Confessions of a Werewolf Supermodel (4 page)

One last sip of chocolate and I climb off my stool. “The adoption file is sealed; I've learned that much on my own. The Billingtons wouldn't tell me anything when they told me I was adopted; I doubt they will tell me anything now. Besides, it would be foolish for me to go back to Haven and try again with them. How do I explain this?” I make a sweep with my hand of my gorgeous self. “I'm never going back to Haven, Cindy. Ever. This is the best way to find my birth parents.”

My beauty bag is on the table. I've given up carrying a purse. I go over, retrieve a scarf, and tie it around my head.

“What if you do find your biological parents?” Cindy swivels around on her bar stool to ask. “What if they are just as normal as the next person? That isn't going to tell you why you sprout fur and fangs a week before your period lately and want to hump everyone. It might not solve anything, Lou. It might just cause trouble.”

Cindy might be right, but it's the possibility that she's wrong that keeps me on course. I move toward the door. “I need to find them. If they have answers for me, then I might be able to reverse what's been happening for the past six months.”

“What if it reverses everything?” Cindy asks. “Look around you, Lou. Look in the mirror. Can you ever really go back to being Sherry Billington now? Sometimes it is really better to let sleeping dogs lie.”

I'm tempted to cave—agree with Cindy and spend the rest of the day pigging out and watching cop shows with her. What if I did manage to reverse whatever happened to me seven years ago? It wouldn't reverse the fact I murdered someone. It might reverse the good looks it gave me. One thing is for certain. Men like Stefan O'Conner and Terry Shay would have never given me a second glance as Sherry Billington. I haven't come clean with Cindy about my motivations for finding my birth parents. Not all of them.

Deep down, I want to know why. Why they gave me up. Why I couldn't have been raised by two people who loved me. I was a normal baby … wasn't I? Would I have stayed normal if I'd been raised somewhere other than Haven, Texas? If I hadn't met Tom Dawson? There are too many unanswered questions. There are too many things at stake to simply ignore what's been happening for the past six months. Why is it happening now? I have to do all I can to find out, even if it means a risk of exposure.

“Let yourself out,” I tell Cindy.

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later my cab pulls up in front of a building that should have a condemned sign on the front door. I check the address again. I'm in the right place and I get the first suspicious inkling that I might be making a mistake. As usual, when I'm being stubborn about something, I ignore it. I pay the cabbie an extra fifty to wait for me.

The inside of the building is even less impressive than the outside. The lobby is empty, the floors scuffed. There's about two inches of dust on the vinyl furniture and the scarred sofa tables. My allergies immediately flare up. Through watery eyes, I glance at the directory on the wall beside the elevator.

Morgan Kane, PI, Floor 2.

After I push the button, the elevator fires up and heads down. The way it creaks and groans, I'm guessing it hasn't been serviced in about a hundred years. The doors open, emitting a musty smell that reminds me of the Billingtons' basement. I step inside and push floor two. The doors close, the thing lurches, and I'm on my way to where? The nearest freak show if I'm not careful.

The second floor is dark and eerie. I hear music and glance down the long hallway. There's a light shining through a door nearly at the end. I head that way. Once I reach the door, I knock, but the music blares so loudly I doubt Morgan Kane can hear me. I test the knob. It's unlocked. The door swings open.

Inside, a man stands before streaked floor-to-ceiling windows. He faces the uninspiring view of yet another dilapidated building across the street, but the man is inspired nonetheless. His fingers move over an electric air guitar, head swinging wildly to the hard rock of Led Zeppelin. His hair is shoulder length and dirty blond. He wears skintight black leather pants and snakeskin cowboy boots. Beneath his unbuttoned wrinkled shirt, flashes of skin peek at me and a ring through his left nipple catches the flimsy light streaming through the windows.

I don't know who he is, but he is not what I expected Morgan Kane to look like, so I assume I'm in the wrong place, which is a better dilemma than this guy's. He's in the wrong decade.

“Excuse me!” I yell, trying to be heard over the music.

