1976 — Manhattan, New York
The street was filled with punk rock kids, drug addicts, and supernatural beings trying to forget who they were. Witches and warlocks, werewolves that preferred the busy life of the city than the lonely woods, vampires that enjoyed the city lights and no longer missed the sun. It was the playground of the rebellious humans and supernatural beings. One of those supernatural was Damon Salvatore, who was feeding on a drunken woman in the alley by Billy's.
His chin and neck were covered in blood, a smirk decorating his scarlet coloured lips. Small droplets fell to the ground like rubies, creating a ripple effect on the blood that decorated the ground by the girl's body. She had died three minutes into his feeding, slumping over and feeling like dead weight. If anyone passed by, they would think that Damon was only kissing her neck, not feeding.
"I think that's enough for now," a voice joined him. Damon turned to see one of his good friends, a young vampire named Thomas. He was newly turned, not even a century old. "Why don't we go to The Ground?"
"The Ground," Damon repeated, licking his lips to get whatever blood was left. "Isn't that the club where you met that girl? You know, the one you killed like a week ago."
"Nancy, yeah," Thomas nodded, smiling. "I want to meet another bunny."
"A bunny," Damon repeated. "Yeah, why not? I'm still hungry."
The Ground was a club that would be packed with punk rock kids and alcoholics waiting to hear music on the weekends. On the weekdays, they would have jazz, bluegrass, and the occasional country kid that wanted to become the next Johnny Cash. But, the weekends were filled with The Ramones, Patti Smith, and Television rocking out to their most known hits and the fans moshing to them. Damon had been there before, mostly on the weekends, and he enjoyed the chaos in that small venue that allowed him to drink from how many people he desired.
The Ground was packed for The Ramones, one of the biggest bands since they had début earlier in the year, and some local band that was opening for them, Talking Heads. Damon compelled the bouncer to let him and Thomas in, and he went straight to he bar as soon as his booted feet hit the soft floor. Behind the bar, were two people serving alcohol. A man that seemed tired of having to tell the underage kids that they couldn't drink, but then would give in when they slid a twenty to him. And then, Damon saw her. Curled dark brown hair that looked almost like black, soft green eyes that reminded him a lot of happy moments, and red lips painted a soft scarlet colour that wasn't too red.
She was mixing some cocktail, laughing at something the man in front of her was saying. He could see, and hear, that her smile was forced. As soon as she served the man his drink, she moved to another order. Beer after beer, cocktail after cocktail, cherry after cherry, she moved with a smile on her lips and a laugh ready to burst from her throat. It was as if all of her doings were planned; her own personal play in the opposite side of the stage.
Damon marched to the bar, laid a hand on the man that had the cocktail, and pulled him out of the seat. He took a seat, then, and began to tap his fingers against the cool and slightly sticky counter. The man laid a hand on his shoulder, trying to lift him up from the seat. Damon turned to the man, and immediately compelled him to leave, both him and the bar, alone. The man nodded, and left without a second glance back or a word. When Damon turned back to the bar, the woman was already in front of him.
"Well, aren't you a cool cat," she told him, smiling. He knew she was talking about how he just made the man leave with no fighting. "What's your poison?"
"Surprise me," he said, giving her a soft smirk and a wink.
"Well..." She turned and reached for a bottle behind her. "How about a glass of bourbon?"
"Bourbon, eh?" Damon looked at the bottle, raising a brow. "How much will it cost me, huh?"
"On the house," she said as she served him. "I've seen you around before, and you're a large contribution to our revenue."
"Are you calling me an alcoholic?" he asked her, surprised at her bluntness yet so amused. No one had spoken to him like that, not even Thomas or the other vampires he'd met since he came to New York. It was surprising, but also alleviating.
"I'm calling you fun," she said. She winked then turned, ready to go to another costumer.
"I'm Damon," he stopped her. "Damon Salvatore."
The woman looked at him for a few seconds, before letting a small smirk appear around his lips. "Freya," she told him. "I'm Freya Beauchene."
"Well, Freya Beauchene—" he raised his glass in her direction, "—thanks for the drink."
"Any time," she smiled, "Damon." It was as if she were tasting his name on her tongue, trying to figure out whether it was sweet or sour. It didn't taste sweet or sour, it tasted astringent. His name tasted strong and bitter, as if it were once sweet.
