My Vampire Idol (Shifting Reality 3)

He swore softly. What was he doing? It would be easier to get it over with, to go to them and receive their judgment. But damn it, he didn’t want to. Not yet. He wanted to be left alone for a while. To find some peace before he faced his fate.

He’d had enough of watching Thomas and Saint live out their bliss with their significant others—he didn’t want to sign any autographs and he damn sure didn’t feel the need to kiss the cold, dead ass of some old-world, sissified vampires to be forgiven for his conduct or allowed a quick end.

Hell, he was in a dark mood.

Mac pounded his glass on the bar once to let the bartender know it needed to be refilled. He hadn’t been this maudlin since the decade after he was made.

High-pitched feedback from a microphone on the small stage made him flinch and grit his teeth. He was too old for this shit. He would go out into the desert at dawn and be done with the whole bloody thing, but that was a coward’s path. Mac was many things, but he had never been called a coward. He was just…what had Thomas called him?

Grumpy.

Hunkering down at the bar and attempting to appear as forbidding as possible, he tried to ignore the chipper, female twang that now echoed through the bar. The speaker smelled of canned peaches and Ivory soap. A perky scent for a perky voice.

“Welcome to the first annual Belly Up Jam,” she started, before whooping and causing the microphone to screech again. “Yippee! Oops. Sorry everybody.”

No one responded, enthusiastically or otherwise, and after a moment he could hear the shuffling of papers as she continued, “I can see a lot of people got last minute jitters and decided not to come in spite of all the flyers and hard work everyone put it. Well, shame on them. But the show must go on, right? Besides, I just have a really good feeling that they’ll be pouring in to enter before the contest is over. Maybe after the diner closes down for the night. This is an opportunity to represent our town, after all. And to win money for our school, which everybody knows could sure use some fixing up after that fire.”

Mac’s curiosity got the better of him and he turned on his barstool to look around the room. Including the man whose camera now contributed to the sawdust already coating the floor, there were six people—the skeletal bartender, dressed in a tattered leather vest and sporting a long, bushy beard; the short, plump woman with the dimpled smile currently at the microphone; and four other patrons besides himself. None of them looked as though they were here for a contest.

The woman continued, undeterred. “For those of you who are new here, I’m Jolene. Named after a popular song made famous by the irrepressible Miss Dolly Parton.” She did an impromptu curtsy before moving on. “My husband there, behind the bar, is Hobie. We own this little slice of heaven you’re sitting in, The Belly Up Bar, and we’re also the ones that thought, ‘You know what? Those kids are right. Our town has just as many talented people as anywhere else in the state of Nevada. Some of them could probably use a trophy and a recording contract. Some of them would love to have two hundred and fifty thousand dollars donated to their local school district. Let’s remind the folks way over there in Sin City what we’re made of’.”

One old man in the corner beat his beer mug on the table approvingly, and Jolene beamed. “Thank you, Dickie. So this is how easy it is. Come up here and sing a song. Any song. It can be a cappella,” she lowered her voice. “That means without instruments. Or you can take one of these guitars up here and show us what you’ve got so we can pick a winner and send him or her to Las Vegas to represent our community. Heck, we even rented a karaoke machine for the night. And if you don’t use it, Hobie will.” She winked at her husband who nodded in silent agreement. “He has hidden talents. For example, I bet y’all had no idea that when I met him he was a championship beat-boxer in Reno.”

One of the patrons groaned and Mac felt his lips twitch. He’d had no idea. Hobie didn’t seem the type. He might pay to see something like that before moving on. Who knew? It could put him in a better mood. Nothing really had in at least fifty years, but he was willing to give this a chance.

No one moved or made a sound and Jolene’s dimples disappeared. Mac sensed her emotions wavering, deflating like a balloon with a leak. “Doesn’t anyone want to go first? Dickie? Kip? We won’t judge too harshly, we promise. I’ve heard a few of you sing to the jukebox before. This is no different.”

Silence.

Mac had a sudden urge to leave. Her emotions were so strong they were affecting him. He could feel the waves of disappointment, embarrassment and worry rolling off her, knew she’d been waiting for this night, planning for it, for months. He was unaccountably angry on her behalf. No one deserved to be left hanging out to dry like that. To be made to twist in the wind because other people let you down. He, more than anyone, knew what that was like.

Maybe he’d stop by that diner she’d mentioned and make a few suggestions. His last good deed before he continued on his way, reminding himself for the next decade or so that attachments were for suckers.

He pushed back his stool to stand and his eyebrows lifted in astonishment when a bony hand covered his on the bar. The bartender. People rarely touched him without an invitation. Margo and Ume swore he had a menacing air.

“I paid my bill, Hobie,” Mac growled with extra attention to that menace, in case the man needed a double dose. “What’s the problem?”

“Sing.” Hobie’s voice was low and surprisingly cultured, belying his scraggly appearance. “I have a feeling in my gut that you can. Jolene has pinned all her hopes on tonight. Our young Kip had promised to be the first one on stage to sing something he’d written for his girlfriend. He’s good too, but he must have gotten nervous before he came and swallowed a touch too much liquid courage. He seemed fine a few minutes ago, but now the poor guy is drooling in the corner.”

Mac winced when he glanced over his shoulder to follow Hobie’s line of sight. Kip. The man with the phone. The man whose brain he’d turned to temporary pudding just moments ago. Hell.

Hobie squeezed his hand and Mac could feel him. His emotions might not be as jarring as his wife’s, but they were powerful nonetheless. Determined. He tightened his grip. “Drinks are on me, sir. All night long. I’ll even reopen the kitchen and make you something special, since you look like a man who can appreciate fine cuisine. I studied under a few m

aster chefs in Paris once upon a time. Whatever you want, just help me out. She pinned a lot of hoping on tonight and I can’t stand to see the woman I love cry. I’m sure you understand that, right?”

What was that thing Saint always used to say about his gifts? Damn vampire empathy? Of course he understood. Whether he wanted to or not. And he was hungry. It had been a few days since he’d had any food, any blood, or any reason to want either.

He’d never been a glutton. In fact, resisting temptation was one of his natural gifts—so much so his maker had often expressed jealousy at his restraint. Usually, he was also gifted at staying out of trouble and helping others do the same. Now Hobie wanted him to sing for his supper, so his perky peach-scented wife wouldn’t cry. Jesus, was he that soft a touch? Had all the romance he’d been surrounded by recently ruined him forever?

“Why the hell not?” he muttered, surprised by the words even as he spoke them. He did love music. Always had. There’d been a time he’d been praised for his voice. A time he’d found peace in a melody.

One song before he selfishly abandoned his castle staff and his friends for some much-needed solitude. No one would ever know, unless Dickie had a website no one was aware of or a hidden camera in that strange wandering eye.

He stepped away from the bar and held up his hand. “I’ll sing.”

Jolene shielded her eyes with her plump hand and gasped. “I think we have our first entry for the night! And he’s so handsome. You know I have a thing for men with facial hair. Look out Dickie, you may have some competition for our in-house-hottie contest.”

The old man glared at Mac, his whiskered chin practically touching his nose, his toothless mouth all but disappearing at the offending thought. Mac shook his head. “I think you’re safe, Dickie.”