Death Takes a Holiday (15 page)

“Reason number fifty-seven we broke up. Your horrible taste in music!” I laugh.

“Like ABBA is any better,” he says.

“It’s peppy!”

“It’s crap!”

“But it’s peppy crap,” I point out.

Still smiling, he shakes his head. I’ve never seen him grinning so much without a bowling ball in his hand. We ride in silence for a minute, the longest we’ve gone without talking all night. I gaze out the side window at the lit-up stores and cars passing, but know he’s glancing at me. I’m actually a little sad the night’s over. We—

Instead of turning left toward the alley, Steven makes a sharp right toward the park, then a quick left into the empty parking lot, his breath heavy for someone not running a marathon.

I have no idea what to expect as he shuts off the engine. “Steven, what—”

He grabs my neck and at the same time leans in, pressing his lips to mine. The kiss lasts only a second before he releases me. He studies my face for a reaction, but all I can muster is shock. I’m breathing as heavily as he is but his face is almost bestial with lust. I’ve never had a man gaze at me like that in real life. It’s amazing. And catching. The shock disappears as the words, “What the hell” ticker-tape through my brain.

I kiss him this time. There’s no tenderness on either end, just carnal coupling. Awesome. Our tongues explore as hands rove though each other’s hair. It’s familiar and not at the same time. Lord, I forgot how much I missed kissing. The skin on skin, the devouring of another person like chocolate. The passion of connecting with a man you want. It’s yummy.

To say I’m sexually frustrated is like saying Hurricane Katrina was just a rain shower. All day, every day, I’m surrounded by handsome, sexy men who I dash into life-or-death situations with. Nothing breeds lust like almost dying. Your adrenaline is rushing, you’re thankful to be alive, and you want to express it in some way. One time I almost succumbed, all but throwing myself at Oliver and potentially ruining our relationship for a few minutes of ecstasy. It makes me cringe just thinking about it. He put on the brakes, and we never spoke about it again. That was the closest I’ve come to having sex in two years. I need this, damn it.

I pull off my jacket as he takes off his. We kiss again as I attempt to straddle him, but I bump into the steering wheel. “Ow.”

He chuckles then moves the wheel up and seat back so I have more room. “There.”

Our mouths connect again, and this time I make it onto his lap. My shirt lifts off followed by his. I’m not the only one who’s gone through a physical transformation. He’s ripped: six pack, rock hard pecs, and biceps. He must have been visiting the gym twenty-four seven to get these results. Pleasant surprise. I hug his neck and pull him closer, kissing him like the horny teenager I never got the chance to be. His arms wrap around my bare back. I can feel the bulge in his pants grow against my jeans and without realizing it my crotch rubs up against him. He moans a little and I move up and down against him, tingling with each tiny movement. His hands move to my front, first over my bra but quickly reaching under it, his palms massaging my sensitive nipples. I break the kiss as a tiny moan escapes me. His mouth moves to my neck, nibbling and sucking just above my scar.

Involuntarily, I tense up at the first nibble. For an instant I’m back on that grass in Colorado pinned by an insane vamp as his fangs rip into my body. He held me down as he lapped up blood, his tongue toying with my raw wounds and his erection growing just like now. I pull my neck away, but it’s not Oliver’s confused expression below me. “What?” Steven asks.

“Can you just … not do that?”

“Okay.” He kisses me again, but all the passion has drained on my part. I meet his kisses, but my heart and libido aren’t in it anymore. Nothing like a PTSD flashback to spoil the mood. We continue kissing, and there is only a small part of me that wants to continue, to have strong arms around me, to have someone inside filling me. But as he unbuttons my jeans and I open my eyes, I realize I don’t want
this
person to do these things. Sure we had fun tonight, but he’s still Steven. I’ve been here before and didn’t like where it went. And as he unzips my jeans, a flash of Will’s face the other night as he gazed into my eyes with such pain and longing, connecting to those same parts of me, fills my vision as if it’s occurring now.

