Donovan fisted his hand and knocked on the steel door. One, two, three bangs on the windowless entryway. A tiny hole opened and a voice growled.
"Password?" The Warehouse on Sixth Street was the only place this side of the Rio Grande a man like Donovan could go to get what he wanted. Whatever a vamp’s thirst, this joint had just the right mix to quench it. Orders of all shapes and sizes were taken, entrées were made to order.
"Cowboy." Donovan hissed. The word changed every night, but this one wasn’t hard for him to remember. The word cowboy described exactly what he wanted tonight.
The red metal door swung open and a mountainous man took Donovan’s fifty bucks. The Warehouse had the highest cover charge in the Lone Star State's capital. But it was well worth it.
The long hallway that led to the inner sanctum of the club was dark as midnight except for the running blue light along the edges of the floor. The lights flickered, blinking on and off to the rhythm of a good old country and western tune. All my exes live in Texas crooned George Straight.
Anticipating what he hoped awaited him, Donovan strode with confidence into a classically decorated dancehall. The cavernous room didn't always look the same, but tonight the tavern was decked out in full kicker regalia. A bar glowing with fluorescent beer signs lined one wall and a stage lined another. Rows of tables and chairs stood off the sides of a large dance area. The floor was covered in a thin layer of sawdust, to soak up the beer and other fluids.
Donovan walked to the bar and ordered a drink. "Bud."
The bartender sat down a cold, frothy glass. "What’s good tonight?" Donovan asked.
"We got just about everything." He smiled. Donovan was one of his regular customers.
"It’s Friday," Donovan said with a smirk.
"Yeah," said the bartender.
"I want my regular."
"Yeah." The bartender pointed across the room.
Donovan took two long swigs of his beer and followed the dude’s finger with his eyes. Near the edge of the stage, he saw what he'd come here for.
Donovan had dressed the part tonight, in a crisp button-up shirt and faded Levis. But the guy standing in the shadows had Donovan beat.
His long blond hair was pulled back in a slick ponytail visible under his black Stetson. He wore a tight black t-shirt tucked into a pair of skin tight black Wranglers themselves tucked inside a weathered pair of steel toed boots.
Donovan’s mouth watered and his fangs extended.
