Chapter 1: This Is Not A Romance Novel

We met over coffee on the very first day. It was a scene out of the most stereotypical romance novels in history: I ran into him in the street and spilled my cup of coffee all over his pressed linen shirt. This is not a romance novel, and I don't like coffee.

"Oh, terribly sorry," I said, handing him a napkin with an ease that suggested I had done this before. I had. When one is clumsy, they get used to wiping their much-needed coffee off of someone else's shirt. Contrary to the popularly romanticized belief, I had never spilled coffee on anyone even remotely handsome or near to my age, and I had certainly never ended up dating them. That is, until now.

This is not a romance novel.

This man was rather terribly handsome, but we don't really need to go into the details. This isn't a romance novel after all. Let's just say he was the all-around tall, dark, and handsome man girls tend to swoon gracelessly over. He also had a British accent; I was at that point quite sure he had fathered more children than I had ever met in my life, all by different women. What woman wouldn't fall head-over-heels, crazy in love with a guy who looked like that? Me.

This is not a romance novel.

"That's alright. These things happen," he replied, his accent rich and melodic. I was practically swaying to the music that was his voice, but was shaken out of my reverie when his hand briefly touched mine to take the napkin from my hand.

"Too often," I muttered, bending over to pick up my fallen coffee cup. Thankfully it still had its cap on, and when I took off the cap I found that there was still a lot of coffee left in the cup. Like I said before, I don't like coffee. However, I need caffeine to wake up in the morning, and the American quick fix of caffeine is coffee. Frankly, I find the stuff absolutely vile, but if it's what I have to drink then it's what I have to drink. Life always seems to pull you in those odd directions.

"I guess you've done this a few times before then," the man said, wiping off his shirt with the napkin. I could see that he was smiling, and was thankful that he wasn't angry. Usually when I spilled things people got angry. He must have a wonderful disposition, I thought, smiling back at him. As soon as he was finished wiping off his shirt, he was off. I was never to see him again, or so I thought.

This is not a romance novel.

The next time we met over a table at a bar. It was a seedy place this bar; the kind of place people of repute weren't caught dead in. One or another of my friends dragged me there. I can't remember whom; I'm not friends with her any more. The who doesn't matter, only the where.

I was sitting at my table, watching the aforementioned friend dance around with one of the men who had asked her to dance. I was alone, sitting at a table and twirling the straw in my glass of root beer. I don't like liquor. It makes you do things that you wouldn't normally do. It causes you to have no control over your body or emotions. I like to have complete control over myself; when I let myself go, things happen that just shouldn't. And I always end up paying for them in the end.

He approached me, which should be obvious from how I was sitting. Lonerish would describe me perfectly; I don't like socializing with anyone but my close group of friends. Everyone else could go to hell for all I care; no one else is worthwhile. Most people on this earth are completely brainless. Call my elitist if you will, but I cannot have conversations with people who are brainless. I find myself too appalled to even try.

"Well if it isn't the Coffee Lady," a voice from above me said, a chuckle in its voice. I turned away from my friend for a moment to see who was talking to me. Oh, that coffee guy, I thought, turning my attention towards the liquid swirling in my cup.

"The name's actually Stella," I told him. I heard the screech of a chair being pulled away from a table. He was sitting down with me. That had never happened before.

I'm not going to falsely praise myself, because how I look has almost nothing to do with this story. I'm 5'7, fairly skinny, my nose is too big, I have shoulder-length curly brown hair and blue eyes. I'm not exactly model material, but I'm not overly ugly either. Men don't notice me though, and that's good. I don't want them too. I could wear the clothes to make them notice, but, like I said, I don't want them to notice. I have too much on my plate to worry about getting laid. I had no particular desire to have sex 24-7 and skirt my schoolwork. Some of my friends do that. They ended up dropping out of college.

"Well, it's nice to pin a name to the face. My name's Chase," the man said, holding out his hand. I looked up from my drink, let go of the straw, and clasped his hand. He had a very firm handshake, but nothing that would crush my hand. After a few seconds I let go and returned my hand to its previous occupation.

"Nice name," I mumbled, studying the man's features. There was something… strange about him. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I felt something boiling under his average good-looking surface. For, as I described to you on page one of this chapter number one, Chase was quite good looking, much more so than anyone I had met so far.

He laughed. "Thanks. You're not too good at making small talk, are you?" I glared. "Sorry, didn’t mean that as an insult. Not everybody's good at small talk; it takes a real expert such as myself to be able to do it correctly."

