The Fourth Sunrise: A Love Story Page 16

  I looked over the Lady’s sleeve and drank in my beautiful city. The stunning fireworks had finished, and once again, I was left overwhelmed at the majestic magnitude of the city. The party boats had left the harbor with their floodlights, raucous cheers, and commotion that commemorated the first anniversary of the renaming of the city. What was once named Manhattan had been replaced by the name Verona.

  I stood by the silent, virtuous Lady, just on her left shoulder. Balancing my feet on such a great statue was always tricky. I could taste her overwhelming wet, coppery scent in my nose and mouth. The aroma was reminiscent of fresh blood, not altogether unpleasant.

  I looked up into the dark cold night. It was unusual to see stars over our city, but the night was crisp with them, twinkling sparks on a black velvet nightscape, such a clear night that diamond rays from starlight illuminated the night sky like Jacob’s ladders extending from deep sky to tall buildings. It was a radiant night.

  We were fortunate to have most of our land bought out for re-gentrification by a billion-dollar Prince. Prince Escalus. His very surname as a visionary developer was a legend in his own time. Not only was he rich, he was powerful, and masterful at rejuvenating entire cities. His approach into developing cities and remaking them was that his philosophy was simple: Keep the peace.

  There was no place that needed peace more in this time than New York City. More specifically…Manhattan.

  As I looked out from my 300-foot-high perch in the night shadow of the bosom of the lady, I marveled at the beauty of my Verona. My city was like a beautiful woman to me and my city had two competing lovers and a divided heart. I was reminded of which immortal species ruled these parts. Vampires and werewolves were as legendary and infamous in these parts as celebrities. In fact, we even had our own media network.

  Verona was run, in part, by the two immortal families: the Capulets and the Montagues. They couldn’t have been more different in their culture and in their immortal forms. Montagues were from the wrong side of the tracks: a ruthless, cutthroat band of scorned misfits who succeeded anyway, with all the odds against them. They were crass and abrupt, and they always needed a shave, a bath, and a good haircut. But that came with the territory. The Montagues were cursed by a comedy of errors but brazenly got to their feet, every time.

  Now the Capulets, they were cultured and liked the finer things in life: big houses, expensive cars, and especially, flaunting it to the Montagues.

  As different as the two sides were in culture, they stood even further apart in their unlike immortality. The Capulets had chosen to live their remaining years here in Verona—it could be a million years, as they were long-lived as vampires. It fit their smug elitist attitudes to be so long in the tooth and aggravated the Montagues that there was no way to get rid of them.

  The Montagues lived their days as werewolves: meat-eating, ass-kicking, moon-howling werewolves who lived day by day, close to the earth, as close to raw passion as creatures could ever get. Montagues were warm-blooded and therefore, had passion soaring through their veins. The Capulets had to take their blood from others, like the leeches on society that they were, by virtue of their curse. Most of them, save her, were passionless, elitist, and cold. Only she was different. I swore inside of me that I had never laid eyes on a wonder of the world more captivating than she.

  The problem was twofold. Immortality, dominance, and bloodlines separated Verona into two sides, nearly split right down the middle at Times Square. There were two immortal families in my city, bloodthirsty rivals who gave each other no quarter, and none was asked. They mostly kept to their own turf, and to their own kind. The two families were split along Times Square.

  To the north of Times Square in the Upper East Side, the Capulets had bought out mansions that were turned into apartment buildings…that were now turned back into mansions. The family owned just about every building and had turned the section of the city into a place that turned up their noses at the Hamptons.

  To the south of Times Square, and all the way down to the Financial District, was where the werewolves roamed. They were definitely not as rich as the Capulets, but they lived better than most folks. If werewolves were roaming, then one would likely see a Montague in their midst. Nearly all Montague men had chosen to live their days as werewolves. Montague families were spread out pretty evenly among Chelsea, and the East and West Villages. One could even find families in SoHo and Chinatown.

  Until now, there had only been small skirmishes between the two dissonant factions, but my extraordinary senses of premonition and danger detected that all hell was about to break loose in a populous that was deep in celebration about the rebirth of art, culture, education, and creativity. A resurgence of passion for the city swept like a fiery new religion into the corners of every borough. It was as if people were crying out for a deeper purpose. I knew I was.

