Meet Richie

By Jack Oliver

Meet Richie, a vampire who plays hard and parties harder. Fast cars, luxury apartments, and a taste for the high life—he has it all. Until he encounters Melinda Young at Scarlets Nightclub. Oblivious to the connection she has with two notorious Italian stronghold brothers, Richie is forced into unavoidable conflict and murder. Fleeing to London, England, to avoid the FEDS and the psychotic surviving brother, Roberto Farelli, he meets Kat, a cockney London lass with an attitude, and her brother Vinnie, a time-served, good ole London gangster.

 

As Kat takes Richie under her wing, things get a little uncomfortable as he fights his bloodlust and growing desire for her. Then, after an unexpected freeze on his bank accounts, Richie is plunged into a spiral of dodgy deals, murder, and mayhem, where he soon discovers that the past he thought he'd left behind over 100 years ago is very much alive, and as the past and present collide with bloody consequences, it begs the question - How hard can it be, being a vampire?

 

A humorous, tongue-in-cheek take on the vampire genre, Meet Richie is an action-packed adventure with laugh-out-loud lines, a little horror, and a dash of steamy romance along the way.

 

Book Quotes

 

"Let's get one thing straight, Richie. I don't trust any man that doesn't eat, sleep, shit, or shave like a regular person. It's nothing personal, just a matter of principle, you understand." - Larry

 

"She was the only woman I knew who could drop your pants quicker than a copper with a tube of lube." - Vinnie

 

"Do you mind explaining why I've been dragged out of bed at two in the morning to find my brother hugging his bollocks on the doorstep?" - Kat

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Oliver
• Release date: Mar 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224937783

Book preview

Dedicated to all those who listened, encouraged, and took the time to read. You were the driving force that kept me going.

1

THERE WAS A TIME WHEN I thought life was a simple case of, you’re born, you grow up, keep your nose clean and apply yourself. If you’re lucky, you eventually settle down with someone you love, or at the very least respect, before spending the best part of your senior years reminiscing on the things you didn’t have time to do. All while finger wagging any offspring into not making the same mistakes you’ve made. Before they thank you with a bunch of Begonias on your headstone, as they grieve your eventual departure.

It was a naive and somewhat simplified notion of life, but it was a tried and tested formula that seemed to work for most. Until life throws a proverbial spanner into that presumptuous, narrowminded view of it. Which in my case, arrived in the form of an hourglass figure, platinum blonde hair and a set of sharp, polished canines.

But without getting distracted by a tale of misplaced love, betrayal and murder that would have given Shakespeare sleepless nights, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Richard Black, to those who don’t know me. Or simply Richie to those who do. And although the name isn’t especially important, I find it preferable to blood-pimp, vein-drainer, or sharp toothed son-of-a-bitch with a god complex – a neurotic ex-donor’s preference by the way – which, simply put, means vampire.

Now I realise that might summon all kinds of predetermined notions of a gaunt looking, depressed, solitary sort, with a funny accent, a preference for black and a healthy appetite for blood. But rest assured, I am neither gaunt looking, nor am I depressed. And just for the record, I enjoy reading Bram Stokers, ‘Dracula’ as much as the next person. As for my dress sense, my preference has always been for an immaculately tailored Prada or Gucci number – of which I have several. The only downside, given my unfortunate dependence on blood, is the dry-cleaning bill.

My accent, however, does have a slight Italian tinge to it, despite my British origins, but only from spending the best part of a decade living in what most would consider the fashion capital of the world, Milan.

I can’t deny that life has been good to me here, and after acquiring a healthy portfolio of fast cars, a tastefully adorned apartment, and a wardrobe fit for a king, I have a lifestyle that would put the Kardashian’s to shame. But when you’ve existed as long as I have, you tend to accumulate things. Fortunately for me, one of those things is money.

Knowledge of what to do with money is also something I have acquired over time, and after several profitable investments, here and there, not to mention a keen sense for the stock market, I’ve amassed more than most people could spend in an average, human, lifetime. Which is why I’m the first to admit, being a vampire isn’t all that bad. In fact, to coin an old, southeast London phrase, I’d go as far to say, I’m bloody lovin’ it.

Call it bragging rights, or even arrogance if you will, but in light of the twenty-first century notion of diversity and equality, when vampires are slowly becoming the old-new – or is it the new-old? – I’m not going to pass up on the opportunity to stake my claim, so to speak. Which, as far as those who know me would agree, is something I’m going to do with a sense of style and panache. That said, what better place to begin my tale of downright misadventure than my favourite nocturnal hideout. A place that also happens to be one of the most exclusive hotspots in central Milan, Scarlets nightclub.

