How Not to Date a Vamp (How Not To 4)

How Not to Date a Vamp (How Not To 4)
Stephanie Burke
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Copyright ©2020 Stephanie Burke

It was kind of hard to sing "Cotton Club Blues" when your bassist was muttering about murder and threatening to cosh a six-foot woman with facial hair over the head with his instrument.

After two sets, Barb had had enough. It wouldn't have been so bad if the weather hadn't exercised the Baltimore Rule. If you don't like the weather, wait a minute. It'll change. And boy, did it change. It went from a nice, balmy fall day of about seventy to a winter chill of about forty-five degrees.

She wasn't concerned about her street clothing -- they would be safe inside her dressing room -- but now her pale ass was cold, and there was a decided lack of individuals on the street.

So now she was mixed in with the other poor slobs in Fells Point who were trying to make their way home after an evening of drunken debauchery. Only she was not drunk, not debauched, and was freezing her butt off. So she waved her hand again, bellowing and jumping up and down like a jackrabbit, trying her best to catch the attention of a cabbie who wouldn't think she was about to vomit in his car.

What a life.

She was seriously considering starting to hoof it home in her stilettos when a cab actually pulled up in front of her.

"Thank God!" she gasped, opening the door and pasting a smile on her face. She was about to enter when a voice spoke in her ear -- a very deep, very masculine voice. "Nice dress."

Barb turned around, eyes wide as she looked at the man who had paused to give her such a nice compliment. And smiled.

While standing out on the corner, she had gotten catcalls, offers of solicitation, and a lot of strange looks. But no one had complimented her on the fringed and sequined 1940s-style gown she had made herself.

So, naturally, she preened a little and took the time to check the discerning man out.

And then she deflated a little. Sure, he had one of the sexiest voices she had ever heard outside of a studio, but the guy's whole appearance just screamed nerd.

He was wearing a nice enough full-length black velvet coat, however. The soft looking fabric seemed to envelop his short body almost like a cloak. But that was where the ohhh factor ended. He was wearing a pair of thick, black, square glasses, the kind that never looked good on anyone. His shirt was a blinding white and buttoned up so high it looked like he was choking. The man's jeans were a little too baggy for her taste and looked like they'd come out of the bargain rack at Walmart at least five years ago. And, of all things, he was wearing a red and blue-striped tie. There were some kind of work boots on his feet, and his hair was a tangled, brown mass that covered half of his face.

Okay, forget nerd -- he kind of looked like a serial killer.

"Thanks?" she offered, shaking her head and turning back to the safety of her cab.

"You are welcome." He had an accent of some kind, but it was not really interesting enough to even try and place it.

Barb shrugged, the conversation over in her mind, and made to enter the cab -- just in time to have to door slam shut in her face.

"Hey!" she called out, beating on the window while bending over to see who was being so damn rude. "This is my cab!"

A man in a business suit grinned back at her and waved as he leaned forward and gave the cabbie instructions.

Shrugging, the cabbie hit the gas, tearing off down Ann Street and -- rip!

"Oh, my God!" Barb shrieked as her skin was hit with a sudden blast of cold. The man had not only stolen her cab, but it seemed he had stolen her dress as well.

Her dress had to have gotten caught in the door when the gentleman -- and she was using the term loosely -- hopped inside her rightfully hunted conveyance. The result was that the thin concoction of taffeta and fringe ripped completely off her body and took off down the street with her cab! That left her standing on the corner with nothing on but a nearly see-through French-cut camisole, tap pants, and a pair of heels -- damn her need for authenticity -- with her dress forlornly waving like an abandoned flag as the rear lights disappeared into the night.

"Oh, shit!" she gasped, breaking out of her frozen stupor to take the classic debauched maiden pose of one arm wrapped around her breasts, the other trying to cover her groin as she hunched over.

It was not a pretty picture, she thought as she looked around the dark streets, watching clouds of white puff up with every rapid, frightened, and frustrated breath she took. What the hell as she supposed to do now?

Before she could concoct a plan, something warm and soft wrapped around her shoulders, cloaking her whole body.

She blinked and looked over her shoulder to see nerd boy standing there. He had a concerned look on his face as he carefully wrapped his own coat around her nearly naked body.

"Are you okay?" he asked, stepping up to her, and Barb realized that in her heels she could look him right in the eye. That put him at around five feet six inches tall. It was odd to find a man so short, she decided, but at least he was being a gentleman.

"My dress," she stammered, her bottom lip quivering as she tried to blink back tears.

She had just gotten her dress ripped off her body, her new and most favorite dress, and she was standing on a street corner in her underwear. That was worth at least a tear or two.

"I saw," he said as he began to button the million black buttons that seemed to line the front of his coat. It was almost like a gothic version of a priest's coat, she decided as the scent of the thing teased her nostrils.

He smelled like freshly baked pastries.

"My dress..." she tried again as the man stood up, and she caught a good look at his eyes.

They were so green...