  Things in this part of the world had been quite different for some time. In reality, the entire world was different. A hundred years ago, there had been a technology revolution that spurred the inevitable. We’d touched the moon and the planets with our humanity and our machines shot into outer space, and could go no further without bankrupting every country. A realization set in that we now needed to get in touch with our mortality, our inner space.

  It was time for the world to turn on its fulcrum. I felt it. Time for the immortals to take their rightful place as the world’s muscle and minds. Religion and politics tried to prevent it from happening, but eventually, immortality reigned over mortality. Now, just two immortal factions stood at the helm of society, glaring at each other from opposite corners of the city.

  In the madness, I had been given a gift from the gods. I had been given visions of a wondrous place. A place of peace, of hope and love. I had only seen it in my dreams, but on this night, I felt that my special place was near, as if I could almost touch it with my hands. Of late, something had come over me and it was only intensifying. I looked up at the stars and the full moon that pierced my mind’s eye with a pull that I knew well. I howled into the night sky. I howled from my deep place, where I had only seemed to been able to howl from as of late. I had been told that my howl was unique in that it had both the sounds of music playing and the reverence of a man crying out in prayer. It was a howl that had reduced some to tears when they heard it, such was its unique vibration, timbre, tone, and range. It was a yodel from across the Alps, a chorus of angels with one harmonized chord. My howl is my prayer and my song of all that I was, all that I am, and all that I shall be. Inside of me roiled a yearning for something more, hungering for something more. I howled in agony and ecstasy until tears dripped from my face and wet my body like scorching rain.

  When I was finished, I looked over my city of Verona and cried out so loud that my throat roared, “My name is Romeo Montague and I am a Werewolf!”

  Romeo and Juliet: A Vampire and Werewolf Love Story

  is available at:

