1976 — Manhattan, New York

   The weekdays at the Bowery were empty. There were no rebels walking around with their mouths screaming lyrics, no vampires prowling the night for blood and fake ID's, no werewolves wanting to let go of their nomadic lifestyle, and as far as Damon knew, no witches. His surroundings were empty, with the few cars driving to and from, and the loud jazz music that rang through his ears. 

   Damon made a face as the loud rhythm of a trumpet rang around him. He had never been a fan of jazz, especially in the twenties. The twenties weren't good memories for him, so he pushed them back as he opened the doors to The Ground. As he walked in, the music got even louder. He heard glasses hit each other, soft laughter, the intake of breath from the players on the stage. The first thing he laid his eyes on when he was inside was the stage, where he saw numerous people with instruments. There was a piano player to the side, a drummer in the back, a trumpet player, a trombone player, and numerous other instruments.

   As he continued to move, he noticed how different it looked from the weekends. The atmosphere felt less lively, yet it also felt as if it was filled with more life. Instead of the punk zombies that yelled to lyrics, there were tables with red cloths and cool cats dressed to the nines. Fancy suits, fancy drinks, fancy conversation, and fancy cigarettes that seemed to have come from a Cuban bar in Miami.

   He realized that The Ground had two faces: one in the weekends and the other for the weekdays. In the weekends, it was filled with rebellious kids and supernatural beings with a thirst of the crazy New York night-life with punk bands and alcohol. During the weekdays, everything seemed to be much calmer. The venue changed, the atmosphere was different, the people were different. The streets weren't filled with punks, but with the hippies that were searching for fulfilment, drugs, a shower, and a place to listen to their music.

   Damon averted his eyes away from the scene and turned to the bar, and felt his lips spread into a small smirk when he saw Freya Beauchene. She was wiping the counter, a bored and annoyed look on her face as the man besides spoke. The man looked similar to her, with light green eyes and the hair that almost resembled black. He was taller, but they resembled each other too much.

   Freya shook her head and looked up, her eyes finally colliding with his. The bored and annoyed look was replaced by a small smile. Damon returned the smile with a wink and walked to the bar, tapping his knuckles against the smooth counter and staring back at her. The counter didn't feel as sticky as it did the night he last came, and it surprised him. He thought that the clubs that allowed famous rock bands to play were supposed to be dirty, filled with the sticky sweetness of alcohol, but it all felt clean. It felt weird to him.

   "Cool Cat," Freya called him, a smile on her lips. "You showed up."

   Cool cat, he repeated to himself in his head. Seventies lingo bullshit.

   "I couldn't say no to free drinks," he responded with a shrug of his shoulders. He looked around with his mouth slightly open, brows furrowed. "So, this is how The Ground looks like in the weekdays?"

  "It's not that bad," Freya answered with a small smile that spoke otherwise. "I mean, the music's sometimes good. The people, eh, not so good."

   "Are you kidding me?" Damon sarcastically scoffed, turning to look around. "The people seem amazing!" The people he referred to were sitting on their chairs, glasses in front of them, none of them moving to the smooth rhythm of the music.

   Freya rolled her eyes and chuckled, shaking her head. "Oh, yeah, you should see them later on. They get wild!"

   "Must be fun," he responded, turning back to her. "Listening to all this music for free."

   "Jazz is not so bad," she answered, looking over his shoulder to the stage. "It's calming, soothing for the soul, and it's the opposite of every other music. You can't listen to it on a record, you have to listen to it live, with the smoky haze from the cigarettes and a glass of whiskey in hand. There has to be a whole lot of people dancing, laughing and joking. Otherwise, it's just music."

   "You must be a big fan of jazz," Damon commented with a nod, his eyes shifting to the stage quickly. And he caught what she said. The smoky haze coming from those smoking cigarettes of the players that weren't playing and the few people on the tables, the glasses filled with whiskey or some kind of Martini, and then the soft music coming from the stage. It reminded him so much of the twenties, of the lively twenties that he spent over booze and girls. And that moment, that moment with Freya Beauchene in front of him, he felt as if he had returned to the twenties. 

   "Is this what you do every single weekday?" Damon asked, looking into Freya's watercolour green eyes. "Listening to jazz, make some drinks, listen to that guy over there talk..."

   "Frederick does talk a lot," she agreed, glancing to the man at the other side of the bar. "Yeah, that's what I do on my weekdays."

   "Frederick, huh..." He suddenly got jealous of the name, of the man that skilfully mixed drink on the other side. "So, what is he? Is he your—"

   "He's my brother," she cut him off. She took a step back and extended her arms a bit. "It's a family owned club."

   Damon let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "I can see that," he said, a genuine smile forming around his lips.

  "Do you want another drink?" she asked, turning back to the numerous bottles behind her. "Tell me, what other poison do you want?"

   "Give me the same thing as last time," he said. "I liked the bourbon, a lot."

   Freya served him a glass of bourbon, just like last time. He took it with a smile, raised the glass in her direction, and then took a careful taste of the amber coloured liquid. The acquired taste of wet burnt toast, liquid smoke, and a tiny bit of molasses hit his tongue. It was a strange taste, almost disgusting, but he couldn't stop himself from drinking it. Disgusting but addicting, in a way delicious.

