"Did the rose guy come today?" Melissa asked Melinda, who sat behind her.

  Melinda hadn't left yet, though she lingered in the shadows, not eager to draw attention. Sometimes, she waited for Melissa so they could leave together; other times, she left early. They weren't the only receptionists. Three other tables lined the first floor, and each of the upper floors had their own. It was a convenient arrangement.

  "I didn't see him. Maybe you'll be lucky," Melinda replied. The gallery wasn't just filled with paintings-it had flowers, too, which helped attract more customers. The rose guy was a mystery. No one knew his name, but he always came to their table, especially when Melissa was on shift, and bought a bouquet of roses.

  Melissa was smitten, though Melinda never missed an opportunity to tease her, saying the man was probably buying the roses for his girlfriend, or worse, his wife. Of course, Melissa dismissed the notion, saying, "Not everyone who buys roses has a spouse."

  By the time the clock struck eight, Melinda gathered her things and prepared to leave. She gave Melissa a warm hug and a light kiss on the cheek before heading out.

  "Goodnight," she nodded to the guardsmen, offering a soft smile as she slipped out of the gallery. She loved the place-it was her sanctuary-and the work was rewarding, both financially and personally.

  Melinda adored art. She loved gazing at the paintings, though she never dared to paint herself. She knew how, but every time she thought of picking up a brush, dread overtook her. Whatever she painted would be a disaster, not in the endearing "you-can-do-better" way, but a grotesque, unholy mess. The thought of it twisted her insides. He was ruining her mind, her hands-ruining everything, and she knew it.

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  She wandered into a tavern not far from the gallery, taking her usual seat at the bar. The bartender, familiar with her presence, gave her a nod. Melinda's relationship with alcohol was one of quiet escape. No matter how much she drank, however, the buzz of intoxication never seemed to come. She wondered if *he* had a hand in that, too.

  A jug of flavored beer was set before her. She downed the first, then the second, and by the third, she felt the usual pull, the urge to find a man to satiate the fire smoldering within her. It was routine by now. Every time *he* came, all he left were whispers in her mind and the burn of desire on her skin, never offering her the release she craved. No amount of her own touch could quell it. Only a man could, at least for a while.

  She scanned the tavern, her eyes settling on a handsome man-a human. She had only slept with two men before: one was the bartender, her first, though she couldn't say that with certainty, and the second, a vampire. This third man seemed like a fitting choice. He had been watching her, as had many others, most already entangled with women either on their laps or...otherwise engaged by sucking them off. It was an adult tavern, after all. The sights weren't shocking here.

  Melissa had hated this place when Melinda first brought her. Though, to both their surprise, they'd seen the rose guy here once. Melissa had been utterly confused, feeling a strange sense of betrayal despite never even having had a real conversation with him.

  Melinda slid into the chair beside the man, catching his gaze as it remained locked on her face.

  "Melinda," she said, offering a sweet smile. She could almost feel the man's heartbeat quicken at her words. Men were predictable that way.

  "George," he replied, biting his lip in what he clearly thought was a seductive gesture. Melinda didn't care for the pretense. She wasn't here for that. She had a singular goal, and she wanted to get it over with. "You're beautiful," George added, though it was clear he already knew she frequented the tavern.

  "Want to hit it off?" she asked plainly, watching his eyes glaze over in eager anticipation. Of course he wanted to. She hadn't even needed to ask. She rose from her stool, taking his hand, and led him toward the stairs, where rooms waited for precisely what they were about to do.

  "You're bold," George remarked as they ascended. "Most girls I know are too shy to ask first."

  "That's the difference," she said, a smirk playing on her lips. "I'm not a girl-I'm a woman."

  They climbed the final flight of stairs, nearing the top. George, perhaps eager to reach her, hurried to catch up. But just as his hand reached for her, his foot caught on the edge of a step. He slipped, his balance lost, and tumbled down the staircase. Melinda stood frozen at the top, watching as he fell, his body crumpling violently with each step until he reache

  d the bottom, still and lifeless.