Here Comes the Vampire (6 page)

Wiping my feet on the singles sectionp> --complete with a half page ad for Pump it Up, the latest and greatest in male enhancement products--I let myself in and headed up the five flights of stairs to my floor.

It was a quarter ‘til five in the morning and most everyone was still asleep. With the exception of my neighbor who lived across the hall. She was an accountant who loved Thai Food, perfume knock-offs and early-morning spreadsheets. The scent of Ed Hardley (no, it’s not a spelling mistake) surrounded me as I headed down the long corridor. The sound of a coffee machine gurgled in my ears, followed by the excited
tap tap tap
of fingers on a keyboard.

What’d I tell ya?

I reached my
Life is a Luau
doormat and slid my key into the lock. The knob clicked, the door opened and I walked inside. Nothing had changed since I’d left it three days ago. Two empty Barney bags still sat center stage (I’d made a few last minute purchases for the Vegas trip), along with a pile of clothes that hadn’t made it into the three suitcases I’d taken with me. The sight was both a bummer and a relief. A bummer because it meant that Ty was still out of town on his case and a relief because hey, Ty was still out of town on his case.

Meaning I still had time to figure a way out of my current predicament before he got back.

Meaning
maybe
, hopefully, I might not have to bore him with the details of how I’d gotten shit-faced and pledged my after-life to Remy.

I held tight to the hope, kicked off my shoes and drank in the scent of Chanel and kitty litter. Did I mention that I have a cat?

That’s English for obnoxious, uppity pain-in-the-ass.

I’d found Killer in an alley and done my civic duty by bringing him home instead of contributing to the city’s rodent infestation by feeding him to an already gonzo-sized sewer rat.

A choice I’d regretted on numerous occasions because he a)had more attitude than Kanye at an awards show and b) routinely yakked all over various wardrobe pieces—especially footwear--just to piss me off.

I’d left him with Mrs. Janske aka the Cat lady who lived downstairs. She had a houseful of her own “babies” and could always be persuaded to open her heart to one more of God’s precious creatures.

I’d had to bribe her to get her to take Killer.

His image flashed in my head and I had the sudden urge to race downstairs and pick him up. Not that I missed him. It’s just that my database wasn’t exactly overflowing with fifty-something Garfield addicts and I’d promised Mrs. Janske a free Dead End Dating hook-up with the cat lover of her dreams.
And
a super-sized bag of catnip, two cases of Kitty Cuisine and a month’s supply of kitty litter.

But she was probably still asleep and I couldn’t afford to waste even a minute. I needed to watch those DVDs. That, and I didn’t feel like putting away my shoes.

I left my bags in the living room and headed into the bathroom. Pulling the dreaded commitment vial from around my neck, I stifled a shiver and stuffed it into a drawer. I peeled off my clothes and stepped into the shower. Hot water blasted over me and for the next few minutes, I actually managed to forget about the past twenty-four hours. Instead I thought about Ty and the way he’d kissed me before I’d boarded the plane for Vegas and he’d headed off to Chicago in hot pursuit of his next bounty.

FYI—the vamp had mad skills when it came to sucking face. He didn’t gobble-you-up like some guys. He knew how to use his lips. His tongue. A little nibble here. A little stroke there. More nibbling. More stroking. Some impressive hand action to make things really interesting.

My mind stalled on the
interesting
part as I grabbed the soap and lathered up. Thanks to a cheap landlord and an ancient hot water heater, the fun.

The drinking.

The wedding chapel.

The elevator.

Ugh.

I rinsed off, killed the water and yanked the shower curtain aside. Grabbing a towel, I headed for the bedroom. Rather than throw myself face down on the Egyptian cotton for a major cry fest, I pulled on an old pair of
Juicy
sweats and a white
Hello Kitty
tank top and headed back into the living room.

I was a friggin’
vampire
and vamps didn’t cry. They were strong. Fearless. Invincible. Besides, I’d pretty much exhausted the waterworks when I was in the shower. Now I just felt tired. Dead tired.

Pun intended.