He jumps in the air, goes down on one knee, and plays the shit out of his air guitar. I jump in the air when he suddenly breaks into song. Something about mamas sweating and grooving. More air guitar playing. Now some head butting with a few hip thrusts thrown in. I'm repulsed and mesmerized at the same time. I would shout out again, but I'm still hoarse from shouting over the wind during the underwear shoot. I spot the stereo, walk over, and switch it off.

The pounding music thankfully stops, but the rock god parties on. He continues to play and leap about in odd fashion for a good five minutes. Suddenly he stops, cocks his head, and turns to face me. His eyes are red rimmed and muddy brown.

“You my ten o'clock?” he asks without missing a beat.

“That would depend on whether or not you're Morgan Kane,” I answer without missing one, either.

“In the flesh.” He lays the air guitar aside and moves toward a desk on the other side of the room. “Step into my office,” he calls behind him.

I don't step anywhere. I'm freaked out by the fact he laid an imaginary guitar aside. That's when I have an epiphany. There are people in the world way weirder than I am.

Across the room, Kane digs around the top of his desk, comes up with a pack of Marlboro reds, shoves one between his lips, and lights it up. I don't remember the last time I saw someone smoke inside a public building. My eyes immediately water. I sneeze.

“Bless you, cupcake,” Kane calls in a smooth Southern drawl. “Now bring it on over here and let's talk business.”

Cupcake? As Cindy often points out, I am freakishly strong. I could probably swing Kane around the room by his nipple ring. I'm disappointed that he doesn't look professional. I can't believe I actually got a reference on this guy. Last year one of the models I know asked him to find her little sister, who'd gone underground with some type of porn ring. Kane had found her. He's supposed to be good at finding people, but Meagan hadn't said anything about the nipple ring, the air guitar, or the cowboy boots.

“I'm allergic to cigarette smoke,” I tell him.

He waves the smoke floating around his head away and snuffs the cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray. “You should have said so.” When he flashes me a grin, I see that he has dimples hidden beneath the three days' growth of dark whiskers on his face. “You coming?”

I glance around. “I'm allergic to dust, too.”

Kane moves around his desk and sits in a chair with stuffing dangling from several rips. “Sorry, cupcake, my cleaning lady comes later today.” He leans back in his chair and props his boots on the desk. “Now, unless you're allergic to snakeskin, come over and sit down so we can talk.”

Against my better judgment, I move toward him. “I'm not sure about snakeskin. But I'm sure I'm allergic to being called ‘cupcake.'”

Kane flashes the dimples again, which would be a better charm tactic if he shaved. “Sheathe the claws, kitten. I'm here to help you.”

I fight the urge to glance at my hands and see if I actually do have claws and take a seat on a cold metal chair across from him. Kane smiles again and I almost expect him to reach across the desk, pat me on the head, and say, “Good girl.” Which would make him lose a hand.

Instead of reaching for me, he reaches into a desk drawer and pulls out a bottle of Wild Turkey. “A little hair of the dog,” he says, then unscrews the cap, takes a swig, and offers it to me. It's a challenge of sorts so I take the bottle and actually drink after him.

“Tell me what you need, cup … ah, Ms. Smith, is it?”

I try not to cough from the liquor burning my throat, not to mention the dust and the cigarette smoke. I nod, a little embarrassed that I couldn't come up with a better fake name when I made the appointment. So I'm beautiful but not creative. Sue me. I didn't want this guy looking me up if I didn't show. Not to mention jacking up his prices when he found out who I am.

“That's my name for now,” I say when I can finally speak again. “We'll discuss that more if I decide to hire you.”

Kane leans farther back in his chair and I think it would be great if it tipped over and he fell. “Of course you're going to hire me, cupcake.” He sighs. “Oops, I forgot again. What do you need me to do for you, Ms. Kinipski?”

The liquor seems to come right back up. I cough and choke while he smiles calmly at me from across his desk. Cindy would at least pat me on the back, not that I want this guy touching me. “How do you know my name?” I finally wheeze. “Did you trace my phone or something?”

