Written for the #lastsummer2020 contest. Winner. 

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Dress shopping with Naomi and Lynn had turned out to be more about the mimosas, and less about the actual dress shopping. Fine by me. Lord knew I needed something to take the edge off shopping alongside the devil-wears-Prada Belacroix sisters.

My sixth or seventh glass of high-end champagne and orange juice -- keeping track of the drinks seemed beyond pointless now, as the liquor of Delilah's Boutique flowed freely for its VIP clientele -- hovered beneath my nose. Bubbly tickled my nostrils and teased my lips as I threw my head back and took a swig.

"The lace on this one is exquisite," Naomi cooed, her Parisian accent more pronounced the drunker she got.

I ran my hand over the floral pattern she held between manicured nails. The liquor buzzing around in my head like a nest of angry hornets blurred the line between tacky and lovely. I couldn't tell if the lace was beautiful or shit, so I decided to err on the side of caution, as I didn't want to make any rash decisions three weeks out from my wedding day that I'd end up regretting. I'd leave that to Naomi, who'd become notorious for bad choices while on an endless quest to scrounge up Mr. Right.

For her, Mr. Right had to be Mr. Moneybags and Mr. Well-hung, a nearly impossible combination to secure, but Naomi refused to be like her sister and settle for anything less. I couldn't fault her for knowing what she wanted.

"It's hideous." I drained the rest of my flute, set in on the table behind me, and waited, heels pressing into the soft shag rug, for the assistant, slunk over a countertop of tiaras, to waddle over and hit me with a refresh.

Naomi's perfectly waxed eyebrows knitted over her almond-shaped eyes. "It's vintage, Vi," she said, tracing the outline of a rose petal, her voice wistful, her gaze distant.

No doubt, she imagined herself in the dress, offered up at the altar of some upper east side cathedral, the adulations of hundreds laid at her feet. Her soon-to-be-husband shoved in an Armani tux with the features of a Greek god on display, an anaconda tucked in his trousers.

My wedding aspirations were less grand by comparison. I'd always imagined myself in something simple. Fitting enough to hug all my curves, maybe cause a few of my exes to go into cardiac arrest. An evening ceremony on a beach, exchanging vows under the gaze of the stars. Intimate and precious, just like our love.

Naomi called my plans, 'plebian,' but considering she'd grown up with silver spoons out the wazoo; chauffeured car rides to elite private schools and summer houses in the Hamptons and Paris, I couldn't fault her assessment.

My hand clenched around the fabric as it became all too real. Me and Abe, married. Less than three weeks away. I couldn't get my nerves to quit, but dammit, I'd try to drink them numb.

Naomi snarled and wrenched the gown out of my grasp. "It's over ten grand," she hissed, her tone pointed. Words weren't needed for me to pick up on the "too expensive for you," hinted at in her voice.

I shrugged and grabbed another mimosa off the table while she finished zipping up the dress bag and putting it back on the rack next to the other bankrupting, name brand monstrosities.

"A pittance, for you, good madam," I jested.

Naomi flashed me her tell-tale, 'piss-off' lip pucker, and I whirled, eyeing the rest of the selection. Silks, organzas. Deep-V's, a-lines, ballrooms, backless, strapless-- and a whole other slew of -lesses-- mermaid silhouettes – a fitting shape, as Lynn had drunkenly declared – for a beach wedding. She'd conked out on the chaise not long after, head lulling as she snored away the liquor, drool oozing down her chin like a gossamer thread.

Neither one of us had the heart to wake her. Less so, out of Naomi's and I combined compassion -- which could fill, maybe a thimble -- and more out of our self-preservation; Lynn, in her natural state, was as loose-lipped as humans got. Adding liquor to an already colorful personality resulted in lascivious verbal diarrhea exploding from her mouth. Since I'd worn my good Prada heels, I'd rather not end up with her shit on them. She'd sleep, and we'd shop—a win-win for all involved.

"So," Naomi nudged me in the shoulder. "You and Abe, all good to do the nups and surf?"

Nups and surf. Naomi's way of endearingly referring to a wedding she would never openly admit to it being, but that was decidedly, so beneath her. I swallowed and rubbed my palms together.

My lips drew into a tight smile I hoped seemed natural. "Yeah, of course." There was no reason to think otherwise. Or, more accurately, no reason she should believe otherwise. I gulped. Sweat formed along my hairline.

She pointed to a silk number with a plunging neckline to our left – a little scandalous, but nothing I hadn't worn with confidence in my twenties, and given a few martinis, nothing I couldn't manage now– slim in the waist and hips, floor-length and sleeveless. "It's simple," the 'like you,' backhanded compliment implied in her gaze, "and will breathe. Perfect for the sand, mosquitoes, and dead jellyfish."

I snorted. "You paint such a pretty picture of the beach."

