Just The Tip

Just The Tip

By

Brennan Barrett and Caitríona Ó’Briain

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Brennan Barrett 2016

ISBN: (Electronic Print) 978-0-9918332-8-3 

Dedication:

This book is dedicated to a loyal reader who was almost lost to us after a massive heart attack, or should I say, was lost to us for several minutes. Thanks to her indomitable spirit and the efforts of dedicated first responders, she is still with us today. Her doctor told her she would have to give up a few bad habits if she wanted to remain with us here on this mortal plane. I made a promise that if she followed her doctor’s orders diligently, I would dedicate my next novel to her.

Stacey Herbst — though I have never met you in person, your support and inspiration has meant a lot to me. Thank you for surviving. This book is dedicated to you.

Author’s note:

Sometimes the characters in my books plague my dreams. Sometimes they plague me in person. Be that as it may, I must still follow protocol and add the following disclaimer.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters in this book are completely fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional. Also, Cat insisted on the original spelling of her name as co-author. I will continue to insist that she is completely fictional. Really, I’m not kidding.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be sold or given to other people without purchase or permission by the author or publisher. If you would like to share this book with someone, please visit the publisher and purchase additional copies. If you are reading this book and have not received it as a gift or purchased it from a licensed reseller, please visit a reseller that offers my book and purchase a legal copy. Thank you for respecting my hard work as a writer.

Cover designed by Brennan Barrett ©2016

Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Dedication

Epilogue

About the Author

Thanks

Other Books by Brennan Barrett

Contact

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Just The Tip

Chapter 1

You show me a woman who doesn't like shopping, and I'll show you a woman that has let down the sisterhood. If there was one thing that could possibly compare to shopping for shoes, it would be shopping for men. That's really all online dating is. Dress it up any way you want, but the honest fact of the matter was that for any woman who started an online profile and began the hunt, online dating was a form of shopping for men. As your carefully manicured fingernails tapped the keys, row after row of faces with attached sales pitches would appear. The carefully chosen teaser photos were as shameless a tactic as putting a cute puppy in the front window of a pet store.

Never let a woman mislead you into thinking that we're looking for true love. First and foremost: we’re shopping. We have categories. Oooh, that one there is a 'catch and release’. Oops, move along! That one's a keeper - not ready for a keeper yet! Then the next one is a 'special occasion perv.' We actually like the special occasion pervs now and then. I know, right? Of course we're all looking for that unicorn - the perfect dreamy 'catch and release' that magically turns into a 'keeper.' Why do we do this crap to ourselves? We all know that we will wear our fingers down to nubs, constantly searching for sweet release with an adventurous fling until, in a moment of weakness, we stumble across a picture and profile of a nice guy and grumble to ourselves, Well, at least this guy looks like I can trust him.

That's where I separate from the hunting pack of my sisters. Oh, I still cake on the war paint and brave the annoying pinch of the venerable push-up bra, but I'm a monster and I need to eat. When I say, Well, at least I can trust this one. I'm looking at the profile of a guy that hasn't mentioned family once. I want that profile to scream 'Date Rape!' because I'm looking for someone who won't be missed. Sometimes I loose my temper.

The thing you have to keep in mind about 'Nice Guys' and 'Funny Guys' is that they usually have friends. They have friends because they are nice, and because you have to actually like people to go to the trouble of learning how to make them laugh. I love a guy who can make me laugh. I also avoid them like the plague because I might end up eating them one day, and honestly, my heart couldn't take it.

I became a Vampire just as I was about to turn fifteen. That was a mixed blessing. Mixed in that I could make my food feel safe until it was time to feed, but I had to spend a lot of time and effort on looking older. ‘Why older?,’ you might ask. Well, because I chose men that had been away from the nest long enough to sever ties. If things went bad - which they sometimes did - I didn't want someone to come looking for them until I had moved on and changed my identity.

I don't have to kill every time I feed. Most times, I can take just enough blood to keep me healthy or knock a guy out. The problem is that with the guys I choose, some of them are real monsters too, and I have to finish my dinner before it finishes me.

There's a lot of bullshit out there about Vampires. The turning into mist thing actually throws me into a fit of giggles. We can't turn into bats either. That's just fucking stupid. Where would the extra mass go? I'm not embarrassed to admit that I weigh exactly one hundred and twenty-three pounds. That's a big fucking bat! Do you honestly think that a bat that big is going to go unnoticed in an urban environment? Think streetlights; light pollution. Pfft.

