Blood Money

If walking the streets at night is suicide, then suicide is just part of my job.
I'm standing on a sidewalk in downtown Hell, leaning against a brick building like it's there to comfort me in the night. Tonight is a depressive, ready-to-kill-yourself night like any other, and my surroundings are perfect mood material. Scattered lampposts highlight a dingy, dirty street that nobody with good intentions and common sense wants anything to do with. Other women stand at different points on the street like hard-used mannequins on the world's least glamorous shop window. Goods for sale, to any man or woman with enough hard-earned money and desperation.
Yes, as you might have guessed, I happen to be one of them. And needless to say, these mean streets don't scare me anymore. It's been a long time since they did. This slice of downtown grime is my workplace, and the work I do takes precedent over any junkie horror story you or your friends could throw at me.
I look around at the others, for my own amusement more than anything else. Movies like to make prostitutes look like supermodels, because the great male fantasy demands nothing less. But the reality is that half of us wouldn't be fit for a runway if you gave us first class plane tickets. The prettiest ones are young; the depression, anxiety, self-deprecation and ensuing drug habits that tend to come with the job have only just started for them. Once you get past a certain age, the cocaine and Xanax that keeps you going at night starts to catch up with you.
I guess you could say I'm different, though. Age hasn't tainted me the way it has the rest of these poor and unfortunate women. My skin is fair, if a bit on the pale side, and my hair hasn't quite lost its sleek black tone yet. I'm modern-day L.A.'s own Bettie Page, complete with that slash of scarlet across my lips that the men of her day could never resist.
The other ones my age wish they were like me, if only out of jealousy. None of them realize what it takes to stay looking as good as I do. If they did, they'd quit trying.
It's not long before I catch sight of a car cruising down the street. It's a very standard-looking Honda, inconspicuous anywhere else. But it's obvious from way the driver is letting it crawl across the asphalt that "inconspicuous" isn't what they're going for right now. They want to be seen. They're begging to be seen. No points for guessing why.
I'm walking towards the car before I even realize I've moved. I've done this song and dance enough times. The motions are always the same. 'Soon as you see the fish, you cast the bait', as my father once said.
Don't bother asking what he thinks of my profession. He's not around anymore. His opinion doesn't matter.
I stop by his driverside window and lean forward, giving him a good look at what he's here for. I look him up and down as I do. He looks young, handsome and healthy enough, and he's dressed nicer than most of the traffic that comes rolling into this part of town. He's a new face, too. I can't help wondering how he managed to avoid getting robbed before he made it here.
Not a cop, either. The faint smell of weed in his car tells me that much. Not that he's remotely carrying himself like an undercover officer, but you can never be too sure.
He'll do. Yes, he'll do just fine.
"You looking for a date?" I say in the most inviting voice I can conjure up. I know what he's looking for. It's just a formality.
"Something like that." he responds. I notice he smirks a little when he talks. "How much?"
"If you have to ask..."
"I don't, but I'm curious. You don't exactly look cheap."
"Neither do you, Curious. We doing this, or what?"
That smirk of his widens just a bit. "Get in. We can talk money on the way."

Mr. Curious drives us to a low-rent motel in Inglewood, just off Century Boulevard. My customers always take me to the nicest places. I make sure to avoid talking to anyone once while we're outside. Trust me when I say, I don't get paid enough to have roadside conversations with Inglewood's brand of panhandlers and crackheads.
Once we have our room at the motel, my customer of the hour seems plenty eager to get there. Let's just say that "talking money" turned out to be a more engaging experience for him than you might think. I have a way with words. It comes with what I am.
He opens the door and I walk into the room first, setting my handbag on a table near the front of the room. The place is about as barebones as I would expect from a motel in the ghetto. There's a chair, a bed that I'm sure many other hookers have been on at one time or another, a bedside table with a cheap lamp on it, a microwave that sits in place of a stove, and a small cathode-ray television that's likely to be older than this entire building.
My companion follows me in, flicks the light on and shuts the door behind him.
"Alright..." he says "Let me see you get those clothes off."
And then I smile, because that's not what I'm here for.
I turn around to face him, very deliberately. He starts to say something (I assume it's "What do you think you're doing?" or something similar), but my eyes meet his, and suddenly he's lost his ability to speak. I start to close the distance between us, keeping his gaze held with my own. Then I stop right in front of him and keep staring into his eyes for a good few seconds or more.
My hands come up to his face, and the transfixion in his eyes grows more and more apparent by the second. I can feel my smile widening now.
I reach behind his head and pull him back, just enough to expose his neck. And then my fangs come out.

...

Two hours later, I can still feel his blood coursing through me. It's my own personal coke and wine cocktail, perking me up and getting me buzzed. My mood is already improved. I don't even mind the fact that I'm in the ghetto anymore.
The man who just provided my newest meal? He's passed out on the bed. Like all the rest, I made sure not to kill him. Dead customers are bad for business.
I count his money. Three hundred dollars is a little more than what he agreed to pay me, but he won't remember that. None of my customers remember what really happens when they pick me up off the street. When he wakes up tomorrow, he'll recall a blissful night of no-holds-barred sex with one of the most stunning prostitutes he ever laid eyes on. One that was worth every last penny he spent.
And then he'll come back. They always come back.
I get my handbag off the table and put his money inside. Then I leave the motel and start making my way back downtown. The night is still young, and I'd like to reel in a few more before the sun rises.
Even dead girls have to make a living, after all.