Known to most as the heavens, the balcony lounge of Scarlets is considered a first–class ticket to club paradise and comes with all those lavish little extras you’d expect from a first-rate establishment. Aside from the black leather club chairs and couches, my exclusive membership ensures several, overly polite, but tight-lipped, black-tie waiters and bar staff – most of them on first name terms. All for the poultry sum of five hundred Euros a month. A meagre price to pay for the small number of invitation only guests that frequent the place, such as wealthy entrepreneurs, celebrities, and of course the occasional vampire.

That said, in the five years I’ve graced the crimson carpets of the heavens, since Scarlets opened its luxury, velvet–lined doors to the public, I’ve yet to see a famous face I actually recognise, let alone another vampire. But despite the disappointment at not finding a kindred spirit who enjoys the club scene as much as I do, my singularity has awarded me plenty of attention from the living. So, in that respect, I guess the whole solitary, dark and brooding thing does pay off after all. At least, as far as the women go.

Shamelessly displayed on the wall mounted club screen in front of me, I watched dozens of young women, writhing under a haze of neon and strobe lights on the dance floor below – affectionately known as the pit. It was the height of the summer season in Milan. So, while the women paraded around in skimpy dresses, under the watchful eye of big brother, the guys looked on in muscle backs and Bermudas, slick–skinned and smelling of coconut oil. As for myself, I preferred a crisp white shirt, undone at the collar, and my grey Prada suit, which complimented my silver eyes – so I’d been told.

Making myself comfortable on the same couch I occupy most evenings, I popped the cap off my bottle of sparkling Perrier and poured the contents into two, slender wineglasses as the roped barrier to the heavens lifted. I smiled as six, fresh-faced women walked into the lounge, clutching the invite cards they’d earned, after getting down and dirty in the latest club special, Saints and Sinners Saturday – or triple ‘S’ as it was more commonly known. The perk? Free, happy-hour cocktails at the balcony bar for the winners.

It was an event the club owner, Larry Kirkland, had introduced to the lagging Saturday night specials. Almost doubling his club rep and revenue in the past six months, by installing a large club screen and several voting panels in the club chairs. It was a clever way to give the pit punters a taste of the heavens, while his prized, fee-paying professionals – who were mostly men – got to scratch their testosterone filled balls, scoping out the latest club talent. If I hadn’t suggested the idea myself, after several nights of helping out with a few drunken bar brawls, Larry would still be handing out club flyers and free neon wristbands to get the numbers up.

It was one of the reasons Larry liked to keep me around, and despite his reservations about having a vampire in the club – bad juju as far as Larry was concerned – I had my uses, especially when it came to pulling in the punters. After all, what other place could boast about having the only dead guy around who liked to dance.

Tipping a victory toast to the winners, along with several appreciative voting partners, Scarlets finest sauntered past in eye-catching combinations of black leather and red velvet. They strode over to the cocktail bar, their high-heeled confidence turning into nervous giggles as they took their seats, waving their free cocktail passes at Hal – one of Milan’s finest mixologists. I had to admit, after seeing the line-up that Scarlets had on offer tonight, I was tempted to indulge in a little cocktail myself – the hot-blooded blonde and brunette variety of course. But as my preferred drink had yet to arrive, I smiled and took a sip of Perrier instead, taking a moment to enjoy the tingle of carbonated water on my tongue as I indulged in my favourite aperitif.

Donors were easy to come by at Scarlets, and for a modern-day vampire like myself, there was no shortage of women queuing up for a little one-to-one. So many, in fact, I kept a little black notebook, listing my favourites. Like any fine wine menu, it displayed their name, age, and blood type. One for each day of the week, with the weekend slots considered primetime. Fridays were reserved for a tall, leggy redhead named Holly, and on Sunday, it was Felicia, leaving Saturday night free for Candice. A bubbly, twenty-one-year-old, A-negative, with a thing for gum-pops, and someone I affectionately refer to as Candi.

I glanced at my watch as the minutes edged towards midnight. Timekeeping was never Candi’s strongpoint. Even before the late shifts at the Mezzanotte restaurant, where she waitressed, she’d stroll in late. Long before the busy tables and easy tips took their toll on my dinner plans. It was one of the reasons I’d moved my Saturday night slot forward an hour, in the hope of having a better idea of when I’d be punching – or indeed puncturing – my meal-ticket.

