One ( Aaron Hunter)

[Vega]

Jose had brought Vega some new dresses, per instruction of Ambrose. They were all intricately made, of the finest material. The color choice was black, per usual. Vega never liked to stand out, blending in was what she did. She knew what Ambrose expected of her… go and find others that could add benefit to the bloodline. She knew the night that she was made vampire, that this was her charge.

Vega left the warehouse, that night with a purpose. To find one that could benefit both the family and her. She was witness to her own turning and a participant in two others. What she would normally find as ritualistic and vile, as a human...she has now come to accept. Through violence comes enlightenment. Ambrose wanted to help save those that needed saving…he wanted to create a family, one that was strong and unified. She wanted the same and to prove to him that she could do this.

Walking along the streets of the city, Vega passed by many that she could have easily taken. She knew that her strength and skill were at a high point, and growing by the day. As she walked, she noticed that no one paid her any mind…the occasional heckle from the drunk and a few up and down gazes from men that could be her father, all meaningless to her. Vega crossed the street and headed to what she assumed was a bar. The noise from the band and the groups of people out front were tell-tale signs. Vega knew that someone in there was the one…she felt it in her gut. Vega entered the doorway to the bar and was almost overcome by the smoke and loud noise coming from a stage at the back of the bar. She slowly made her way to the back of the bar…and that is where she saw him. He reminded her of someone…but Vega could not quite recall who. This was the one. She said to herself. Vega saw an empty seat aside of the stage and sat down...her eyes never leaving his. He was the drummer...and as she watched him play, she saw the aggression he used as he hit each drum.

[Aaron Hunter]

Beads of sweat dripped down onto the toms and snare drum like tiny pearls from a necklace with a broken clasp. They jumped back up from the taut skins like miniature salmon as the Zildjian drumsticks mercilessly crashed down upon them over and over again. It was a battery of noise, a sonic assault, as the drummer pounded out an uncompromising rhythm with his powerful arms, his ring-clad fingers gripping tightly onto the sticks as if his life depended on it. His black t-shirt, adorned with the cover of the “London Calling” album by The Clash, was soaking wet and clung to his toned torso like cling film. Strands of thick dark hair obscured most of the musician’s face, but the intensity was embossed across his features. His gritted teeth were just about visible beneath his mane and displayed an aggressive streak, and his feet were like jackhammers as they bounced on the pedals for the bass drum and hi-hat. His playing was relentless as he dominated the kit, beating it into submission until the song ground to an abrupt end and the alcohol-fuelled audience bust into applause. Arching his spine backwards and rolling his shoulders around, the heartbeat of the band shuffled on his stool then raised both arms above his head, tapping out a familiar “2, 3, 4” which introduced the next bass-driven track.

Aaron Hunter was only playing his second gig as drummer with the unimaginatively titled band, Breaking Bad. Their named summed them up perfectly. They lacked creativity, gladly copying others rather than constructing their own style; they were always in danger of splitting up due to constant infighting; and they were downright terrible! Aaron was only filling in for the band’s regular drummer, Joey, who had broken his wrist after stumbling out of a nightclub following one too many late night shots of tequila. The band’s name, and general musical direction, was not really to Aaron’s liking, but he was just glad to be drumming again, and to feel like he actually had a purpose in life. Since moving to Harper Rock about three months earlier, Aaron had scraped by on limited cash earned from dead end jobs like changing the barrels in pubs and clubs, or running errands for local shop-owners. Getting a few extra bucks from a percentage of the night’s door takings was a welcomed bonus. The guys in Breaking Bad were never going to be his real friends; they were just a distraction. His real friends, his true band-mates, were back in LA where Aaron had been living for a dozen or so years. He wasn’t sure if he’d made the right move - Harper Rock was hardly LA – but following the splitting up of Red Light Zone, his band from California, Aaron felt like he’d had the heart ripped out of him. The band was all he really had and its demise left him feeling hollow and empty. At least now he was able to release some of the pent up anger and energy that he had stored inside of his 6’1” frame. His drumming afforded him that escapism.