"Cocky," I muttered, twirling the straw a little faster.

"Sure of myself," he replied, still smiling. "So…" he began, trailing off before continuing, "what do you do?"

"For a living?"

"Of course."

"I'm still in college. Living in a dorm with stupid roommates, getting to class on time, making good grades, graduating, that sort of thing." He laughed again. I started twirling the straw a little bit faster. "How about you?" I asked.

"I'm… a policeman of sorts."

"What kind of sorts?" The straw was twirling even faster now. Chase narrowed his eyes at my hands, and I looked down at them to see what was wrong. Nothing. I was twirling my straw like any normal person would. Maybe a little bit faster, but beyond that there was nothing interesting about my hands. Before I could look up at his face again, a hand shot out and grabbed away my root beer. The straw was stuck to the tip of my index finger, so when he pulled the cup away the straw caught on the lip of the cup and fell onto the table. It splattered a few drops of root beer onto the table, and one drop onto my t-shirt. I picked up my napkin and wiped it off.

"Sorry," he muttered, returning my root beer to me. I suddenly wasn't thirsty. I didn't pick up the straw. We sat there in silence for a few minutes, looking around the room and, occasionally, at one another.

"You never answered my question," I said, breaking the silence. I hated uncomfortable silences. They were so… uncomfortable.

"No, I didn't."

"Rude man," I mumbled, slumping a little in my seat and stretching out my legs. I have long legs. I stretched and stretched, and finally kicked Chase in the shins.

"Ow!" he muttered pulling his feet protectively away from my own. Probably under his own chair, but I didn't really take a look.

"Sorry."

"You did that on purpose," he said morosely, stretching out his feet and kicking me in return. It didn't hurt. I don't think he really wanted it to.

"Actually, I did. Don't know why though," I replied, more honest than usual. Honesty about myself, except in the few cases of my very best friends, scared the shit out of people. I'm what you would call screwed up. There's the whole self-esteem thing, the controlling thing, the depression thing, the eating disorder thing, the cynicism thing, the cutting thing, the sarcasm thing, the morbidity thing. Not all of them apply at once, but at alternating intervals. Just one of them could drive away half of the city of Manhattan from fear.

"That's al…" he stopped, as if realizing he had forgotten something, and looked at his watch. "Shit. Shit. It's 1:00. I need to… Stella?" He asked. I had been staring at his watch. I looked up.

"Yes?"

"I want to see you again. You're nice. Can I have your number?" he asked, holding out a piece of paper and pencil. I shrugged and scribbled down my phone number. He smiled, got up, kissed me on the cheek, and walked off. At that moment, my friend came back over. She hadn't seen Chase. I wondered why.

*****

"He's a little, well, scruffy looking. Like Han Solo. Yes, that's a good thing. You don't want a guy who's so clean that the only interesting story he has to tell you about is that time yesterday when he put himself in the wash alongside his clothes, now do you?" I asked Daria, my best friend. She laughed into the phone at my silly comment, and I knew that she was shaking her head.

"You know les garcons que je prefere hon. Han Solo is my dream lover. This man must be parfait, non?" Daria replied, slipping in and out of her native language, French. I had met her two years before when I went to France for a few months. My parents are rich. Money is no object.

"I don't know if parfait suits him. I was totally honest with him though."

"Shocking. What was he, a magician?" Daria queried, sounding a little shocked. She knew me almost too well.

"No clue. There was something… I don't know, different about him."

"You've just met the love of your life," Daria informed me matter-of-factly.

This is not a romance novel.

"And how would you know?" I asked, not missing a beat, even though my heart was pounding furiously in my chest.

This is not a romance novel.

"I've found mine already ma cherie," Daria informed me, referring to her boyfriend Aaron. She was so head-over-heels in love with him that it was practically disgusting.

"Ugh, Daria, I can hear you sighing with delight from halfway across NYC. Please, spare me the phone…"

"Shush up woman," Daria muttered morosely.

"Woman? You called me a woman, Daria! I'm no longer "ma petite cherie" or "girl"! Oh Daria, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me! If we weren't on the phone I would give you a nice big hug! Aw… I think I'm going to cry," I joked, holding a hand to my forehead in the "I'm going to faint" dramatic way.

"Stella, tu es tres mechante! I would slap you right now if… Oh, sorry Stella, Aaron's on the other line. Can I call you back?" Daria asked.

