my condo. The rest of the world disappears.

Then I'm just done, the canvases are leaned up against the wall, each more disturbing than the last. Images filled with dark power. The last one is the one I can't take my eyes off. Something about it pulls at me, draws me in.

I take a clean drop cloth and cover it, but I still know it's there. Suddenly my Upper East Side condo, with its coveted view of Central Park, is closing in on me. I strip off my clothes, leaving them behind me in a trail on my way to a hot shower. Then I pull on a pair of jeans and a loose, silky t-shirt, clip my damp hair up in a messy bun, shrug into my classic long wool coat, and slide my feet into flat-soled ankle boots that are good for walking.

I'm close to both the Guggenheim and the Met. Today I choose the former. I pass by the exhibitions of contemporary artists on the lower ramps of the rotunda, then take my time studying the reverse chronology of the Vasily Kandinsky exhibit.