She shrugged and pulled the dress off the rack. "I only speak the truth. If you want to have your wedding day on the shore of the Atlantic, that's your prerogative. Just," she leaned in and smirked, "just recognize shit for shit."

I shoved her playfully in the shoulder. Then, I turned and motioned for the woman shopping with us, who'd taken a backseat at Naomi's badgering, and had snuck a few sips of mimosa under her boss's nose at having put up with Naomi and said badgering.

She snapped to attention, her brown eyes coming alive in the ruddy complexion of a face that was both young and old, a condition emboldened by a job that threw her constantly into the lion's den of arrogant, privileged brides-to-be. Her nametag, engraved with "Jeanine," glinted in the overhead lights. She took the dress off Naomi and slung it over an arm. "Lovely choice, Miss Langley."

Naomi scrunched her nose. "You're going to miss that, aren't you?"

I swiveled my head. "Miss what? Workers tending to my every want and whim?" I eyed her and flashed a side-ways smirk. "If I want that, I'll just summer at your place."

"Being a Langley," she snapped, her lips pulled tight, her brow doing its best to wrinkle. She looked as though she'd been about to bed a gorgeous man only to realize he didn't size up to her standards. "Gods, Vi," she rolled her eyes, "Mrs. Van Helsing." Her lips curled, the words souring her mood. "Might as well be the bride of goddamned Frankenstein."

I grabbed the sash of a nearby a-line and let the fabric slip through my fingertips. Dull burning erupted on my skin, the beginnings of a few blisters tingling my knuckles. I bit back a swear as I grabbed at the tag. Silk with silver accents.

"Damn," I spat as blotchy red patches broke out across my hand like the bloody plague.

Naomi eyed me, then the sash. "Allergies?"

I massaged the sore flesh with my fingers and gave her a quick nod. "Should clear up in a week or two."

Naomi frowned. "Still, though, must be awful. Just think if you were allergic to gold or diamonds--"

"--or sunlight," I said. Naomi tilted her head. "What?" I continued. "That's a real thing."

Naomi shrugged. Sunlight paled in comparison to an eight karat princess diamond cut on a gold band - the wedding ring specifics Mr. Right would be strong-armed into buying for Naomi when she'd finally found him.

She leaned in, conspiratorially. "Lucky for us, we're night owls."

Behind us, Lynn let out two soft hoots, before turning on her side, and snoring loud enough to make a grizzly bear bristle. I laughed. Naomi shook her head, and her mouth pulled tight as she pressed a 'Jesus Christ' through her lips.

"You know," I said, trying to calm the storm I saw brewing behind Naomi's eyes. It wouldn't be too long before Lynn did something that would have Naomi pouring the remaining mimosas out over her sister's head. I thought a change of conversation might forestall that inevitability. "It won't be all that bad."

Confusion overtook the anger on Naomi's face, so I continued, "Being Mrs. Van Helsing. It makes Halloween a no brainer. Mr. and Mrs. Van Helsing." I leaned in, parted my lips, and gave her a snarl. "The vampire-hunting married couple." I lunged and put both hands over Naomi's shoulders.

She shook me off and flashed me a slight smile. "Thank god you're gorge, or I would never have spoken to you in college."

I slung my arm over her shoulder and pulled her back toward me. The scent of jasmine wafted off her skin. My fingers brushed aside a few stray strands of her hair before I mindlessly started tracing the curve of her neck, the pulse of her vein underneath my thumb. I tensed.

She leaned in and let me hug her. "You and Abe deserve each other. You know that?"

My smile grew as she pulled free of my embrace, her warmth evaporating off me like dew on the grass under the gaze of afternoon sun. I felt empty without her pressed into me, without feeling the throb of life that exploded off her like dynamite blasts. I gritted my teeth and looked away.

I needed another drink or, at least, something to take the edge off. Something to wrap my head around, instead of focusing on Naomi and her closeness and how easy it would be--

Stop. Don't do this. Don't obsess over Naomi's scent and how it's worming its way inside you, rousing those unsavory thoughts to surface. Quit imagining what she'd taste like as you tore open her throat and drank from that tantalizing vein in her neck.

Friends don't eat friends.

Come on, Lynn, be a dear and provide your girl here with a distraction--

"Miss Langley—" I whirled around, my mess of black hair veiling my vision. Speak of the devil. Jeanine's boss, Mrs. what's-her-face sauntered into view, an envelope clasped in one very chubby hand. "For you."

She held it out.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end at the sight of it. A strange electricity emnating off the proffered gift made my toes curl. Mrs. what's-her-face huffed in annoyance. I took the letter, and with a curt nod, she turned and stomped back to the dank cave of high-end retail hell.

Naomi narrowed her eyes as her gaze followed the ambling manager. "Who in their right mind wears a white two-piece nowadays—"

"No one sane, that's for sure," I replied, running a finger over the envelope, rough-textured, ancient and off-white, more substantial than it appeared.