While the average denizen of the dark is the life of the after-hours party, we pretty much poop out at the first sign of a UV ray. We need solid, uninterrupted sleep to recharge our super senses. Otherwise we get cranky. Not the flipping-off-people-on-the-subway variety. We’re talking the I-want-to-rip-apart-any-and-everyone-who-gets-in-my-way
Queen of the Damned
kind. Not good for a vamp who doesn’t do blood and guts very well.

I needed to crash in a major way.

At the same time, I’d gotten myself into a deep mess that I needed out of
now
, otherwise I’d be picking out
His
and
Hers
coffins with Remy.

I stifled a yawn and headed straight for the fridge for a can of Red Bull.

Three cans later, I was wide-eyed and ready to go. I bypassed the blinking light on my answering machine, flipped the deadbolt on the front door and headed for my make-up case and the mountain of DVDs. I popped in the first one, sank down onto the couch with Red Bull number four and s
et out to prove my innocence.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Something’s wrong,” Evie declared when I walked into Dead End Dating on Monday afternoon.

After ten hours of DVD footage, twelve Red Bulls, eight cups of coffee and a big fat
nada
when it came to evidence.

“You look—“

“Tired? Listless? Drained?”

She eyeballed me. “Homicidal.”

I rest my case.

I chanced a glance in the large mirror that hung above Evie’s desk. While I had it going on in the fashionista department—crème-colored Eryn Brinie cardigan dress, gold python belt and Anya Hindmarch patent leather Faye wedges—the rest was straight out of a
True Blood
episode. My eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. My skin was pale despite the full tube of Shimmer & Shake Bronzer I’d slathered on after my shower. My blonde hair looked wild and uncontrollable despite two hours with a flat iron and a full tube of
Straight Talk
conditioner. My cheeks were hollowed out, my lips drawn, my jaw tense.

I looked desperate.

Depraved.

Hungry.

Definitely a vamp just this side of postal.

She flashed me a knowing grin. “Shouldn’t you be glowing? Oh, no, wait. Pregnant women glow. Married women eat.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You’re too nice to hate me. Besides,” she smoothed her blonde ponytail, “You know I’m just teasing you. I’ve got your back.” Excitement lit her eyes. “Even more, I’ve got the one thing that will make you feel loads better.”

“An eye witness that Remy and I didn’t do the nasty in Vegas?”

“Better.”

“An eye witness that we didn’t do the nasty and
DVD footage to back it up?”

“Way better.”

“An eye witnesdiv s that we didn’t do the nasty and DVD footage to back it up
and
Charlie Hunnam’s cell number?” Did I mention I was currently crushing on Jax from
Sons of Anarchy
? Not that I was going to call him up because, hey, I loved Ty. But a girl needs options.

“This is a hundred times more excellent than any of the above.” She held up a white bakery box. “I’ve got your sugar fix.”

In addition to having great fashion sense—Evie looked office perfect in a black ruffled BCBG skirt and white silk poet’s blouse—she also had it going on in the brains department. She’d come up with the fantabulous idea of offering free coffee and all-you-can-eat donuts to anyone who filled out a profile. While I’d been skeptical, the promo had brought in close to twenty clients the first week (and a few homeless guys who slept in the alley out back) and made a believer out of me. We’d been oozing Krispy Kremes ever since.

“I’ve got strawberry crème, chocolate crème, vanilla crème, chocolate glazed and bran.” When I arched an eyebrow, she added, “Mr. Fairweather from the Jenkinsville Retirement Home is coming over today to fill out a profile. He saw our ad in one of the local papers. He just lost his wife of sixty-nine years and he’s eager to get back on the horse. His words, not mine. He wants our senior special.”

“We don’t have a senior special.”

“We do now. I took our basic package and gave him a senior discount. He’ll be here in about—achewww!” She grabbed a Kleenex and motioned to the bakery box. “Knock yourself out.”

I shook my head. “They go straight to my hips.”

“They go straight to everyone’s hips.” She blew into the tissue. “That’s why God invented Fat Buster diet pills.”

“I don’t do diets.”