"No need. I need to work on my homework and stuff. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah Stell, bye," Daria replied, and I heard the long, droning noise of the dial tone. I was still smiling as I put down the phone. I always feel nice after talking to Daria. She has a way of picking someone up just by her words that's astonishing. Frankly, she could make a slug feel like it was the most beautiful thing in the world. It's an astonishingly silly talent, but one that has gained her too many friends to even count. Daria is one of those people-persons that you hear so much about. I'd never met one before her though. I guess there aren't that many.

The next time I met him was over coffee. Again. This time, it wasn't over my coffee. Well, it was over my coffee, but not in the same way. This time it was the stereotypical romance novel type way. I was in a coffee shop, he noticed me, sat down, and we talked. And we fell in love of course. Not. Remember, this is not a romance novel.

"Stella! What a surprise!" Chase said from above me, sliding into the empty seat across from me in my both. It was my booth, the one I always sat in when I wasn't in a hurry to get to work. It was a Saturday in Manhattan, New York, and later that day I was to take my final midterm of this semester of my college junior year. Was I worried? Oh, just a little. Right. I was practically shaking in my seat. I needed my daily cup o' joe to keep me from hyperventilating. The last thing I needed was a conversation with the confusing Chase. I needed it like a hole in the head, proverbially speaking of course.

"Not really," I muttered, leaning back in my seat and taking a sip of my coffee.

"And why's that?" Chase asked, the corner of his lips turning up into a sort of half-smile. It was a good look for him, I mused.

This is not a romance novel.

"You just seem to be popping up all over the place. I never saw you before. Are you stalking me?" I asked nonchalantly, beginning to rap my finger on the table. It was a fairly quiet clicking noise. I have a nervous habit needing to do something with my hands at all times.

"Have you had many other stalkers?"

"Other stalkers?"

"Well, have you?"

"No. I don't take kindly to stalkers though."

"How do you know if you've never had one?"

"Who said I'd never had one? I didn't." There I was, being honest again.

"Oh really? Who was this anonymous stalker?"

"I prefer not to talk about my experience with the evil ex-boyfriend stalker. It was…" I trailed off then, not knowing how to describe the few months where ex-boyfriend John had been stalking me. He wasn't stalking me in any kind of life-threatening way, but it was still kind of…

"Strange?" Chase asked, the smile on his face dimming a little.

"Yes, I guess you could say that. Now, are you or are you not a stalker?" At this his full smile returned.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he asked.

"You know, if you want to see me you can just call. There's no need to be all stalker-like," I reminded him. From the sheepish grin on his face, I knew he had lost the number.

"Lost it, did you?"

"No. Someone stole my jacket," he quickly replied, sounding embarrassed. I rolled my eyes, took out a slip of paper, and jotted down my name and number on it.

"Well, let's hope no one steals your jacket today, okay?" He laughed at that and took the paper from my hand. I resumed my finger tapping on the table.

"So do I. I have my wallet and everything in here," Chase said, still smiling. My tapping grew a little faster. "But, above all things, I have the number of a beautiful lady." The tapping grew even faster.

"And who is this beautiful lady? Do I know her?" I asked, the tapping increasing in volume and in speed. I honestly did not think for even a second that he was talking about me. I was in no way, shape, or form flirting. He saw that.

"You of course," he replied. He opened his mouth to say more, but stopped. His eyes traveled down to my tapping fingers, and the smile was wiped off his face. He frowned, crinkled his forehead, and reached out his hand. He grabbed my hand, holding on just a little too tightly. He then looked up at my face and gave me one of those tight-lipped grins that aren't really grins, but more like grimaces. "Don't," he said softly, not sounding angry in the slightest. Suddenly, he looked back down at his hand, and realized that he was crushing my fingers. He pulled his hand away and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry Stella," he murmured, sitting back in his seat and putting his hands under the table. I didn't tap anymore.

He opened his mouth again, as if to say what he had been trying to say before. Then he looked at his watch and groaned. "Once again, our conversation has been cut unfortunately short. I'm really sorry Stella, but I have to go. I'll call you, alright?" he asked, getting up from his seat. As he walked past me he bent over and kissed me on the cheek. Moments later, he was off.

I took my midterm later that day. I spent the entire time thinking about him.

This isn't a romance novel.

Thankfully, I still had enough concentration and grasp of the subject to pass the final. I was home free. My junior year of college was half over, and I thought I had until the end of February to relax and escape from the business of my daily life.

I was wrong.

Go on to the next part...

Chapter 2: In The Worst of Times  (13+) In which part Stella goes to the Underworld and meets... the Vampires! #959505 by Fantasy