As the latest tune ended with a guitar flourish, and the receptive crowd let out some over-enthusiastic cheers, Aaron reached down to his right and picked up a crimson coloured towel to mop his perspiring forehead. A few clumps of fluff stuck to the week old stubble that hugged his warm, glowing face as he dried himself. Taking in a few deep breaths, the eagle-eyed skinner scoured the dance floor in front of the stage. The same crowd as always, dressed in black, monochrome, dull. Why was there never anyone different, anyone unusual?

[Vega]

Vega watched him, the way he hit the drums… how he scanned the audience. As if he was looking for someone, yet not really looking at anything. The bar was full of the typical types… some bikers, a few businessmen trying to capture their youth by hanging out a dive bar and then the women. So many women… all dressed as if they were for sale, maybe they were.

Vega closed her eyes and thought back, how she watched her mother work the deal with the men she called “friends”. How they exchanged the cash, sometimes it was more than Vega could imagine, sometimes it seemed next to nothing. Then she recalled how they turned and looked at her, like she was a baby calf and they were the butcher. Vega had no idea that this was not what everyone did, it became her life. She recalls how all of them smelled, what they said and how they moved. It was her life, or so she thought.

Vega’s haze became clearer and her thoughts came back to the drummer and how she could possibly get what she wanted from him. He seemed not to notice her, which was not surprising to Vega. So how could she capture his attention in this sea of skin? Vega stood and retreated to the restroom, she knew what was in her purse and she planned to utilize it. She entered the first stall and locked it behind her, placing her bag upon the hook on the back of the door. She reached in and pulled out something to hold her hair up…she slicked all her hair back and pulled it tightly… then working on making a messy bun from her long black locks. She reached in and pulled out a tube of lip color, that her mother had given her. Crimson red, not a color Vega would have chosen. She put it on her lips, knowing that it would play nicely against her pale skin and dark hair. They always use to comment on her bone structure...always use to say how pretty she was, those men…all of them.

The black dress, with the intricate lacing may have been a tad too formal for a place like this… Vega undressed and used her teeth to rip some of the length from it. It would hit her mid- thigh, perfect. Her teeth, fangs, seemed to have some other uses, besides biting in flesh to feed. Vega knew she could not look in the mirror, watching vampire movies as a child taught her this. This would have to do, she thought to herself… Vega exited the stall as fast as she went in and retreated back to the same seat next to the stage. This time, she made it a point to walk right in front of the stage, only turning to glance at the drummer and offer a small smile. Vega sat and hoped that it was enough, it had to be enough.

[Aaron Hunter]

Only a couple more songs remained on the set list. In true rock ‘n’ rock style, the final two tunes were really upbeat numbers, crowd-pleasers to leave the audience desperate for more, and begging for an encore. Aaron knew that he could give it his all and submerge himself into the musical hot-tub, because in ten minutes time he’d have a cold bottle of beer in his hand rather than a drumstick. A crunching guitar riff bellowed out of the amplifiers like a battalion of tanks launching an assault, and the penultimate song was underway. The audience bounced up and down in unison, driven by a pulsating rhythm underpinned by Aaron’s manic drumming. He was like a man possessed, steam rising from the sweat on his hair and shoulders as he thrashed his drum kit like he were some kind of barbaric medieval torturer, punishing his slave.

Although Breaking Bad was by no means a great band, that was a great song! Aaron exhaled, expelling the last pockets of air from his burning lungs as his head slumped forward and his dark hair tumbled across his face. The punters had been whipped up into a frenzy by the ferocity of the band’s latest offering, and a weary Aaron took a well-earned breather before the final song. He screwed up his eyes and wiped away trickles of salty liquid from his brows, inhaling deeply to replenish much needed oxygen. A pair of intense red lips came into focus as his eyelids reopened, as if some kind of internal radar had subconsciously locked onto them. Were they contoured into the shape of a smile?

