Bite Me Tender

BITE ME TENDER ZORA BLACK BITE ME TENDER By Zora Black Copyright © 2023 by Zora Black All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Join the newsletter here! CONTENTS 1. Belladonna 2. Chris 3. Belladonna 4. Chris 5. Belladonna 6. Chris 7. Belladonna 8. Chris 9. Belladonna 10. Chris 11. Belladonna 12. Chris 13. Belladonna 14. Belladonna 15. Chris 16. Belladonna 17. Chris 18. Belladonna 19. Chris 20. Belladonna 21. Chris 22. Belladonna 23. Chris 24. Belladonna 25. Chris 26. Belladonna 27. Chris 28. Belladonna 29. Chris 30. Belladonna 31. Chris 32. Belladonna 1 BELLADONNA Five years ago… The excitement of the crowd is so palpable I can feel it on my skin. It sends electric tingles down my arms and across my shoulders. It runs through my spine and straight down my legs, weakening my knees. For a moment, I feel hopelessly dizzy. My stomach turns over and my vision blurs. I desperately take a deep breath and hold it, staring at the ground while I try to regain my composure. It’s okay, everything’s okay, you’re okay. Someone bumps my shoulder, and it forces me to look up. I’m stuck in a thick crowd, a raggedy line of people queued up before a huge iron gate. Every single face in the crowd looks like a nightmare—creatures born of a darkness beyond imagining. They leer and growl, their strange, dark clothes and fearsome expressions betraying eternal, never-ending menace. I can’t help it. A big grin stretches across my face. This is definitely my kind of nightmare. Far off, there is a clash of sticks against cymbals. The crowd roars and screams. The people around me start shoving and pushing to get through the gate. The concert has started, and no one wants to miss a single beat. Someone jostles me in their hurry to get to the front, and instead of shrinking away, I plant my feet and shove back. The other girl gives me a glare, but instead of looking upset with me, I see her face soften into frank admiration. “Nice outfit!” she says. A warm feeling spreads through my chest and even though I’m still breathless with anxiety, my grin widens. “Thank you,” I whisper, having trouble finding my voice. Even though this is my scene, the scene I desperately want to be a part of, I’ve spent most of the day struggling with imposter syndrome. And losing. This girl really has it all. Purple fishnets, a black silk corset and a shiny leather mini skirt. Her hair is streaked with white against black and purple layers. She is the epitome of a goth queen. “No drama,” she says, grinning. Her eyes flick over me one more time and I detect no sarcasm or teasing—she really does like my outfit. The black and red mini dress is not something I ever thought I’d have the courage to wear. The neckline plunges, the skirt is ridiculously short and has a deep split up the right thigh almost to the hip. The bright red satin covered by a black lace filigree of spider webs isn’t subtle in the slightest. I was worried that I’d turn out looking like a poser, especially when I decided on chunky, knee-high boots to go with it. It’s almost too sexy, as well as enhancing the stereotype to such an extent it could be satire. But she likes it. She didn’t laugh at me. As the massive crowd shuffles through the gate, I let myself look around a little. I can see lots of guys and even a few girls shooting me appreciative looks. One guy holds my eye a second too long and it makes me blush and look away. The crowd is moving faster now as we approach the stage. I’m so excited I can’t even tell which band is playing, but I know there is an excellent line up of goth and emo bands set for the night. As I bounce a little to get a good look, I realize it’s just a local group opening up, not a big name. Since the crowd is mostly gravitating towards the stage—most likely to start a mosh pit—I fall back a little, drifting back to the refreshment stands. As I pass by one of the trucks I catch a glimpse of myself in the polished metal and feel another boost of confidence. My black lipstick might be a bit much, and my hair looks like golden silk. I was worried my natural color wouldn’t match the outfit, especially when I saw the girl with the violent purple streaks. It all works. Don’t worry. You look great, girl! There is plenty of space around the food trucks and I sway idly to the music as I wait in line for an energy drink or something stronger. I’m getting close to the counter when a tall guy in a trench coat gives me a shove. I stagger on my high heels, and I don’t even have enough breath to shout as I suddenly spin towards the ground. I’ve got my teeth clenched for the impact when someone grabs my arm. “Hey,” a deep voice cuts through the chatter of the crowd and the music that saturates the air. I lean into the pressure on my arm, getting my balance so I can stand up straight. “Are you okay?” The voice cuts through all the other sounds again. It resonates through me, as if he could touch all the secret parts of me just with his words. “I’m—I think I’m okay,” I stutter, looking up towards the guy who is still holding on to my arm. Even though the crowds are screaming, and the band is raising hell with every instrument in existence, silence seems to fall around us.