The beginning of a song pulled a large majority of the crowd by the bar to the crowd by the stage. Even though the music was just beginning, there were a lot of people that wanted to be in front when The Ramones began to play. They were a brand new band from the UK, but they were immediately loved by the rebellious punk rockers of New York and the US.
Damon tapped his feet to the sound of the local band, nodding his head to the rhythm and scanning the room for another possible meal. Countless of people getting wasted and the main act had yet to appear, but that made it easier for him to feed. There were women watching him, seductively dancing to the song to catch his attention. When he looked, they would move even more seductively. But, Damon wasn't interested in that, he was interested on whether they were his favourite blood type.
He turned and faced the bar, his ice blue eyes colliding with the soft green ones of the bartender. Her eyes remind him of a child's water-colour painting, how in their haste to paint all the grass they add too much water to the green and it comes out that subdued shade.
"So, Cool Cat," she began, moving to him with a rag between her hands, "what's your story?"
"My story?" Damon raised a brow as he swirled the drink in his glass.
"You're story," she nodded. "Hot guy coming to the bar every weekend for numerous glasses of alcohol, good music, and leaves with a different girl each night. Either you're depressed or you're a really fun guy."
"It's a fun-fest being with me," he said as he sent her a wink.
"Is that an invitation to try it out?" she arched a brow and looked at him. She had a lopsided grin on her lips, one that made the vampire stare and admire.
"How about if after the show ends, you and I get out of here?" He tilted his head to the side and smirked at her. She would be his meal, and he couldn't wait to taste her.
Freya looked at him, and then let out a soft laugh that sounded like a song to Damon's ears. "I don't kiss on the first date," she told him, wiping the counter in front of them. "That smirk and those blue eyes don't work on me."
"Really?" he chuckled. "It's worked on every other girl."
"Yeah, well, we're not all alike," she told him, smiling. "I prefer green eyes."
"Why?" he asked, staring into her eyes. "What's so beautiful about green eyes?"
"The colour of springtime ferns, the colour of freshly cut grass, the colour of pond scum, the colour of autumn carrot tops, the green of the first spring leaves on a plum tree." Freya smiled and looked down at the rag between her fingers.
"Poetic," Damon commented with a nod. "Are you always poetic, Freya?" He loved the way her name felt coming from his lips, sweet like candy yet tart like a soda pop.
"Depends," she shrugged. "Sometimes I'm vague."
Although there was one of the most amazing bands playing behind him, he spent his night talking to the dark haired girl. He made jokes and caused her to laugh, he drank the drinks she served him, he slowly felt his humanity arise from deep inside of him with each passing moment with the bartender. As she spoke, he wanted nothing more than to sink his teeth on her neck and drink her dry. But, due to the amount of people around him, he stopped himself.
It came to the point where he got desperate. He looked at Freya and forced a smile. "How about you give me your number and I'll call you?"
"Hmm," she hummed. "I don't give out my number on the first date."
"So, is this a first date?" Damon smirked, raising a brow. "How will I contact you, Freya?"
"I'm in the books," she told him with a shrug of her shoulders. She referred to the phone books, the yellow pages that were kept by the phone in everyone's home. "Or you can keep coming back."
"You just want my money."
"A girl's gotta make a living," she winked. "I work every day except Wednesdays and Sundays." She tapped the counter with her knuckles, the smile widening around her lips, and walked away from him.
Damon kept his eyes on her retrieving back, watching her hips move carefully as she moved. As soon as she began to talk to another costumer, he stood and compelled a girl to follow him. It was the same alley as before, the one where the other girl was dead. He fed on the girl he brought from the ground, enjoying the blood. All while he drank, his mind raced with the smiling face of Freya Beauchene, the bartender that caught his interest the moment she locked eyes with him.
He wondered why didn't he compel her to follow him, why didn't he immediately attack her jugular and drank her blood. Maybe it was because she served him drinks on the house, or maybe it was because she reminded him of his humanity. Freya seemed to be full of life, full of smiles and stories, and maybe that was why Damon didn't want to drink from her. He wanted to get to know her, so he made a plan to reappear at The Ground on Tuesday.