As it turned out, all it did was give Candi, the go ahead to fill her apron pockets with enough additional tips to keep her hairstylist busy, while I bore a proverbial hole into the nearest available neck. Which, given my annoying habit of sprouting a couple of hungry canines, now and again, wasn’t ideal. Especially when confronted with chatty, overzealous, members of the Drac-pack. A fan base that Larry encouraged with a range of merchandise, including ‘bite me’ stickers and bat pendants. Items I didn’t endorse on his ‘Richie Rocks the Club’ website. Total members, 87, and rising.

Texting Candi another reminder of her obligation to keep Scarlets bloodless body count down, I put my cell phone back in my pocket, as a brunette at the bar turned and adjusted her seat with a wiggle. From several feet away, I could sense the spike in her heart rate. A strong, rhythmic, pulse that grew more erratic with every passing glance, colouring her cheeks with a healthy flush of blood that no amount of makeup could conceal. Smiling, I wondered if she’d heard the club hype about the man with a sharp smile. Then tipping her a toast, I amused myself with the thought of her reaction if she hadn’t.

Not everyone reacted favourably to the presence of a vampire. Just a friendly introduction had some humans reaching for their black-market tasers, while others satisfied their curiosity with a line of questioning that would put any psychoanalyst to shame. But despite the inconvenience of not quite knowing if my night was going to be filled with an arsenal of police grade pepper spray, or worse, a couch full of curious Georges, armed with questions about a vampire’s prowess in the bedroom – which I always respond to with an offer of a private demonstration – I’d grown accustomed to the attention. And for the most part, it was positive. Especially when coupled with a genuine desire to understand – for want of a better word – my condition. Something I’m always keen to discuss, and occasionally demonstrate, with a crash course to the willing.

Returning the brunettes attention with an honest, but hungry smile, I waited for a response. A flicker of fear in her curious green eyes, or even loathing, given the worrying trend in vampire hate groups. It was one of the reasons I kept my proverbial cards close to my necrotic heart, after a memorable run–in with a vampire slayer, several years ago. Not to mention the Necronymph’s. A term I use to describe a frighteningly determined group of vampire fanatics, whose sole purpose is to spawn the next generation of vampiric rug–rats. It was a ridiculous notion, of course, because as far as vampires are concerned, we don’t usually procreate. But given the general consensus that we’re far from dead below the waist, there’ll always be people on a single-minded mission to find out.

Thankfully, the brunette at the bar showed no obvious signs of fear, loathing, or even nipple clamps for that matter. But in the time it took to decide whether, or not, to recruit a more reliable donor, a familiar smack of bubble-gum erupted beside me.

Sorry I’m late, honey. I couldn’t get a cab, said Candi, sliding onto the sofa smelling of Paella. Then when I finally got here, nature called, and I had to queue to pee. Can you forgive me?

Sporting cropped, blonde hair, that looked permanently windswept, a waif-like, size six figure and a dress sense that was short, tight, and mostly black, Candi took a seat beside me, fresh-faced and as pretty as a nymph, her baby blue eyes gazing apologetically.

It was the reason she’d wrangled her way into my existence in the first place, after getting caught trying to sneak into the heavens behind a posse of last summer’s invitees. It was a sure-fire way to get kicked out of the club by, Steve – the club bouncer people referred to as the Hulk – until her pie-eyed pleas earned her an unscheduled invite. A decision I regretted immediately when the alcohol she’d consumed had her throwing up chunks on the club carpet.

Well, you’re here now, I said, masking my disappointment with a smile as I slid the glass of Perrier over. So, drink up.

Removing her gum, Candi stuck it to the lounge table, picked up the rim-filled glass and tipped an unconvincing, cheers. Then taking a small sip, her attention drifted over to the cocktail bar, where the new invitees were having the time of their lives drinking Cosmopolitans and Margaritas. Sighing, she set the glass down. Just one teeny, tiny black–bat cocktail, p-l-e-a-s-e? she pleaded, despite knowing what my answer would be as she measured out the smallest amount with her thumb and forefinger.

I slid the glass back over. Rules are rules, Candi.

Oh, the rules. How could I forget, she said, slumping back on the sofa with a pout that would make any spoilt child look positively angelic. "Fluid intake constant, an iron rich diet, and above all, no alcohol on donor day," she added, parroting my constant reminders.