  Amazon Kindle

  ~~~~~

  Available now

  WEREWOLF LOVE STORY: PART ONE

  Entwined Series #1

  by H.T. Night

  (read on for a sample)

  Chapter One

  Practice was a bitch. Mo, my trainer, kicked my ass. These five-hour practices would have to stop once I was champion. That was a long way off, considering that I only had one professional fight behind me. I knocked out the poor guy in less than a minute; I had a long road ahead of me until I got to the top.

  I’m a mixed martial arts fighter in the state of California. I was a collegiate wrestling champion for Arizona State, and after college, there wasn’t much I could do when my only skill was wrestling other guys on a cold, hard mat. So, I went into mixed martial arts training and got quickly addicted to the sport. So much so that I decided to make it my career.

  Practice was rough tonight because I was still nursing a pretty serious hangover from the New Year’s Eve party, the night before. I hardly ever drink, but there are ce
rtain events in the year that qualify as drinking nights, and New Year’s Eve is one of them.

  The year was 2006, and I had just turned 22 years old. College was a breeze for me; I zipped through my four years and got a degree in Theater Arts. Yes, that’s right, I said it; I’m a mixed martial arts fighter who also has a Theater Arts degree. I took every kind of class when I was at Arizona State and I found that my acting classes were the most fun. And, I’m all about fun.

  But tonight wasn’t about mixed martial arts or theater. Tonight was about unwinding at my favorite dive bar. I wasn’t sure if I was going to drink, considering I drank half the tequila in Mexico last night, but I still had some party left in me and I needed to feed the beast.

  My muscles hardly got sore anymore unless I took a pounding in the gym. Tonight, I took such a pounding. I had recently installed a huge Jacuzzi-style bathtub in my apartment. So, I figured I’d check out the ambiance of the bar and maybe have a tiny, little drink. Then I go home and soak my overworked muscles and joints against the bubbling jets of my Jacuzzi.

  I was so hung over and exhausted that I wanted to go to a bar where I knew I would have zero chance of getting into a fight. I have to admit, I love to fight and my specialty is putting douchebags in their place: on the ground, face down. I’m not talking about the clueless guy who is socially inept and tends to stick his foot in his mouth repeatedly at a bar when it comes to talking to women. I’m talking about the meathead, the abrupt bully who is always trying to physically cut you down to build himself up. I didn’t pummel douchebags for talking crap, I pummeled them in physical self-defense. I’m a walking target for douchebags, because I look like a challenge, I’m about six feet, two inches tall, and have a thick physique. I have an exceptionally small waist in comparison to my shoulders, which gives me a nice ‘V shape’ as the ladies often mentioned. My looks have been compared to a younger Hugh Jackman with more of a rugged edge. I have to admit, I love the ladies, and they seem to love themselves some Tommy. Guys, on the other hand, especially guys in packs, seem not to be so Tommy-friendly. I usually kept to myself because frankly, I could fight every night of the week, if necessary. It was as natural to me as breathing.

  So, my dive bar of choice is a place called Shiners, because everyone knows my name and respects my contribution to society. I did see the irony in the name of the dive bar and it was like an “in” joke, every time I walked in past the sign and patted it, for luck. My goal for my contribution to society, in Shiners and elsewhere, was to make sure that all of my women knew that they were delicate, beautiful creatures—I did all I could to make sure each one was satisfied. Line them up! I liked all women, big and small, black or white. They are all God’s creatures and if the night is right, the lucky chosen one would make a run to my hot tub with me, and walk out with her knees quivering and a smile on her face. But don’t misunderstand my intentions, I’m not sexist or a pig. I love and adore women and I’m a gentleman to the utmost degree. But, I am usually on the prowl, and the cuter, my prey, the more I raise my game. My game is simple. I’m the bad boy. Sometimes quiet, sometimes outgoing, but never the braggart. I usually just give tidbits about myself and allow their imaginations to infer the rest. My technique seemed to be working for me. I rarely lacked for female company, but had no steady girlfriend. I had never felt like I needed or wanted one.

  I pulled my black Mustang into the Shiners parking lot. The bar is about two miles from my gym. I worked out in Anaheim Hills at a gym that specializes in mixed martial arts training. The parking lot was unusually empty for a Thursday night, but then again, it was New Year’s Day; most people were already in bed after a long day of watching football and pigging out on Christmas leftovers and beer. I didn’t have the luxury of eating like a pig since I had to keep my weight around 175 pounds. And beer was pretty much forbidden for fighters. It was said that beer put on weight faster than any food.

  I got out of my car and stepped on the crushed gravel parking lot. It was a reasonably cool evening, so I decided to grab my leather jacket from the back seat of my Mustang. It went well with my immaculate white t-shirt and Levis 501 button-front blue jeans that molded to my hips like they were custom made. I had showered and cologned up at the gym and I looked and smelled like a warm, summer day. But, because I had a hangover, I knew my breath was probably yucky. It was Altoid time! I reached in my left pocket and pulled out a container of wintergreen Altoids. I tossed a couple in my mouth. Considering Altoids were the most I had splurged on my diet all day, I thought it would be okay to knock back a couple more.