I kind of wish the levitation thing worked though. I'd probably wait for nights when Salem's Lot was on as a late night rerun and hover outside the windows of chubby little boys. Tap tap tap, Let me in... Tap tap tap... Let me in. That thought never ceased to make me giggle like an idiot. Thank god I had a sense of humour! If I weren't blessed with my wacky sense of humour, I'd have caught the madness decades ago. Oops, that's dating me a bit, isn't it?

Yeah, I'm not fifteen anymore. When I was young, you caught sickness. Like catching a cold or a plague. Insanity, cancer, liver disease - those were all things you caught. We didn't understand sickness all that well back then. Things are different now. Science and medicine are awesome! If I take a fall and break an arm, I can go to a friendly doctor and have the bone set. No one has any bright ideas of sawing the damn thing off or using leeches. No one tells you to cut a damn potato in half and bandage it to your chest, sloppy side down, when you have a cough. I had to be careful about blood tests though. One sample of my blood sent to a modern lab, and I'd be strapped to a stainless steel table deep underground in some shady military installation faster than you could say 'live dissection.'

I didn't come over on the Mayflower; I'm not from old money, and I have to work to earn a living. Well, not really work - I'm a trust fund kid. But I had to earn the money to leave myself a trust fund. I have to stick to a budget just like any other modern Vampire. That's assuming there are any more like me.

Anyway, you can forget about all the special powers. I'm fast though. And I mean crazy fast. I also heal just as fast as I can move. If I ever broke an arm, I could hack the cast off myself in a day or two. A hairline fracture would heal overnight. Bullet wounds didn't even leave scars that lasted more than a couple weeks. What's the downside to that, right? There was some mention of a mixed blessing. Seventy-five years, that's what. Seventy-five fucking years of being flat-chested. Did I mention that I age very slowly? I was just starting to bloom when my friend Miriam and her brother Colm had decided that they had to visit the Gypsy Fair. Fucking dirty Gypsies!

I can't really blame everything on the Gypsies. They aren't entirely blameless though. They're nomads, the whole lot of them. They travel constantly, and their caravans are usually one big extended family. They pick up loners and drifters that travel with them for a time, and as long as those people mind their manners and follow the family rules, it's all sunshine and fat babies. There's no problem stealing from those who come to visit the tinkers and craftsmen though, or those foolish enough to be drawn by the nightly revelry and music. Don't touch the family but feel free to nibble on a fifteen year old girl who hasn't even started wrapping her breasts yet. Fucking Gypsies.

My old dad had always warned us kids about Gypsy ways. Never let them get you inside one of their wagons. Dad actually called them caravans, which worked for a single wagon or the whole lot. Don't share their drink, dad had often said. One of his favourites was, Never bring more than enough money to have your fortune read or buy a trinket. The more they steal from you, the more they might feel the need to hide your body.

We always thought our folks had so many warnings against the Gypsies because they were afraid we would rather join a Gypsy caravan than milk goats every morning. I still wish I had listened to my old dad. I'd be dead now, of old age or the influenza that had claimed my parents. But I would have died human, not a monster. I didn't listen though. Miriam and Colm had gone to have their fortunes read while I went to look at the wares the Tinkers had laid out to swindle patrons with. By swindle, I meant that every little charm, necklace, and bracelet was exorbitantly priced because of the supposed 'Gypsy Magic' it contained.

I like that one, I had said to the wizened old man who smoked a handmade pipe that stained one side of his beard and the fingers he coddled it with.

Very special, that one, the old man said. Strong protection magic in that charm.

Sir, I said meekly. You and I know that there's no real magic. The English priests would burn every single wagon you had if they suspected a real witch amongst you, I said with a wry smile. It is very fetching though, and the craftsmanship is high. I will gladly pay you half a copper for it.

But three coppers is the price, the old man wheedled. Surely you would pay two?

But there is no magic in it, and that is the only reason you ask for three coppers, I said with the same sly smile. Only this time, my smile was brighter to show I respected his bartering skills.

Alas, you may speak true, the old man agreed. For you, two coppers.

We went back and forth like that for a while. Your bartering skill must be near as grand as your tin-smithy, I cooed. My father would be so displeased with me if I easily fell prey to your obvious charms, good sir. I should withdraw my offer of a half copper so as not to tarnish your honour as such a skilled trader and save my old dad from the trouble taking the belt to me.