You know that alcohol doesn’t agree with me, I reminded her, recalling several years ago, when I topped up my blood count with a willing, but intoxicated donor. One that sent me into a viscous feeding frenzy and left me with one hell of a hangover. Besides, I’m not the only one who can’t handle their alcohol. Grinning, I turned to a lightened patch of red floor carpet, between the sofa and lounge table, where a concoction of cleaning products had left a permanent reminder of Candi’s first visit. And, if I remember correctly, I had to drive you home, dress you, and stay the night. Most of it spent sobering you up, and the rest spent staring at the ‘Vampire Slaying It’ wall poster while you slept. The one that matched your nightshirt.

Thanks for the reminder, Richie, said Candi, mortified. You know the whole vampire slaying thing was a throwback from my teen years, right? Taking another gum–pop from her handbag, Candi removed the wrapper and popped it in her mouth, sucking on it playfully as she glanced at the dishevelled carpet. Besides, I’m not usually that drunk. And I did keep my promise to make it up to you. Several times in fact.

Despite the inconvenience of being left high and dry, more times than I cared to remember, I had to admit Candi’s loyalty was heart-warming, considering she’d have trouble turning up for her own funeral. But there was more to her motivation than Larry’s Saturday night specials and a few bottles of party killing Perrier. My bite carried quite an endorphin high. A kind of evolutionary spin that not only increased the odds of keeping a donor loyal, but one that left them in a lingering state of ecstasy. Something Candi liked to call, ‘The Buzz.’

So, let’s do this, shall we? She said, chewing the soft centre of her gum-pop like a grazing, doe-eyed gazelle, and extending an invitation to dinner that only I understood, she raised her arm.

Hungry after the long wait, I pulled her close, the sound of gum snapping beside me as she offered up her wrist, bracing herself for the inevitable big sting. I held back and teased her with a gentle kiss. Not to ease her anxiety in any way, but to heighten it. A necessity based on the one thing every hungry vampire obsesses over when indulging in a little sanguine satiation. How much blood can I safely consume in one short sitting?

Of course, blood volume and heart rate go hand-in-hand, especially when the body’s natural response to threat kicks in. Tease the donor with a little well-placed anticipation and the blood flows more freely. Take too much and the body goes into shock, pulling the life sustaining liquid deep into its core to keep the vital organs nourished, instead of me. It’s a delicate balance, I admit, but nothing that decades of experience couldn’t tip in my favour. That, and an in-depth knowledge of the human body that would make any seasoned surgeon look like a kid in a high school anatomy class.

Being an insufferable know-it-all had other advantages too. Not only did I have the knowledge to perform an investigative autopsy with my eyes closed, but I also got to know my host very well, including every irrational fear that fuelled their biological engine. Not to mention the ones that occasionally choked it. And when it came to pain, I had the added advantage of knowing a donor’s limits before they did.

As far as Candi was concerned, her central nervous system was the equivalent of London Victoria station at rush hour, following a train wreck. And although that had its advantages, especially when it came to raising the heart rate for a quick feed, it didn’t help when her kneejerk reaction was to spontaneously slap anyone within arm’s length of her. Couple that with her lack of tolerance for the sight of her own blood, and you can imagine the challenges I’ve had to face when attempting what should be a walk in the park for most vampires. Which was a testament to my tolerance for skittish blondes who liked to keep things real by keeling over to kiss Scarlets shagpile from time-to-time.

Son-of-a-bitch, she blurted, raising a few concerned eyebrows from several bystanders as I bit quickly, and perhaps a little too hard, into her wrist. Waving off the unwanted attention with a stiff smile, she popped her gum again. A Black Bat cocktail would have helped, she added, under her breath.

Not if you want to top up your suntan this summer, I said, promptly ending my meal with an appreciative, but apologetic kiss on the back of her hand.

Taking a clean handkerchief from her handbag, Candi wiped the traces of blood from my lips with one of her quizzical looks. Well, you seem to be doing okay with the whole bake while you’re awake thing, she said, wrapping and tying off the small but perfectly formed puncture wounds.

That’s because I’ve had centuries to build up a certain amount of resistance.

My point exactly!

And what point is that? I asked, baffled.

Well, in the same way you’ve built up a resistance to the sun, albeit on a cloudy day. If I have a Black Bat cocktail, each time you’re ready to ring the dinner bell, you could build up a resistance to that too, couldn’t you?

Not without risking a few casualties along the way.

Even with a sip? she asked, hopefully.

I’d rather not take the chance.

Taking the glass of Perrier, Candi carefully inspected the contents. Better make sure no–one spikes my drink then, she grinned.