It was reasonable to say that Aaron had received his fair share of female attention, particularly back in LA, without ever really being someone to actively seek it out. Sex was fun, but he found music more stimulating. Maybe he just hadn’t met the right woman yet? He was decent enough looking in that rustic rocker kind of way, but being part of a band did seem to add a couple of desirability points to his attractiveness rating. Perhaps people thought that being in a band was glamorous? It probably was once the higher echelons of the music industry had been reached, but a backstreet bar in Harper Rock was hardly Long Beach Arena.

Aaron didn’t really have an opportunity to be distracted by the ruby-lipped rock chick, as the grand finale was about to get underway. He did notice that although her black dress was riding over halfway up her pale thighs, almost inviting glances, the dark-haired woman sat almost prudishly on her chair as if to cover her modesty. She should have been shaking her *** to the music, not sitting down. Maybe she was new to the scene? He could always throw her a drumstick at the end of the gig and see if she moved, but for now he needed to put those sticks to better use and get the group’s last ditty started.

[Vega]

Vega sat as still as a statue, watching the sweaty man work his drums. She turned from him and observed the rest of the scene... a bunch of screaming women, all scantily clad and looking as if they were begging... but begging for what. Vega's purpose for being there was a simple one, to find another that would compliment the line...to bring another in that would not soil the perfection of the family... of HIM.

In that moment Vega closed her eyes, everything else around her became secondary. She knew that this one would be right, she felt it. But how? Her short skirt did not work, nor did the paint that she had applied upon her lips... it did not seem to garner any attention, at least not from him. Curious, it always had before.

Vega recalled how some use to ask her to adorn lipstick... some asked for particular colors, others just merely wanted to watch her put it on. It always struck her as odd... why pay for something and then try to changei it. Maybe it was not the fact that they were trying to change it, just dress it up a bit more for their liking. Either way, Vega did as she was instructed, as she always did in the past.

Upon opening her eyes, she noticed that the crowd was being worked into a frenzy... this must be the finale of sorts. The writhing bodies, the smell of sweat and cheap perfume, made Vega's stomach turn. They were like puppets, dancing to the music... controlled by the sound. Vega still did not move, her body was stiff and rigid as she observed the puppets on the dance floor.

It was then, that she sensed that the finale had reached a crescendo... it was coming to a close and she needed to prepare to make her move. The issue was, her family was not aware that she had left the warehouse, that she had come in search of another... how can she contact them? Vega knew the expectations, that each new one brought into the family had to be brought in by the family...

It was then that Vega heard a loud noise, it was the screams of the female puppets on the dance floor... in that moment Vega turned and looked at her feet, a pair of drumsticks had been thrown and lay almost as if they were meant to be there, at her feet. Vega stayed as still as she had before, only glancing down at the tools of the drummers trade. She did look up at him, and she hoped her gaze would touch his soul... as it had to so many of them in the past.

It took but a few seconds for a group of females to be on the floor, grabbng at the pieces of wood that lay below her... they were actually fighting over them. Were they some prized possesion that she was not aware of? Vega sat still and let the puppets fight... she had other intentions and none of them involved a pair of wooden sticks.

[Aaron Hunter]

Aaron was by no means a rich man, and drumsticks weren’t cheap, yet he routinely threw a set away at the end of every gig. It was like some kind of ritual, a gift to the musical gods for letting him play. Sometimes the gods favoured him and he ended up with a free drink, a phone number, or a forgettable five-minute fumble in a seedy bathroom. On other occasions the gods were clearly angered, like the time he accidently hit a young girl in the face with a stick and her irate boyfriend clambered up onto the stage and landed a powerful fist onto Aaron’s stunned chin. It was a painful lesson to learn as the musical deities released their version of the Kraken.

