FIC: Moonlighting (1/2)

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MOONLIGHTING


"This is never going to work," said Mick. He lay stretched out on the
bed, arms pillowed behind his head, eyes closed in an expression of
bliss, and every muscle in his body relaxed.

"No love, of course not," Roxanne responded cheerfully. He felt her
warm breasts brush his chest as she leaned across him to pluck cigarette
and lighter from the bedside cabinet where they lay scattered. She
balanced an ashtray delicately on his chest, and leaning forward, lit a
cigarette.

Lying beside her, Mick's eyes followed the curve of her backbone from
his prone position on the bed. He reached out an arm and idly traced
the outline of the cobweb tattooed on her shoulder.

To his more than slight amazement, things were working out so far. Boy
meets vampire, he thought. Who would ever believe it?

There was much of her that he couldn't reach. He suspected that her
whole mind was slightly alien in some ways. He had learned quickly that
there were some matters that were best left alone; some things that she
didn't talk about, some topics that he did not pursue. He suspected
that he would not like the answers that she might give, and the whole
relationship seemed so fragile. One day at a time, he thought; just
take it one day at a time.

"You working tonight?" he asked at length, wrenching his thoughts away
from that line of thought.

"'Fraid so," she sighed, turning to look at him. She smiled. "Life's a
bitch, then you die. After that it gets complicated."

He watched the play of muscles visible on her pale body as she took a
long drag, before passing the cigarette to him. There was not an ounce
of fat on her body. Hardly surprising considering her diet, he thought.
Not that this made her particularly attractive; she was a bit too thin
to be pretty, unless you went for the clothes peg figure designed to
sell high fashion, were anorexia equalled perfection. Strange how the
women you liked in real life rarely resembled what you would design into
your "ideal woman."  

"A girl's got to pay the rent," she said brightly, climbing past him.
She stepped over the pile of discarded clothing on the floor and dragged
out a pair of faded jeans.

"The bastard's put me on the early shift again; and this is about the
only time of year I can go out while the shops are open. Ah well, at
least it means I'll be able to make it to the pub for last orders."

She turned back to him, took a last drag from the proffered cigarette,
and stubbed it out. "Do you think they've sussed about us yet?"

"You know what that place is like," he replied, shifting the ashtray
back to the cabinet. "The moment they see us talking together, they'll
have us married off."

She pulled on a big black mohair jumper, and moved to where he lay.
Planting a small kiss on his nose, she said "Well, we'd better just give
them something worth talking about then, won't we?"

He pulled her down until their lips met. After several seconds of
unbridled passion, she pulled away breathlessly: "I'll be late! Save it
for later," and picking up her heavy leather jacket, she headed for the
door, pausing briefly before she ducked out of sight to throw him a
"Bye, love."

The sound of feet on the stairs receded, and shortly he heard the front
door bang shut. Silence descended.

* * *

Roxanne was working these nights at a 24 hour petrol station. It was a
pretty dull job most of the time, basically involving pressing buttons
on a board that switched on the pumps when a customer drove in, and
taking money. She usually worked the late shift, but sometimes, as
tonight, she was compelled to work the early evening shift, when the
station shop would be open too. This was okay during the winter months,
but it was going to be a problem if she kept the job for any length of
time.

She always felt a little put out that Unlike vampires of myth (or on
TV), she didn't have the vast fortune that seemed to come with the
territory, so she had to work for a living. But then she didn't have
the opera cape either. It was not that she needed a great deal of
money. She didn't have the major expense of food to worry about; but
she still had bills to pay. During high summer she could hardly go out
at all, and there wasn't much in the way of career prospects for someone
who only worked the night shift.

She arrived at the petrol station with minutes to spare, only to be
greeted by D.G. Stevens, supervisor and all round pain in the neck.

"I thought you were never coming," he said. Whether this was an attempt
at humour or a suggestion of disapproval was hard to tell, as he spoke
in the same whiney monotone he always used.  

"The switch on number four's a bit dicky, so make sure it clicks when
you switch off."

He headed for the door, "And don't forget to get all the stuff in when
you lock up the shop at nine o'clock. That's Nine P.M. and not before,
all right?"