“Stop,” I hear someone with my voice saying.

“What?” Steven asks.

“I can’t do this,” I say. “I can’t do this. Sorry.”

I climb off him and fall back into the passenger seat, just needing to sit still. I don’t look at him and actually block that half of the car from my mind. I wish I could just teleport out of here. At this moment it would be great if I was the only person on the planet. I’m a tramp. A hussy. Here I am leading one man on while desiring another. I disgust myself.

Steven doesn’t utter a word, but confusion and anger radiate from him enough to prickle my already sensitive skin. I close my eyes and breathe deep to calm myself down. After a few seconds I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

He pauses with his short breaths, the only response before he says, “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know,” I say as I zip up my pants.

“Is it that guy?” he asks in a low voice that almost hides his anger.

I put on my shirt. “I don’t know.”

We’re silent again, both of us just staring out into the dark, desolate park. I have the strongest urge to jump out of this truck and run all the way home. Before I can implement this plan, my cell phone vibrates inside my purse. I’ve never been so happy to hear that sound. “I have to get it,” I say quietly. “It might be Nana.” Right now, I’d take Freddy Krueger’s call. My purse is on the floor and continues vibrating until I locate the phone. It’s a local number I don’t recognize. “Hello? Beatrice Alexander.”

“Oh God! Please help me!” a girl implores as someone pounds on a door.

“Who is this?” I ask, my eyes growing wide. Steven’s expression morphs from anger to confusion.

“Mariah!”

“Let me in!” a man says on the other end through the continuing thumps.

“Mariah?” I ask, having no clue who this girl is.

“M, come on!” the man shouts.

“What’s going on?” Steven asks.

“You gave me your card today!” Mariah says. Then as if the phone is far from her mouth she shouts, “Moon, go away! I’ve called the F.R.E.A.K.S. people!”

“Who?” the man, I guess Moon, shouts back.

“Mariah, are you still there?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. “He went postal over the hamburger. I think he might, like, kill me.”

“I would never kill you,” Moon pleads through the door.

Steven, who has been listening to my every word but I pray not to the other end of the conversation, continues staring at me. This is bad. He’s a cop. If I let on something is wrong, he’ll insist on going with me. Against an angry vampire. With the fangs, and the mind control, and super-strength. So instead of the fear actually coursing through my veins right now, I roll my eyes and shake my head. I press my finger against the receiver and whisper, “She’s at a bar. Drunk.” I remove my finger. “Mariah, I’m so sorry to hear that. I’m on my way over. Just stay
exactly
where you are. What’s the address?” In between Moon’s constant banging and pleads, she rambles the address. It’s about ten minutes away. “Just stay put. I’m on my way.”

“Thank you,” she almost cries before hanging up.

I shut my phone. “Sorry about that.”

“Everything okay?” Steven asks.

“Yeah. Just the usual break-up depression.”

“Do you want me to drive you over there?”

“No,” I say too forcefully. “It’s okay. Just take me back to my car. I can handle it alone.”

I’m pretty sure he doesn’t buy this story, but he puts his shirt back on and starts the car. “Fine.”

We don’t talk in the two minutes it takes to return to the bowling alley. My leg keeps jittering, and Steven occasionally peeks over at me, but we say nothing. I barely wait for him to stop the car before jumping out. “I
promise
I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” I shut the door before he can answer.

My trembling hand finds my keys and opens the car door. As I pull out, narrowly missing an oncoming car that rightly honks at me, I put the address in my GPS and zoom out of the lot. A block later I locate my cell and press redial. She picks up on the first ring.

“Hello?” Mariah asks.

“It’s Agent Alexander. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I locked myself in the bathroom.”

“Are you safe there? Can he get in?”

“I think so, but he hasn’t yet,” she says breathlessly. “He stopped knocking a minute ago. I don’t know where he went. I’m really scared.”

“I know, but I’ll be there in seven minutes. Stay on the phone until I do.”

“Okay.”

“Um, tell me how you met him, okay?”