Aaron wasn’t exactly a skilled ninja, adept at hurling his drumsticks as if they were deadly shuriken, but his aim was at least half decent nowadays. He always targeted the middle of the body, allowing room for error onto the chest or thighs, thus hopefully avoiding any further conflict caused by a rogue stick in the eye. The pseudo circus knife thrower was mildly disappointed with his latest effort. Granted, the woman in his crosshair was sitting down rather than standing like his usual victims, reducing his target area and increasing his margin for error, but still, to miss her completely and have the stick bounce at her feet was a shoddy performance. It was more like throwing a dog a bone than playing Frisbee on Venice Beach. The pack of rabid bitches squabbling for the drumstick-shaped bone made Aaron laugh to himself as he wiped his sweating hands on the crimson towel that lay at the side of his kit. He was pleased to note the absence of any new blisters on his palms and fingers. Drumming was never going to open any doors into manicure modelling. Glancing momentarily at the dark-haired woman who had been the subject of his missile attack, he caught sight of her eyes gazing back at him. She sat still, motionless, even her timid smile was frozen. The allure of her dazzling red lipstick was held in suspended animation as the crowd swirled around her like bees around a hive. Aaron couldn’t determine whether or not she really was a honey-filled hive and he was her intended hungry bear, or that she was simply weird.

A pat on the back with an accompanying cry of “good job” made Aaron turn away from the mystery groupie and look up at the band’s guitarist, Mike. “Great gig tonight!” said Mike enthusiastically as he clenched his fist in triumph. “You played well, dude! Time for a beer!”

That sounded like a great plan. Aaron had watched his mother’s health decline due to a heady cocktail of painkillers, anti-depressants, and alcohol, and had initially steered clear of booze. However, he decided that the failings of his mother would not be his problem, and that he was far more strong-willed than she was. A few beers would not be his undoing, or rule his life. Addiction would not be his master and he would be in control of his own body. The fact that he kind of liked the taste and the buzz was also a contributing factor to his passing over to the “dark side”, as he used to call it.

Within a few seconds of leaving the stage, Aaron was propping himself up by his elbows at the bar with a bottle of Molson in his hand. Icy condensation covered the glass, chilling Aaron’s palm as he brought the neck to his lips. The cool, crisp amber nectar flowed across his parched tongue and down his welcoming throat as he swigged back his drink. Not a bad night, he thought to himself as he gulped down a second mouthful, thoughts of the scarlet-lipped woman slowly fading into the distance.

[Vega]

Vega watched the puppet who had won the wooden sticks, she screamed and jumped up and down, like she was just given the secret of life. Vega was confused over how much joy this woman had shown by simply winning a pair of drumsticks in a cat fight. The dance floor began to clear and she looked back towards the stage and to him. The set was over, it had been the finale. Vega kept her eyes on the drummer, as he made his way to the bar.

Vega sat and did not move. Her mind was working overtime…how to get him back to the warehouse, how to get him close enough so that Ambrose can work his mind magic on him. Bringing one into the family was not a simple task, it required all to be present and to take part. How the **** is she going to do this. She had no mental powers, she had no magic wand…but what she did have, was someone that she had not called upon in years.

The abuse that Vega suffered at a young age, was horrific. It was not something a normal psyche could deal with alone. At about the age of ten, Vega’s mind created something that would protect her and be of assist whenever Vega called upon her. Carmen was born, a protector of sorts…unlike Vega in every way. Carmen was outgoing and she knew how to handle men. Carmen used, with great skill, her body and her femininity to get what she wanted from men. When Vega’s mother brought a new trick to Vega, Carmen would come out from the depths. She knew how to speak to them, how to flirt…she knew how to make them a return customer. Carmen was subtle and never was overly sexual…she kept it subdued, until it was the right time…

It was then, that Carmen rose form her seat and headed to the bar… she headed to reel in the mark. Carmen looked the male up and down, as she walked across the dance floor. He was much taller than she was and had a slim form. His wallet was in his right pocket, his left shoe was untied and his shirt had not been washed in awhile.Carmen approached the male from the left, as in his right hand was a beer.

