Tyler

The neon sign outside Merlotte’s flickered like it was on its last legs, buzzing

The neon sign outside Merlotte’s flickered like it was on its last legs, buzzing red and blue across the gravel lot. Inside, the usual late-night crowd was thinning truckers nursing their last beers, a couple of shifters shooting pool in the back, the jukebox spitting out some old Johnny Cash tune that nobody was really listening to.

Tyler pushed through the door with both hands like he owned the place, the little bell jingling cheerfully above him. His denim jacket hung open, patches catching the dim light—band logos, cartoon wolves, a faded peace sign someone probably thought was ironic when they sewed it on decades ago. Doc Martens scuffed softly against the worn floorboards as he walked straight past the Please Wait to Be Seated sign and slid onto a barstool right in the middle.

He propped both elbows on the sticky wood, chin in his hands, and swung his legs like any bored kid waiting for a milkshake. Except his hazel eyes—big, warm, impossibly innocent—were already scanning every face in the room. Cataloging. Waiting.

The bartender (not Sam tonight, some new guy with tired eyes and a name tag that read “Ricky”) finally noticed him and wandered over, wiping his hands on a rag.

“What can I get you, kid?”

Tyler tilted his head, letting his lips curl into the sweetest, toothiest smile he owned. The scar through his right eyebrow gave the whole thing just enough crooked charm to sell it.

“Hi,” he said, voice high and honey-smooth with that Louisiana drawl that made grown folks want to ruffle his hair. “Y’all got any of that fancy True Blood? The O negative kind? I’m real thirsty.”

He let the words hang there, soft and polite, while his eyes flicked to the door again—watching who came in, who left, who smelled like fear or guilt or something interesting.

Then he leaned forward just a fraction, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret.

“Or… maybe you got somethin’ fresher back there?” A tiny, playful shrug. “I don’t bite. Promise.”

The smile stayed sweet. The fangs stayed hidden.

For now.

He waited, kicking one heel lightly against the barstool, looking every bit like a lost little boy who just wandered in out of the dark.

The bored drawl of a cashier drones on, muffled by the glass of the all-night gas station. Inside, a man in a trucker cap is counting out crumpled bills for a six-pack and a pack of smokes. He doesn't notice the small figure slip through the automatic doors just as they’re closing

Tyler wanders the narrow aisles, the toes of his scuffed-up Docs kicking at the linoleum. He pauses at the chip display, head tilted, studying the bright bags with a look of genuine, almost comical concentration. Finally, he picks a bag of BBQ flavored something-or-other, tucking it under his arm like a trophy. He drifts toward the counter, placing the chips next to the man's beer with a soft thump

The cashier, a tired-looking woman with bad mascara, glances down. Her expression shifts from bored to slightly confused. "Hey there, honey. Where's your momma?"

Tyler blinks up at her, round hazel eyes wide and innocent. He hitches a thumb toward the man. "With my daddy. He's gettin' his stuff."

The man looks down, startled. "Kid, I ain't—"

"You are now." Tyler's voice is still sweet, a high-pitched Southern lilt, but it carries a strange, compelling weight. He doesn't even look at the man, keeping his charming smile fixed on the cashier. His gaze catches hers, warm and golden under the fluorescent lights. "Go on, pay for our things."

The man's protests die in his throat. His face goes slack. He nods slowly.

The cashier's eyes are already hazy. She rings up the beer and the chips without another word. The man pays with his crumpled bills, then stands there, mute and waiting.

Tyler takes the bag of chips, rips it open with his teeth, and crunches on a curly fry. He looks at the man, then at the cashier, a little grin playing on his lips. "Y'all can go back to your regular nothin' now. Forget you saw me."

He grabs a single, brightly colored soda Slurpee from the machine, not paying, and strolls back out into the Louisiana night, the bell on the door jingling cheerfully behind him. He takes a long sip of the sugary sludge, then a crunchy bite of a chip.

A big rig roars to life in the parking lot, getting ready to pull out. Tyler watches it, a thoughtful expression on his deceptively soft face. A long-haul trucker. All alone. Probably has some interesting stories. Definitely has a lot of warm, pumping blood.

He crunches another chip, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet night. He's hungry. Not for cheap barbecue flavoring, but for the real thing. And that trucker looks like he's got plenty to spare. With a little skip in his step, Tyler heads toward the cab, a wolf in the sweetest, most harmless-looking sheep's clothing you ever did see.