   Suddenly, Damon sat up and looked at Freya with a short smile, and then extended his hand in her direction. "Freya Beauchene," he softly said, "would you like to dance?"

   She looked at him with astonished, as if she couldn't believe that this punk kid was inviting her to dance jazz. But, he kept his smile soft, his hand extended, and his toes somehow itching to dance. And it surprised him, because he wasn't supposed to like jazz, he wasn't supposed to want to dance, he wasn't supposed to feel.

   "Okay," she answered, slowly and hesitantly taking his hand.

   He still held her hand as she moved around the counter, and he could feel something he wasn't supposed to aching within him. With the same small smile and thoughts swarming his head, he led her to the dance floor. It wasn't really a dance floor, it was part of the floor he had moshed on to The Ramones, Television, Generation X, and so many more. Behind them, there were tables with red cloth, expensive looking drinks that were just a concoction of alcohol and juices, cigarette smoke coming from the clear ash trays, and the soft murmuring of judgemental pricks that commented on their choice of clothing. He could have worn something that wasn't leather, but he didn't think that he would be asking Freya to dance.

   Damon spun Freya around then pulled her to him as he wrapped his arm around her waist. His other hand found hers and laid them against his chest as they slowly swayed to the soft music. He allowed the music to take him, allowing it to pull him into the dance that he hadn't danced in decades.

   "How do you know how to dance?" Freya asked, a small smile around her lips and a tint of red around her cheeks.

   Damon shrugged his shoulder, gently pushed her and spun her around just to bring her back to him. "I'm very fond of dancing," he told her, winking.

   "Jazz," she said with an incredulous chuckle, as if she couldn't believe it. "You know how to dance jazz. I thought you were a good-for-nothing punk that only liked rock music."

   He smirked and continued to sway, looking down into her eyes. "A good-for-nothing punk," he repeated. "Oh, you should find out if I really am, Freya."

   "Are you asking me out, Damon?" She had a small smile around her lips, almost as if she were in a dream and everything around her would disappear in a second.

   Damon dipped her, making her let out a little squeal, and then brought her up to him with a smirk. "Maybe," he responded. He was teasing, he was enjoying himself, and it all surprised him. He wasn't supposed to feel like that because he was supposed to have no humanity, he was supposed to thirst and prowl the night for blood. There was no way he could feel nothing, especially when it was because of the girl in front of him. 

   "Well, I do have to get to know you first," she said, smiling up at him.

   "Well," he began, rolling his eyes half way before looking back down at her. "I'm a Gemini, I enjoy pickles, my favourite book is The Call of the Wild by Jack London, and I think bourbon is beginning to be my favourite drink."

   "Is that all?"

   "I'm from a uncanny village in the centre of Virginia," he finished. "Now, tell me about you."

   "Fine," she smiled. "I'm a Leo, I don't like pickles, my favourite book is Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, and my favourite drink is a Greyhound."

   "And you're from?"

   "Provincetown, Massachusetts," she responded with her lips slightly pursed. 

   He dipped her once again, and when he pulled her up she was closer than before. Their face were inches apart, and he stared from her lips back to her eyes. "It's better than my home town," he softly said, his breath colliding with hers. "Trust me."

   Freya and Damon ended up in the restroom of the Ground. She was pushed against the wall and he kissed her with all that he could. Only once had he ever felt such hot kisses, such hot touches, and that was back in 1864 with Katherine Pierce. His hand drifted to her hip, where he allowed his fingers to touch her skin, leaving behind cold trails with his fingertips and small scratches with his nails. 

   She tastes like bourbon and mint, he told himself. Bourbon and mint. Bourbon. 

   She had a hand on his chest and the other tangled between the gentle curls in the back of his head, and she pulled him closer with every little movement of their lips. He began to nuzzle her neck with delicate kisses. So faint, they felt like whispers. His head was angled slightly to the side as his lips came closer to hers. He was surprised to find her lips parted, waiting for him to finally kiss her once again. Their breaths mingled. Damon could feel her heart hammering against his chest, her breathing accelerated, and her blood pulsing through her neck. At first, it was a delicate butterfly of a kiss against her neck. Then it was ravishing. He licked, he nibbled, he bruised her skin and created his own mark. And suddenly, he felt it.

   The veins under his eyes appeared, the hunger took over, and his teeth almost sunk to her neck. He pulled himself away and took a deep breath, allowing himself to sink into the taste of the bourbon from earlier instead of thinking about her blood. When he opened his eyes, he saw watercolour green staring back at him. Before she could open her mouth to say anything else, he pushed his lips back to hers.

   As he kissed her, as he drowned the two of them in kisses and touches, he could hear everything around him. He could hear the soft jazz a few feet from the bathroom, the laughter and the clinking of glasses, the soft conversation about businesses and relationships, alcohol being poured into a glass, the intake of breath of the musicians. But, none of that mattered to him. The sounds that mattered to him then were the intake of breaths of the woman in front of him, her heartbeat hammering against his chest, the soft moans that escaped her mouth as they kissed. Damon enjoyed those little sounds more than the jazz playing at the other side of the wall, and he hated that. He was supposed to have his humanity off, so why was he having all of these emotions with this simple bartender?