  I put on my coat, straightened my clothes and then looked at myself in my driver’s-side mirror. My eyes were a tad bloodshot from my workout but I didn’t have any eye drops, so I decided not to worry about it. Besides, it was kind of dark in Shiners. My dark brown hair seemed a tad messed up, but then again, I couldn’t walk into a bar looking too immaculate. I had learned that a slightly scruffy look could be appealing to women.

  I walked across the parking lot and counted a total of five cars. Was there anyone inside? Worst-case scenario, I could chat it up with Megan, the bartender. She was cute and was well-endowed and I could at least get my flirt on. Practice makes perfect.

  I opened the door to the bar. The door had peeled-off paint on the outside, and they covered the inside with big beer advertisements.

  I peeked in and Jonesy, the doorman, was there sitting on a stool looking bored to death. He was a rather large man with a giant head. He looked like he could be an extra in a motorcycle movie.

  “Tommy, what’s up, brother?” He stuck out his fist and bumped it with mine.

  “Not much, Jonesy.” I knew I wouldn’t have to show my ID, and I was actually glad not to. I had been going to the bar since I was eighteen. If they’d ever wanted to see my real I.D., they would know I had pulled the wool over their eyes for four years with a fake one.

  Just like I expected, there was no one in the bar except a couple of the regulars, old guys who would talk your ear off about politics and the state of the American economy, if you let them. Not tonight, I thought. I walked to the bar area and Megan was behind the bar, looking as hot as ever. She was wearing a hot, black skin-tight top with a pair of cut-off jeans shorts. The girl sure knew how to get a tip.

  “Hey, Tommy, have a seat, cutie.” She seemed genuinely glad to see me; she was probably bored to tears listening to the old men talk about elections. I caught some of their conversation in dribs and drabs. It was tedious.

  “Trust me, Megan, there is only one cutie in this bar and it sure as hell isn’t me,” I said, as I planted my butt on the high barstool.

  Megan smiled at me flirtatiously and said, “Jonesy is looking hot tonight.”

  “Yes, he is. No one but Jonesy is quite able to pull off the old-school MacGyver mullet hairdo and mix and match it with a Vincent Price goatee and Elvis sideburns. What’s not to love?”

  She laughed. “That’s for sure. What can I get you, Fighter Boy?”

  I hesitated and then said, “I’ll have a Patron. Make it a double shot. Neat.” Sometimes, I like to order a drink to impress, but it’s hard to impress a bartender with anything but a tip.

  “Sure thing.” Megan grabbed a Patron bottle from the back of the bar. She had to tilt up her body to get the bottle and thank God she did. I caught a glimpse of an ass cheek. Wow, that did the trick! I would put that image in my mental vault and whip out that baby as needed in times of solitude.

  I’m not a pig, so I definitely didn’t let on to Megan that I was pretty turned on by her little reach-up-to-grab-a-bottle performance. A woman like Megan knows she’s hot and works it for all she’s got. I’m sure the ass cheek slid out on purpose from her tiny cutoffs. If I was to comment, it would just put me in a category of every hard-up creep who comes in here looking to hit on a defenseless lady bartender. If Megan didn’t work here and I had met her out in the real world, I might have hit on her. But there was no way I would do anything other than harmless fl
irting. I make it a point not to shit where I eat. Shiners was my home away from home and I took it seriously that I should not get involved with the employees. No matter how cute.

  Megan turned around and poured me a double shot and set it in front of me along with a couple of limes and a salt shaker.

  “You know me so well, Megan.”

  “I aim to please.”

  “I know you do.” I put a little salt on my wrist and cut a lime in half. “Here’s to the new year!” I licked the salt, downed the double shot and sucked the lime. It went down smooth, Patron always does. “Slow night?” I asked.

  Megan smirked at the idiocy of my obvious question. “I expected it,” she said. “I have no idea why the owner even has this place open. He gives us two vacation days, Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

  “Well, I’ll tip you good.”

  “I know you will, you always do,” Megan looked over my shoulder and then paused. “Don’t look now, Tommy, but a ‘Ten’ just walked in and she’s all alone.”

  “Wow, a ‘Ten’ even.” I didn’t look around.

  “She’s hot. I’d do her.” Megan said.

  “She’s either really hot, or really nasty,” I said, under my breath. Hot girls tend to make out with odd-looking chicks at parties. There’s something about a bad, genuine hard-ass chick that turns on straight girls. But that sort of girl does nothing for me.

  “She definitely hot! Turn around, you chicken-shit.”

  “I’m not chicken-shit, I’m savoring the moment. I like to pace myself.”

  “Well, Mr. Pacer, you blew it. She just left.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me.” I turned around and saw the door close. I looked at Megan and gave her a look that said ‘this girl better be worth going to the parking lot to check out.’

  “Go see for yourself,” she said, and began wiping down the counter.

  I got up and hurried past Jonesy and went outside. I opened the door and right beside the door on the right was a beautiful brunette. She was sexy in a hot Playboy centerfold way, but still had enough girl next door in her to tell she was grounded. At least, I hoped so, you never know with girls from Southern California. She was looking at her phone and typing a text message. I decided I’d better do something, too, so it didn’t appear like I had only come outside to see her. Which I had. I took a couple of steps to the left and pretended to text on my phone.