With one quick move, Carmen was on the seat next to the male, her right hand touching his forearm. “ That was quite a show YOU put on,” she said with a smile. “ Can I buy you something a little stronger than that crap beer?”

Vega was still present, she was the driving force behind Carmen… she was the puppet master.

[Aaron Hunter]

Aaron spluttered as his latest swig of beer ventured down the wrong hole. He coughed, covering his mouth, and turned to face the woman who had startled him and caused his minor mishap.

“This beer is clearly poisonous,” joked Aaron as he cleared his throat, “it’ll be the death of me.”

He knew full well that alcohol would never be the cause of his death. He’d never let it control his body like it had with his mother’s. He’s heard the phrase “demon alcohol” several times. Was it Ozzy Osboune who’d written a song about it? It summed it up nicely. Aaron’s mother had effectively been possessed by a demon, several in fact, with her dependence upon alcohol and prescription drugs. Her son wouldn’t go down that road.

Aaron smiled at the young woman who occupied the bar stool next to him, and was pleasantly surprised to see it was the girl with eye-catching red lips. Her forwardness was a little bemusing to Aaron, as she had seemed so timid during the gig, just sitting there, lacking in any kind of animated enthusiasm. Yet here she was, offering to buy him a drink, laying on the flattery, and getting tactile straight off the bat. Aaron was not necessarily a touchy-feely kind of guy, probably due to the fact that most of the parental contact he had received as child was either the back of his father’s hand, or a comforting hug from his mother following such assaults. Intimacy wasn’t altogether an alien concept to Aaron, far from it, but he enjoyed his personal space and was very weary of those who gatecrashed it without an invitation. He called them “space invaders” and often wished that he could put up some kind of force-field to repel the intruders. However, occasional he’d allow a few individuals the liberty of breaking through the shield without the need to tell them politely to back away. This was one such occasion.

“Thanks for the compliment,” said Aaron, acknowledging her words. “I’m glad that you enjoyed it. It was a good crowd in here tonight.”

He took a final gulp of his beer, holding the bottle upside down for an extra couple of seconds to allow the foamy dregs to flow into his thirty mouth. Placing the empty container gently down onto a sticky beer mat, Aaron swivelled around on the stool to face his admirer. Her hair was black; perfectly typical for the clientele who frequented the bar, and it contrasted her pale skin, which in turn made her crimson lips even more striking. They stood out like burning fires in a snow-covered Arctic tundra. There was something different about her, a story to tell perhaps? Then again, didn’t everyone have a hidden story?

“Hey,” announced Aaron, “I’m not that bothered about another drink just yet, but thanks for the offer. I do fancy a cigarette though. You’re welcome to join me outside?”

Although Aaron was convinced that alcohol wouldn’t lead to his demise, he did think that smoking might play a part. His father hated smoking; he detested it with a passion. Maybe he’d been sent out on too many emergency calls following a clumsy idiot falling asleep holding a cigarette and setting fire to the sofa and curtains? Perhaps it was just the thought of his nemesis, smoke, being wilfully drawn into a person’s lungs that disgusted him so much. In his job as a firefighter, Aaron’s father had constantly battled smoke. It was the deadly enemy that slithered around you, engulfing you, pulling you into the murky grey swamp. The thought of his only son actively allowing the fumes into his body would have him turning in his grave. Aaron occasionally wondered if he smoked just to spite his dead father, but he wasn’t thinking about his father at the moment, he was far more interested in the intriguing woman beside him.

[Vega]

Vega did not enjoy the smell of old tobacco that stuck to all those who smoked. The men that her mother brought into the house smelled that way, like old stale cigarettes and alcohol. She had always wondered what the allure was about drawing poison into one's body. She fought the urge to wrinkle her nose, when he asked her to join him for a smoke...and remembered her goal. This one must become hers...hers, then he would join with the family.