Naomi leaned over my shoulder. "What kind of maniac hand delivers a letter to a bridal boutique?" She raised her nose and flipped her french braid from one shoulder to the other. "Handwritten? Yellowed paper?" I turned it over in my palm, my thumb grazing the edge of a wax seal. Naomi eyed me suspiciously. "You have a lover from 1802?"

I shook my head as I shrugged her off. Putting a few feet of space between us, I ran a nail under the seal. My mouth went dry, and I instantly sobered.

Inside, a piece of paper looked as old as bloody parchment. And in loopy cursive, eleven words stared back at me. My mouth dropped. My feet turned molten and melded to the floor.

Naomi sidled up to me, her gaze dancing from me to the letter, before, with a satisfied grin, she said, "So, what did you do last summer?"

I know what you did last summer and so will he.

It couldn't be.

I know what you did last summer and so will he.

No matter how many times I re-read it, I couldn't wrap my head around it. How? How could anyone know? There hadn't been any survivors. I'd made sure of it and yet--

I know what you did last summer and so will he.

Someone knows, and they want me to know they know and that they're willing to spill their guts and blab about it to my betrothed.

Naomi's heels tapping against the floor brought me back to the present. I crumpled the letter and tried to collect myself. "Must be a prank. Kelsey or Liam. You know, they probably wanted to remind me of my drunken antics back in Romania. Can't let me have a moment's peace without putting my follies and fuck-ups on full-blast."

Naomi pressed her lips together. One of her perfectly plucked eyebrows raised. "You didn't have an affair, did you?"

"No! Christ, no!" I shook my head.

"Jesus," she eyed the jewelry counter, running her nails along the glass top, "I'm not one to judge. Wanting to have one last romp before being tethered to the same cock for the rest of your life," she gave me a half-smile and shrugged, "it's justifiable, is all I'm saying. Us women need to have our thirsts quenched too."

She nodded back at Lynn, strung out on the sofa, legs propped on the ottoman, head lulling over one shoulder, a dark stain deepening the plum color of her latest Chanel. "Just look at what happens when we starve."

"Lynn's starved for sex."

"Satisfying sex," Naomi corrected. "Among other things, but, my point remains the same."

Heat rose in the back of my throat, and I felt that familiar scratch trying to claw its way to the surface. My gums ached, my insides twisting and knotting like a strand of Christmas lights. I pressed my nails into my thighs and gritted my teeth.

"Hey." Naomi grabbed my shoulder. I gently shirked her off. Her touch would only upset me. Would only make me lose control.

"I was only kidding," she said. "No need to--"

"I need a breather." I started toward the door. "I think their prank's got me rattled."

Concern flooded Naomi's blue eyes, but she nodded and let me slip out without another word. Clenching the letter in my fist, I flew like a bat out of hell out the door.

Night air roused my hair to take flight in front of my eyes. The chill of early autumn bit into my marrow. Moonlight streamed through the clouds, softly haloing my feet. I leaned against the storefront and sighed. The heat had ignited into a full-blown inferno.

I know what you did last summer and so will he.

How? How could anyone know? It should have been impossible. After all, I'd made sure the only people who saw me, no longer walked among the living.

A man crossed the street and strolled toward me. In scuffed loafers, wrinkled trousers, and battered suitcase, he screamed middle management. I squinted. No wedding ring, thinning hair, sunken cheeks, swollen gut. Probably single. A small fish in NYC's big pond. A friend to no one. A guy who could go missing without anyone batting an eyelash.

I licked my lips as he approached. He shot me a nervous smile, eyes roving but never settling on me. Instinctively, my hand went to the hem of my skirt to pull it higher up on my thighs. A vulgar move, but necessary. After all, a spider had to spin its web first before any prey got caught.

My prey stopped dead in his tracks, and my stomach unknotted.

Someone knows about the family, so what? I'll find them and silence them before they can ruin the happiest day of my life.

"Can I-I," my little prey whimpered. "Ca-can I-I-I help you miss?"

I smiled my best, brightest smile, before sinking my fangs into his neck. Poor darling didn't get a chance to scream before I was pulling him into a darkened alley and tearing him apart. Blood filled my mouth.

Sure, I was indulging, but who could blame me?

I was starving and with my wedding day looming on the horizon, I needed something to soothe my shot nerves. Besides, blood-sucking came with a zero-calorie count and lacked the guilt associated with binging pints of Chunky Monkey.

As Naomi said, sometimes, a girl just had to have her thirsts quenched. Just like in Romania last summer, when I'd tasted some very squeamish tourists vacationing from Berlin.

Someone knows I killed the tourists? Who cares. I'll kill whoever it was while maintaining my hard-earned size 6, which will leave me looking fab in whatever wedding dress I walk away with tonight. And the best part? I'm to marry Abraham Van Helsing.

Life was full of delightful ironies.