Which is why I order capped bottles, I told her. Besides, if anyone did happen to top up your drink with something extra, I’d sense it in your blood, long before I tasted it.

Has anyone ever told you how high on the creep-o-meter that is? she said, a little put out.

Frequently, I grinned.

Collecting the bowl of complimentary club mints from the lounge table, Candi smiled like an over enthusiastic air hostess. Speaking of taste, how about a sweetener? She said.

I’m good, I replied, easing back on the sofa as Candi’s gum-pop laced sugar rush took hold. A high that had given me all the sweeteners I needed. Not to mention the urge to put my newfound energy to good use. Removing the blood spotted handkerchief from Candi’s wrist, I carefully examined the bite wound, and pleased to see that it had faded to nothing more than two, silvery mementos of our union, I clicked my fingers at a passing waiter.

Let me guess, input equals output, said Candi, unable to hide her disappointment as a second order of Perrier arrived.

Do I have to force feed it to you? I teased, topping up her half empty glass with a quick recovery drink, in the hope of livening up the rest of the night on the dance floor.

Promises...promises... she said, a little preoccupied with the flatscreen.

Following her cue, I turned to the object of Candi’s attention. Flanked by two imposing men in black suits, an hourglass figured fashionista strode onto the dance floor, wearing a shamelessly short, red dress and red stilettos, her long, booth-tanned, legs and heartbreak-on-the-horizon curves drawing in a hail of catcalls from dozens of male admirers. Who is she? I asked, turning from the flatscreen long enough to catch Candi’s disparaging look.

Obviously trouble, said Candi.

And does trouble go by any other name?

With a long sigh, Candi paused to remember the details – some article she’d read in one of the local newspapers. If you must know, her name’s Melinda Young, she said. She’s some highflying fashion model from Milan and apparently quite the diva. Not only that, she’s a club queen, which means she gets invited to all the trendy dance clubs in the hope she’ll raise their rep. Every club within a fifty-mile radius wants her on their dance floor.

I can see why, I said, watching Melinda casually flick the tie of one of the bodyguards, before leaving a lipstick kiss on the cheek of the other. Both stood like carved totem poles.

So, have you decided where you’re taking me to dinner yet? asked Candi, turning away from Melinda’s all eyes on me display, to remind me of one of my more donor friendly rules – an iron rich steak at some suave out-of-hours restaurant, or leafy greens for the vegetarians and vegans. Reaching into my jacket pocket, she took out my car keys, jingling them to get my attention.

Taking them, I slipped them back in my pocket. Candi knew the score. Our arrangement was never exclusive, and I’d been honest about that from the moment she projectile vomited her way into my existence. Besides, since my regular Tuesday night donor had recently relocated to the sunny state of California, to seek her fortune in the wily world of glamour modelling, I’d been tasked with the job of finding a replacement.

Raincheck? I asked, apologetically, offering to make it up to her as I turned back to the flatscreen.

Fine, she said, But I’m holding you to that. Emptying the bowl of club mints into her handbag, Candi collected her things. How about Luigi’s then? she cooed, planting a farewell kiss on my cheek.

As Candi’s poker face gave in to a wide smile, I laughed. But not because she’d picked one of the most exclusive, out of hours restaurants in central Milan – that was usually a given – but because she’d somehow managed to jack my wallet for the cab ride home.

Luigi’s it is then, I said, returning a fond, but appreciative kiss, and as she descended the lounge steps and left, I turned my attention to the balcony rail, and the writhing pit below me.

2

AS YOU MIGHT EXPECT the depths of hell to be – at least from the perspective of Larry’s perverse and somewhat twisted little mind – the club pit had all the trappings of a second-grade horror movie, minus the bad acting. Tacky to the extreme, the place reeked of retro gothic, with a little funhouse thrown in. Wooden coffin lids with brass name plates (ex-displays that Larry had sourced from the local funeral parlour) had replaced the Formica bar counter, while garish neon flames flickered behind a row of trident backed barstools. Larry had also installed a low–level mist machine, painted flame-licked walls, and a bloody sacrificial alter, which doubled as a D.J podium. And if that wasn’t enough to send you running to nearest chapel to prey for salvation, there was a red, velvet lined podium throne, where he’d placed a grotesque, two-headed, taxidermy goat he’d sourced online – the whereabouts, I didn’t ask.

The bartender, Hal, and the rest of the staff hadn’t escaped Larry’s excessive use of tat either. Forced to wear plastic devil horns every