She had sized him up as soon as she met his gaze. His aggression was palatable...the way he hammered at the tools of his trade, his drums. He was scruffy and unkempt but there was something about him that attracted Vega. She recalled that he seemed to scan the crowd continuously as he played his music. Vega had always thought that the drummers watched cues from the lead singer… Carlos had taught her this back in Miami. He was starting a band and he use to talk incessantly about what each member's role was. This one scanned..as if he was searching for something. Vega thought he was looking, maybe, for her.

Carmen obliged the male, though, with the gentlest of smiles. “ I would love to join you… I did not quite catch your name?” Carmen had overheard some of the other band members names, but not his. With one quick movement, she was off the stool. She straightened out the remnants of her shredded dress, that had crept past mid thigh, while she was sitting. Carmen knew how to get attention..and she capitalized on it, every chance she could.

[Aaron Hunter]

Aaron rolled his eyes and gesticulated with his left hand, administering a minor facepalm motion before he spoke. “My apologies,” he said with genuine sincerity, “how rude of me. My name is Aaron.”

He was about to offer his hand in friendship to the dark haired woman but paused, noticing the damp residue on his right palm given to him by the condensation on the beer bottle. Instead, he wiped his hand across his t-shirt and gave his new acquaintance a pleasant smile, nodding towards the empty beer bottle. “Beer and cigarettes!” chuckled Aaron. “I’m such a bad boy!”

Aaron wasn’t a “bad boy”, far from it. Sure, he liked a drink and a smoke, and he once cheated on a girlfriend at high school, but generally, despite his difficult upbringing, he’d turned out to be a half decent kind of guy. He’d been around alcoholism and seen what drugs, even the so-called “safe” prescription kind, could do. Violence and abuse, both mental and physical, were things that had stalked him throughout his youth, but his aggression was always channelled through his drumming or crazy doodles. Maybe he thought that the demon of anger was just waiting to escape and be set free from deep inside of him, that the violence gene was dormant within his soul, waiting to be triggered at any time. Aaron kept things locked away. So far nothing, or nobody, had managed to find the right key to unchain the padlock that kept his inner demons at bay. However, he was well aware that the key must exist… somewhere.

Aaron spun his barstool around and slid off the wooden seat. Turning his neck to look over his shoulder, indicating the direction in which the pair should aim, he laid out his plan. “We should head over there, through the back door,” said Aaron. “It leads to the back alley, which is much better than fighting our way through the crowd to the front door.”

Aaron knew for sure that if the couple headed towards the front door that they’d inevitably be stopped by folk “just wanting a chat”, and that once outside, they’d be amongst the gathering of smokers who were regularly cast out from the building to feed their habit. In a world full of such nasty, vile people, Aaron always found it amusing that smokers had somehow become the greatest social pariahs. Crowds were fine, and Aaron loved socializing, but right now he wanted to spend some more time alone with the intriguing woman who had pretty much thrust herself upon him. There was something strange about her, something different, but Aaron couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The young woman was clearly attractive, but she wasn’t particularly his type. Aaron had spent a lot of time back in LA hanging around with folk from the Hispanic communities, and had plenty of great nights watching the Latino girls shake their butts, but he had always been drawn more towards blondes, and, particularly, fiery redheads. That clichéd Celtic look that Hollywood loved seemed to flick his switch. Yet this woman was incredibly alluring.

Ushering the groupie towards the back door, Aaron couldn’t help but notice that the dress that was riding halfway up her thighs, appeared to have been ripped. Either it was a bold fashion statement, or she had an interesting story to tell. Aaron looked down at his t-shirt showing The Clash’s bassist, Paul Simonon, smashing his Fender bass against the stage in New York. She’d better not try to rip my t-shirt, he thought to himself. I really like this one!