Page 4 of Bite

Heavier than the thought of my empty wallet.

Heavier than the slow ache in my feet from trudging all over this side of the city.

Heavier than even the dull pounding behind my eyes from lack of sleep.

I’ve hit up every place in a three-mile radius that had an open job ad online. Half of them weren’t even hiring anymore– listings still up from last week or the week before, never updated.The other half handed me cold stares and polite smiles as they told me I didn’t have ‘the right kind of experience’ or ‘someone else just filled that role’.

Even the sleaziest dive bar in Midgrove said no, and I’m pretty sure their last bartender was high his entire shift and once punched a guy for asking for a lime wedge.

I wrap my arms tighter around myself as the wind picks up, biting through the threadbare lining of my coat. The city air smells like car exhaust, my breath fogging up in front of me as I exhale slowly and steady myself against the side of a bus stop terminal. The bench is slick with old rain and littered with discarded fast-food wrappers– as much as my feet ache, I can’t bring myself to sit down amongst the filth.

Slipping the card from my pocket, I stare at it for a long moment.

Matte black, embossed numbers, smooth to the touch.

Classy. Clean. Simple.

Not the kind of thing you’d expect from a place that specializes in illegal blood donations. The phone number taunts me, like it’s whispering a secret only the desperate get to hear.

I flip it over a few times with my fingers, tracing the sharp edges of the corners.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to call. Just to ask, see what it’s all about. There’s no commitment with a phone call, and if it feels off, I can just hang up and pretend like this never happened…right?

I chalk up the tremble in my fingers to the cold as I slide my phone from my pocket and start dialing the number. My pulse ticks up as I hit call and bring the phone to my ear, heart hammering like I’ve already sold something I’ll never get back.

It only rings once.

“Bite,” comes a bright, cheery voice on the other end. “How may I direct your call?”

“Uh, hi,” I say, instantly regretting this. “I got your card from a friend. She said I might be able to sign up for some… donations?”

“Absolutely! One moment, please,” the woman replies, chipper as a morning show host. She doesn’t sound fazed at all, like people call up asking about blood-for-cash programs every day.

Actually, I guess they probably do.

There’s a soft click, then a new voice comes on the line. This one is smoother. Controlled. Expensive.

“This is Francesca Fox, whom am I speaking with?”

“Taylor Holt,” I answer.

“Good afternoon, Miss Holt. How can I assist you today?”

I swallow thickly, suddenly wishing I’d prepared what to say. “I… a friend of mine gave me your card. Bex Hamilton. She said she’s done some donor work through your agency, and since I’m between jobs right now, she suggested I give you a call.”

There’s a quiet clicking sound– fingernails on keys.

“Ah, yes,” Francesca says after a moment. “Miss Hamilton has completed several engagements through our service. Are you interested in offering the same?”

“Uhm, I think so,” I say, unsure if I’m lying or just trying to convince myself.

“Excellent,” she replies, her voice silky smooth. “When are you available to come in for your screening?”

I reach up to comb my fingers through my hair, glancing around the vacant street nervously. “Like I said, I’m between jobs, so my schedule is pretty open right now…”

“Would three o’clock work?” she interrupts.

“Today?” I ask, startled.