Last Call: Kamikaze

Last Call: Kamikaze
Moira Rogers
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2008 Moira Rogers

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Zoe Bennett needed to fuck someone.

It was a rather shocking reality, one that alarmed her as she slipped through Last Calls crowded dance floor. Being alarmed by it didnt make it easier to ignore, however. Goosebumps rose on her skin every time a stranger brushed against her. If that stranger happened to be a fellow werewolf -- a male werewolf -- her nipples tightened and she had to fight off a shudder of pure need.

She needed it tonight. Her fingers clenched around the menu shed picked up from next to the door, creasing it as she finally broke free of the writhing mass of bodies clogging the dance floor. She needed it, and nothing -- not shyness, not her natural inhibitions, nothing -- could stop that need. Not now.

Three wide steps from the floor led up to the low platform that held the main attraction of Last Call: a long, slightly curved bar with fifteen stools and a wide corridor behind it. Three more bars crowded against the other walls of the large room, but this was the bar. The bar where the drinks were incidental.

The seats never stayed filled for long. Now they were empty except for the left-most stool, which held a young man with pale skin and sharp looking fangs that he flashed whenever he laughed. His companion, a duskily tanned young woman, leaned closer and ran her tongue along his ear as Zoe watched.

Zoe shivered and set her foot on the lowest step. Nervousness rose, but the need burning in her pushed her up to the second one.

By the third step she could feel the curious stares on her back. She ignored them and closed the distance between herself and the smooth mahogany of the bar. Her hands shook a little as she slapped the menu down and sought the bartenders eyes. I I have an order.

His skin was the same color as the bar, and his smooth, shaved head gleamed under the low light. A small, high-tech looking headset curved over his head, something that looked like it might serve as a microphone as well. He smiled at her and nodded to the crumpled menu in front of her. On or off the menu?

On. She smoothed the menu out and turned it over, her gaze sliding down the list of specials. Last Call house drinks, each with its own meaning. Its own message. And there was only one message she had for the men of the bar tonight. Take me if you can. Kamikaze, please.

He nodded and reached up to tap the side of the headset he wore. His strong, deep voice cut in over the music, filling the bar and attracting the attention of most of its patrons. Last call for the lady in black. Kamikaze, coming up. He released the button and winked at her as the music resumed its previous volume.

Zoe slid onto the stool at the far right of the bar and struggled not to look at the dance floor as the bartender made a show of mixing her drink, a process so impressive it bordered on performance art. It made a good distraction, one which gave her an excuse not to turn around and watch the crowd behind her. She could feel the male werewolves approaching, and their sudden, intense interest made her skin tingle.

Tradition declared that no one approach her before she had her drink. Zoe ignored the appraising stares and tried to smooth the wrinkles out of her menu again. The back was a neat list, divided into sections. Vampire, werewolf, witch, fae Plain black type delineated the various clientele of Last Call, along with the specials peculiar to each kind. She slid her finger down the page, past the bold Werewolf heading until she found kamikaze.

Werewolf in heat, looking for a temporary mate.

Understood	Overheard	Undenied	Reckless	Last Call: Hurricane