The alarm clock next to the bed does not go off because it's dead, and I'm the killer.

Said clock had to be punished for waking me up early every fucking day of college, given how much beauty rest I need. How do I know I need an abnormal amount of beauty rest? Because today, like every day, I drag myself out of bed and head straight for the full-length mirror in my bedroom for my morning appearance inspection.

Hey, let it go. Some people have yoga I have this.

There is my perfectly symmetrical face—creamy skin, big blue eyes, framed by long lustrous brown hair, pert boobs, and a tiny waistline. I scowl because even though everyone tells me I'm totally gorgeous, and I have done some modeling for Vogue, I still don't believe I'm beautiful.

As I head to the bathroom to do bathroom things, I trip over a hairbrush. Yeah, I'm clumsy. Mostly because it makes me more relatable. Ugh! I always forget there's another mirror in the bathroom. I stick my tongue out at my reflection, grab the brush off the floor, and give my hair fifty hard strokes before twisting it into a ponytail.

Ten minutes later, I'm sipping bitter coffee (someone forgot to buy cream) and dropping flakes of fish food into the tank in the living room. I'm about to fly out the door for my anatomy final in thirty minutes, when my roommate, Clarissa, shambles into the living room in her robe and slippers looking like an extra from The Walking Dead. Clarissa, like so many Berkeley undergrads, is one of those goth chicks with ghost-white skin and black hair, who normally looks like a schoolboy's wet dream in her plaid miniskirts and ripped tights, but today she looks like shit. I feel a little bad about how happy this makes me. "Ani," she rasps, plopping onto the sofa with a box of tissues.

"Whoa, you sound terrible too." Oops, did that slip out?

"What do you mean 'too?'" She snuffles pathetically.

"Uh, nothing," I lie. "Oh, hon, isn't today your interview with that billionaire for the dog-sitting job?" I'd give her a hug, but she is obviously contagious with the plague. If I get sick, who will make her tea? Plus, I have a final in ... twenty-eight minutes.

She cocks her head and smiles. "You remembered."

I decide not to mention that it's all she's talked about for two weeks. Even if I wanted to forget, which I 100% do, I can't. She has been obsessed. Something about getting to stay in a 54th-story penthouse apartment in San Francisco with a 360-degree view of the city and bay, full-time maid service, and the fact that it's the most seismically sound residential building in the world with 42 caissons drilled 260 feet into bedrock.

Normally I would not remember all those numbers and details, but I'm not kidding about Clarissa's enthusiasm. She's an architecture major, so this kind of thing is important to her. She likes caissons (whatever those are), and I like canines. Who's to judge?

"That's why I forced myself out of bed. Could you do it instead? I really hate to ask, but I don't want this guy to write me off as a flake. If you go, then he won't hire anyone else. Plus, you love dogs. Please?"

I surreptitiously glance at my phone in my pocket. Crap! Because I killed the alarm clock in a moment of unbridled anger, I now have only twenty-seven minutes to make it all the way across campus for the most important final of my life. But if I don't want to be a total asshole, I better at least make the sick girl some tea. Maybe she will accept this offering instead of forcing me to do a stupid interview in a tower. "How about some tea?" Without waiting for a response, I scamper into the kitchen, rinse out my mug, fill it with water, and set the microwave for one minute. With twenty-five minutes to spare, I hand Clarissa a piping hot cup of Earl Gray. Its flowery fragrance makes me gag. Only weird roommates and serial killers like Earl Gray.

"Thanks, Ani," she says, taking a timid sip. "So, about the interview?"

She is giving me huge puppy dog eyes and her lower lip is trembling. I'd have to be totally heartless to say no. "Sorry, did I mention I've got my anatomy final in twenty-four minutes?"

So yeah, I am a little heartless, but I can't give up my entire future as a veterinarian to do my roommate a favor. Think of all the parakeets and gerbils that would suffer without my expertise. Also, heights aren't my thing—fifty-four stories are an insane number, and I'm not a bird for god's sake.

Her face brightens, and my stomach twists. Uh, oh. I know that look of victory. "That's perfect. The interview isn't till tonight. You can take your final, then head over to the city on BART."

"What kind of a billionaire does interviews at night? Is he some kind of vampire?"

"You're so funny, Ani. Of course not! Would you like it if he was?" Clarissa plucks a tissue out of the box and waves it at me. "Ani wants to fuck a vampire! Ani wants to fuck a vampire!" she sings, then blows her nose so loud; it sounds like a trumpet blaring.

I haven't had time for dating, okay? School has held my entire life hostage. But I'm almost done! With the undergrad part. Then I have four years of veterinary school. Ugh. Looks like by the time I'm a vet, I'll practically be a virgin again. "Just because I haven't had sex in forever doesn't mean I'm dying to do it with a fictional creature who has bloodsucking nutritional requirements. If anything is going to be sucked, it isn't my blood."

"Oh, thank you, Ani, you're the absolute best. I'll text you the address."

As I head out the door, I shake my head in confusion. Did I agree to do the interview? I replay the conversation and can't pinpoint when I said 'yes.' Clary was like a witch who could hex people into doing her bidding.

And while I know everything about the damn building, I know zilch about this billionaire except that he has a dog, lives in a stupid skyscraper, and he's not a vampire.

Crap.

***

Okay, guys, this story is the result of a conversation with a group of my dearest author pals.* We were discussing our favorite topic, sex ... I mean writing about sex, and I threw out this idea. Within two minutes the supremely talented iamRodneyVSmith had made the cover. Which meant I HAD to move forward. 

But this story is going to be a little different than my previous tales. First of all, it is definitely for a mature audience. And secondly, I am writing this for fun. It's an experiment to see what happens when I don't obsess over writing craft the way I usually do.

So sit back, grab a cup of anything other than Earl Gray (I assume my readers have better taste than that!), and prepare yourself for a lot of laughing.

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Oh, and don't forget to comment and vote and stuff. I'm writing this story as I go, so if you have good suggestions, they just might end up in the story! And, I will only keep going as long as you guys are having fun, too. So make sure to let me know if you want it to continue. Yes, this is a blatant plea for adulation. :D

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*Thank you to my pals: AvaViolet  AmiTheDarkLady, LeighWStuart, masonfitzzy, iamRodneyVSmith, jordanlynde, Van_Carley, and AvaLarksen for your support, humor, creativity, and superior knowledge of writing the sexytimes! Love you all to pieces! 

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This chapter is dedicated to the real Clarissa, ClarissaNorth. Love you, babe!

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GUYS!

iamRodneyVSmith IS READING CHAPTERS OF 50 DEGREES OF SHADE! Out loud! Like a true vampire.

He is hilarious, of course. But it's also so fun to hear him read from Anesthesia's POV. My heart may not withstand the thrill! So, if you want to listen to Rodney's voice instead of reading the story the normal way, click on the video above. You'll be glad you did.

Also, subscribe to his YouTube channel for more of his amazing content: https://www.youtube.com/c/RodneyVSmith

But remember, voting and commenting are still required! The overlord has spoken. I mean, please! xoxoxo