A smile brightened the old man's face. He knew he'd been beaten fairly but he had enjoyed himself during our bargaining.

To save your father the trouble, one copper then, the old man said with a smile. I know how my shoulders ache when it rains, and it is never a pleasure to punish a child you love. Oh, the sly old dog, he had me there. It was a good and fair price though.

How could I not agree to a fair price, from a man who is concerned for my old dad, I said in defeat.

Let me choose a good thong that we may use to hang my work around your pretty neck, the old man said. Consider it a gift. I smiled because I didn't realize he might as well have screamed 'Dinner!' when he said 'pretty neck.' Fucking Gypsies. A little heads up might have been nice. Anything, like, Hey, we don't really know this guy so don't let him get you alone. Of course, back in those days, a girl like me wasn't expecting the charms of a Vampire. Did I mention we have charms? No? Well, we do. I don't know if it's chemical or magical or maybe just the look of hunger in our eyes that people mistake for sexual attraction. It works like a hot damn though. I can charm a little or I can charm a lot.

You'll have to excuse my mouth. My mother and father took great pains to raise me properly. We were good and godly folk. But let me tell you: push-up bras, the Internet, Starbucks, and fast food - they change you. You have no idea how oppressive it was to be a woman in those times. The only thing that could possibly have made it worse would be being Black or Irish. I was Irish. In fact, the song being played by a rousing Gypsy band at that very moment was a rabble-rousing tale of brave Jacobites defending Limerick against the forces of William III of England. It had been popular for about a year now. We Irish could fight; by God, we could fight. But it was a losing battle against greater forces that chipped away at our country, generation after generation. That, and the fact that the entire country could never agree on a cause long enough to unite.

My very own losing battle was about to start. The dinner bell chime of the words 'pretty neck' had rung, and suddenly there was a very pretty young man standing beside me. No sooner had I tucked the shiny new bauble beneath the neckline of my simple dress, when I noticed my face heating. I hadn't yet turned to regard the man, hadn't laid eyes upon him, yet my cheeks were already burning. The moment our eyes met I was lost. My small budding breasts tightened, I felt a strange growing need - not quite a pain - between my thighs.

Koiné, the young man said. I call him a young man though he was obviously elder to me at that tender age.

You a Manx man then? I asked, his name was Southern but his Gaelic was accented.

Aye, he said shyly. Are you here with your ma and da?

No, just friends having their fortunes read.

Are you fond of the music? Koiné asked as he put an arm around my shoulders and walked me away from the tinker who wore a scowl.

Men prefer songs of fighting and bravery, I said and then blushed as I added, Women prefer songs of love. Koiné looked into my eyes, and I couldn't feel the ground beneath my feet. Suddenly I found myself inside one of the colourful Gypsy wagons. I was on my back with my underclothes around my knees and hadn't even remembered stepping into the wagon. A word to the wise: get your virginity out of the way before a Vampire decides to finger-bang you. We usually have our hunger under control, but sometimes the smell of blood, mixed with a healthy dose of sexual tension, can put us over the edge.

It wasn't entirely Koiné's fault. I was fifteen and should have been married off by now. My older brother had gone off to seek adventure on a big ship that braved the seas and my father, though proud, wasn't stupid. Until a sizeable dowry was in the offering, I was a working hand that well knew her way around the farm. Nine younger brothers and sisters helped, but the oldest was five years my junior and not yet fit to take over my duties. Koiné hadn't expected to crush a maidenhead in his lust. He stared at the blood on his fingers with a mixture of surprise and horror for a moment while his nostrils flared, and his eyes became like two black pools. I didn't even see him move, but suddenly I felt the force of his mouth on my neck. I didn't feel the fangs pierce my skin, but I felt my heart quicken. Strangely, I wanted him even more.

There was only one moment of actual fear, and that was when the peal of a smith's hammer against an anvil distracted Koiné. He pulled away from my neck and looked around as if coming out of a haze. Stupidly, I cooed and arched my hips toward him. Fuck, I was horny! When he turned his gaze back toward me, his face was stretched, the fangs were large, and his hunger was not for the fruit of my soft girlish body. The charm I had bought just moments ago felt like a hot coal at the base of my throat. It hissed when his chin touched it as he bit into my neck a second time. Suddenly his head rocked against my neck, and he rolled limply off of me.