"Yes, Mr. Stevens." she said dutifully, when what she actually felt like
saying was "Curl up and die, you patronising shit-head." She consoled
herself by making faces at his disappearing back. She draped her jacket
over the back of the seat behind the counter and settled into it before
turning to the rack of cigarette packets behind her. She selected a
pack of 'Dunhill luxury length' and maliciously tore through the
wrapping. She stuck a cigarette in her mouth defiantly and fumbled in
her pockets for a light. Defrauding her employers to this small extent
might not actually cause the man any grief himself, but it made her feel
better.

She spent the next ten minutes composing a letter in her head to the
Coca-Cola company, informing them that their machine outside was full of
Pepsi, and imagined the response; it was probably a hanging offence in
the U.S. of A. Then she dismissed the small minded bore from her mind
and pulled a tatty paperback out of her jacket. When she was on the
late shift she usually had her personal stereo for company, but this
early there would be too many customers. She had barely found her place
in the book before a car pulled up onto the forecourt. Her first boring
customer of the boring evening.

* * *

The big news down at "The Five Bells" that evening was that Pavlovian
Bitch had got a session on the local radio station. Much conjecture was
going on about this leading to a big record deal, and how they'd look on
"Top of the Pops." Euan, behind the bar, was speculating colourfully
that all this success would go to their heads despite, or possibly
because of the fact that their lead singer, Sheba, was currently getting
newted in the front bar to celebrate the occasion.

Mick poled up to the pub about 8 o'clock, having popped home to grab
some beans on toast and to pick up the other love of his life, a 1966
500cc Triumph Daytona. It was daft really, since it meant that he'd
have to watch his drinking, but it had seemed like a good idea at the
time. And anyway, he hadn't yet given Roxy a spin on the bike.

He hadn't spotted any of his particular mates as he settled himself
comfortably with a pint that was going to have to last the evening. The
jukebox was hammering out "I don't like Mondays," which made a change
from "Silver Machine." Even the beer didn't taste too bad, and he was
looking forward to the stir he planned to cause when Roxy turned up.
What with one thing and another, Mick was pretty content with life this
evening.

He had just begun to consider why a state-of-the-art CD juke box with
600 tracks chose to only ever play the same three or four songs when he
heard a welcome voice behind him.

"So, the wanderer returns. Shift yer bum, Kolanski."

Mick moved the pair of crash helmets beside him out of the way, and the
smartly dressed biker plonked a pint of beer down on the table before
taking the seat next to him.

"Wotcher, Steph," responded Mick, raising his glass in greeting.  

"Do tell. What have you been up to for the last couple of weeks? I
expect a blow-by-blow account." Steph brushed blonde curls out of his
eyes, which immediately fell back into place, and looked at Mick
meaningfully before continuing, "Could it be that you've been otherwise
engaged?"

Mick groaned inwardly. He couldn't believe how quickly word got round
this place. At which point Mark turned up with his girlfriend, Toni
(short for Antonia;) not that they were liable to contribute much to the
conversation, they usually spent their time like siamese twins -
permanently joined at the lips. It was a wonder that they had room to
drink anything.

Steph attempted to pump him for intimate details of his recent absence,
but Mick wasn't about to explain that he had spent the last fortnight in
bed with the Vampire lady. Even so, he couldn't help dropping the odd
hint that they were in for a surprise in the not to distant future.
Steph was soon side-tracked into giving an account of his educational
weekend with the Johnson twins, an unusual pair of girls who apparently
shared everything.

The odd thing about Steph's outrageous tales of conquest was that as far
as it was ever possible to determine, they were all true. If anything,
he tended to play them down rather than exaggerate. Some people just
had the knack.

Keef arrived and asked if Mick had seen anything of Karol, who was
apparently looking for him. Mick suspected that he really didn't need
her to find him, considering what had happened last time. Shortly
thereafter, everyone dashed out to watch the prospective megastar throw
up in the gutter, the drink having gone to her head, whatever success
might do in the future. All in all, it was business as usual.

* * *


A fragment of Night
Falls corvidly Earthwards
A star in her eye