She starts talking, but I don’t really listen. I just saw in this movie that you’re supposed to keep them on the phone and talking to keep them calm. I throw in a few, “Oh really?” and “Tell me more” just so she knows I’m here with her. My low-level panic rises with each mile. I have no weapon or anything that can be used as a weapon except a pen. Then there’s the fact I have no backup. The last time I attempted to take on a vamp alone, I almost died. I have no idea what I’m going to say or do. I don’t have a plan. I
hate
not having a plan.

Speeding like a NASCAR driver on uppers, I reach the house in five minutes. I’m always amazed that nightmare creatures like vamps, werewolves, and witches live in the suburbs too. Looking at this one-story, stucco ranch house with a dead lawn and chainlink fence, I’d assume I’d find a meth lab not a bloodsucker.

“I’m outside,” I say into the phone. “Can you come out?”

“I’m scared,” she says. “Can you come in and get me?”

The smart part of my brain screams, “Possible trap, you idiot,” but the compassionate part says, “Help her.” For the second time tonight I ignore the smart part. She needs help and that’s what I’m duty bound to do. Even on holiday. “Alright, where are you?”

“In the bathroom in the master bedroom. The patio door should be unlocked.”

“Where’s Moon?”

“I don’t know.”

Great. Wonderful. Perfect. “Okay, I’m hanging up now. Stay where you are.” I flip the phone shut and take a deep breath before getting out. Not being a total idiot, on my way around to the back I dial the mansion. No one picks up so I have to leave a friggin’ message. “Hi, it’s Bea,” I whisper. “It’s 9:39 pm in San Diego, and if you do not receive a call by ten, please send backup to 4562 Vida Avenue in Chula Vista, California. I am responding to an emergency call regarding a vamp named Moon by his companion Mariah. I really hope you get this.”

I keep the phone out and my finger on redial as I open the dirty sliding glass door and step in. The living room just has the bare essentials like secondhand couch, old TV, and heavy drapes on all the windows. It smells stale and musty as if those windows have never been open. The only decorations are a Grateful Dead poster on the wall and black and white Native American blanket on the couch. Cautiously, I walk through the living room, eyes jutting to every possible hiding spot.

“Mariah,” I call, “it’s Special Agent Beatrice Alexander. I’m here. Come out.”

A door squeaks open down the hall, and a moment later the girl walks out. The first thing I notice is the blood on the collar of her tie-dyed shirt. She’s paler than before too if that’s possible. The black eye and bruise on her cheek really show on her skin. There are more bruises on her arms and legs but they’re older, some already yellowing. “Thank you,” she almost cries.

I eye the two closed doors down the hall. I wave her toward me. “Come on.”

“I need to get some of my stuff,” she says before disappearing back into the bedroom.

“Leave it!” Damn! Drawers open and close down the hall. Nobody ever listens to me. Shaking my head, I fall onto the couch and sigh. At least it wasn’t a trap. He would have attacked by now. More drawers and hangers clatter. “We need to go!” I shout.

“Almost done!”

Not quick enough. The front door opens, and I leap off the couch just as an extra from
Hair
walks in. His stringy brown hair falls below his shoulders with a bushy beard covering his face. Most of the vamps I’ve encountered wore skintight designer clothes or nothing, but this guy is decked out in a loose peasant top, camouflage green pants, and sandals. In December. The last living (well, sort of) hippie. And he does not look happy to see The Man, or in this case The Woman, in his living room. I toss my shoulders back and hold up my chin, which improves my threatening quotient about ten percent.

“You the pig?” Fuzzy McJerkface asks as he shuts the door.

“I am Special Agent Beatrice Alexander of the F.R.E.A.K.S.,” I say in a hard tone.

“Where’s Mariah?”

“In the bedroom packing. We don’t want any trouble.”

He scoffs. “You have no right to take her. I’ve broken no laws.”

It’s my turn to scoff. “You beat her for eating a cheeseburger. You are literally draining the life out of her.”