Quickly child, the old tinker said, reaching a hand out to me, before he wakes.

I was so embarrassed that I thought to pull my knickers up before I even considered running from the wagon and the man who had just attacked me. I was certain that I must be blushing all the way down to my belly. Buried in that embarrassing moment was the clue as to how we spread the disease. I'm not sure that disease is even the right term for it. Vampires have fangs; we all know that. What almost no one knows is that those fangs are like a snake's fangs. They're hollow. We don't drink blood, we suck it out through a very handy pair of straws that look solid from the front but actually have an opening in them that is a lot like a hypodermic needle. You suck to feed. Inhaling is a better description of what it feels like. If you reverse the flow, the venom comes out. I didn't even know I had venom until I got righteously pissed off two decades later, but that's another story.

Whatever the old man had used up against the back of Koiné's head had delivered just enough of the boy's venom to turn me. Yay team, and fuck me. I don't even remember the old man leading me by the hand to my waiting friends. I barely remember them berating me all the way home. My head had already started to buzz from the venom, and the buzzing was so loud I can still remember being amazed that Miriam and Colm hadn't taken me directly to a priest.

I wasn't too dazed to realize that I was standing on the path to the front door of our little farmhouse. Miriam and Colm were bidding their goodbyes and vowing to keep my secret, should I at least have the decency to amend my lowly ways. With a sigh, I decided to put one foot in front of the other and plod towards the familiar dome shaped building with its welcoming sod roof and gentle wisps of smoke rising from the chimney. If you remember the movie The Hobbit and the Shire that the little Hobbit came from, then you know exactly what my home looked like. The movie just didn't share the constant smell of goat and chicken shit.

Caitríona, how was the fair? My mother called as she heard me enter. That woman had ears like a hunting dog! For those of you who don't speak Gaelic, Caitríona is pretty much the same thing as Catherine. That's my name whenever I can use it safely. Thank god they didn't name me Dubhchobhliagh after my grandmother. It's actually a pretty name once you realize that bh is a v sound. It almost sounds Russian. I've swapped out the old spelling of my surname for the new O' Brien, and honestly, I was never really sold on Catholicism. I guess that would make more sense to you if you lived in that time.

It was grand, ma, I mumbled.

You sound out of sorts, ma said with a stifled laugh. You didn't have your purse-strings cut by some nimble fingered Gypsy, did you? Since the flight of the Earls in my Grandmother's time, what was left of the Irish folk were a fairly pragmatic lot. No matter what you went through, if you survived, it was a lesson learned and called for a drink. My mother and father, along with their parents, had escaped the brutality of Oliver Cromwell simply by being so far south. While half to two-thirds of the Irish people were brutally murdered, thousands upon thousands were sold into slavery.

Strangely enough, we went to many of the same destinations that the Blacks taken from the Dark Continent did: the West Indies and the British colonies in the New World. The next time you hear a Jamaican accent, just think of an African slave being taught English by an Irish slave. Groovy huh?

I've my purse right where it was when I left, ma, I called as I unlaced my boots by the front door and pulled on the calf-skin slippers grandmother had made for me.

Did you waste your few coppers on a Gypsy fortune teller or something pretty? My mother asked as I came into the kitchen.

I bought a charm. Some mark of the old gods, I suspect, but it is fetching, I admitted. My mother bent and looked at the charm.

What's happened to your neck, dear?

A boy, I said with a sly smile that belied the buzzing in my ears that had finally decided to fade. He got a bit frisk and hot in the loins.

Then he should not have ruined his chances by biting you, my mother said in a conversational tone that made me blush as bright as a freshly cut beet.

That's not what ruined his chances, I said with a smile. The old tinker that sold me this charm caught him a good one up the back of his head. Mother snorted with laughter then sighed.

Oh, dear, you should be worrying over children of your own by now, Ma said wistfully.

None of boys that come round with father's friends are half as pretty as the boy I met today, I said with a sigh.

What was his name? Mother asked.

Koiné, but he sounded like a Manxman, I replied.

They're all a bit odd from that island, mother said knowingly. Your charm has the look of the Tuatha to it, but you'll have to ask your father.

Ask her father what? Da said as he came in the back door backwards, knocking his boots together before pulling his slippers out from under his arm. He protested out loud as much as his old bones did while he fought against the thick woolen socks