His smile stretches. “Didn't have to. I know your face, even with the scarf and the sunglasses.” He turns his squeaky chair around and motions to the streaked floor-to-ceiling windows. There's a giant billboard across the street with my face on it, lips puckered up to advertise “won't wear off until you're dead and buried” lipstick.

“I'm guessing Meagan referred me,” he continues, turning to face me again. “If you want the best, you want me. Bottom line.”

This guy's picture must illustrate the word “cocky” in the dictionary. I'm sure it's in there again under “slimeball.” Something about him, besides the obvious, immediately rubs me the wrong way. But I've come this far. I may as well tell him what I want. “If I hire you, I'd want you to look for someone for me.”

Kane shakes his dirty-blond head. “No, you'd want me to
find
someone for you. And I will. Just tell me who.”

For the first time in six months, I really believe there is a chance of finding my birth parents. Of finding possible answers about my condition. Like most people confronted with actually getting what they wish for … Cindy's warning keeps sounding in my head. Morgan Kane might be able to find my biological parents, but what else is he going to find out in the process?

“How about I think about it for a couple more days and get back to you?” Even if I decide to proceed, it doesn't mean I have to hire Morgan Kane. Surely I can find someone who doesn't wear snakeskin boots or call me “cupcake.”

Kane takes another swig of Wild Turkey. “Looks are often deceiving, Ms. Kinipski. If and when you decide you want the best, I charge fifteen grand to find someone. If it's more than one person, fifteen a head. I expect half up front.”

At least he's not cheap. “Good to know you crack cases as well as you play air guitar,” I say sarcastically.

The cocky grin that seems permanently attached to his face fades. He leans forward in his squeaky chair. “For the record, I don't play air guitar. I play real guitar in a band that has a running gig every weekend at Freddie Z's. I consider investigating a part-time job but I take it seriously. Ever been to the club?”

I've heard of Freddie Z's. Some of the girls like to go there, but I've never tagged along. Lots of noise. Big meat market. “No.” I rise from my chair. “Not my kind of place.” Turning, I head for the door. “I'll be in touch,” I lie.

Kane blocks my exit a second later. “You sure you haven't been to the club? I feel certain I've seen you there, in the crowd.”

Does Kane think I've been to the club, or is that a line? How many women walking the streets of New York resemble me? Sally Preston did. She's dead. No connection, I tell myself for the hundredth time since Terry Shay shoved her photo at me.

“I've never been there,” I assure Kane. Shoving past him, I walk out into the hallway … and keep walking.

“Be seeing you, cupcake,” Kane calls after me.

I'm one hundred percent certain Kane will not be seeing me again. He gets on my last nerve. There's a sleaze factor to him I'd rather avoid. The factor comes into play when I feel him watching me. Or rather, more probably, he's watching my ass as I walk down the hallway. He can take a good long look. This is the last he'll see of me.

CONFESSION NO. 4

Cindy always tells me not to go borrowing trouble. I tell her some people don't have to borrow trouble. There are those like me who get all the trouble they can handle for free.

My face is pale in the neon blink of a light outside the window. There is a man on top of me. We're having sex, although I can't feel him inside of me. I'm an observer
—
like in a dream where you hover overhead, watching. I must like what he's doing, even if I can't feel it. My head tosses back and forth on the pillow. My mouth opens and closes, moving in a way that looks as if I'm moaning.

I see myself, but not the man. Only the back of his head
—
long dark hair, a glimpse of broad shoulders, and a word tattooed on his left shoulder that I can't read due to the strobe light effect.

The man's head and shoulders bob up and down, he's really pumping. My head arches back and my mouth opens wider. I'm climaxing. I'm looking at him, but I don't see him … only I must see something. My eyes suddenly widen. My mouth is moving again, but I don't think I'm moaning now. I'm screaming. The man's hands twist into my hair … but they are not hands. Not human hands. Covered with fur, claws jut from his fingertips. Then he bites me on the neck where the jugular is located.

Blood spurts on the ceiling, on the sheets, on my T-shirt lying on the floor, the word
EROTICA
scrawled across the front.