When she gave me a
girlfriend, puleeze
look, I added, “That is, I don’t do diet
pills
. I am on this high protein liquid program.”

She grabbed another Kleenex and caught another sneeze. “And that really keeps you from pigging out on nachos and ice cream and Snicker bars?” she asked, though it came out sounding more like
And that weally keepths you from pigging outh on nachos and ithe cream and Snither bars
?

“Never touch the stuff.” Although I did unwrap a candy bar on occasion just to take a whiff. The chocolate and peanuts reminded me of my great great
grandmaman
Chantal Germaine Renoit du Marchette who used to tell me stories about the old country and all the raids she’d gone on with her long-time BFF Attila the Hun.

FYI: All BVs emitted a rich, sugary scent that only other BVs could smell. Each fragrance was unique to a specific vamp, from my mother and her succulent cherries jubilee to yours truly and the ever fantabulous
parfum le
cotton candy.

Not that I’d enjoyed hearing about all the murders and decapitation (despite my BV heritage, death and destruction were so
not
my thing). Still, I’d liked sitting on
Grand-maman’s
lap, particularly since the woman knew how to bribe. Every time I’d climbed up on her knee, she’d handed me her priceless string of black pearls to play with during story time.

What can I say? I had my priorities.

“No donuts. I’ll just grab a cup of coffee,” I said even though I truly was ravenously hungry. Since I’d had zero sleep to rejuvenate me, I needed another source of energy.
Bring on the blood, baby
. My stomach grumbled and my gaze went to Evie’s throat. Her pulse raced thanks to all of the sneezing, making the vein throb and my insides clench. Usually females fed off males, but there was always the exception.

The evil side of me blurted out the argument and, thankfully, my good side jumped right in with both fists swinging.

Are you freakin Ce ye blurted ’ kidding me? Good assistants are hard to come by. And more importantly, you like Evie. Friends don’t bite friends. At least not without lots of Vodka, a Mexican waiter named Santiago and mutual consent.

All right, so maybe the Ninas and I
had
gotten a little too wild during our last Spring Break together down in Cabo and maybe, just maybe we might have staged a blind taste test just to see, you know, if we could tell who was who. It was just good, clean, intoxicated fun. The kind no one really talked about. Except as prime blackmail material.

But that’s beside the point.

All important at this moment? To get my feet moving ASAP before I turned Evie into the vamp equivalent of a Big Mac.

“I’ve got a ton of work to do,” I blurted as I made a bee-line for my office.

“What about the coffee?”

“I’ll get some later. You should go home and nurse that cold.” I slammed the door and let out a sigh of relief.
Out of sight, out of mind
. That’s what I told myself. Unfortunately, the person who’d coined the phrase had failed to take into account super duper vamp hearing.

The steady
ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk
echoed in my head and I hit the button on my iPod dock. Katy Perry launched into an oldie, but a goodie
Wakin’ up in Vegas
.

So
not
the song I needed to hear at the moment.

I queued up the next on my playlist. Lady Gaga’s
Bad Romance
poured from the surround sound.

Was I cursed?

I moved on to the third song. The speakers vibrated with a burst of synthesizer and Kesha’s voice filled the room, effectively drowning out Evie’s heartbeat.

There. That was more like it.

I sang a verse about brushing my teeth with a bottle of Jack as I rounded my desk and sank down into my chair. I
so
needed to download some new music. The new stuff from Selena Gomez and Maroon 5. Maybe a little Rihanna or Flo Rida. But every time I meant to, something came up. A new client walked in, or I did something desperately depraved in Vegas.

As I turned to put my purse in a nearby drawer, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the chrome pencil cup and the backs of my eyes burned.

A crazy reaction because I’d expected to look like hell after ten wasted hours of watching a Cher impersonator get it on with a Wayne Newton look-a-like in one of the guest bathrooms, three midgets beating up a security guard with a petrified sausage stolen from one of the breakfast buffets, and the lead singer of one of my favorite eighties bands getting shit-faced and peeing on a potted plant in the front lobby.

I blinked frantically. So what if I had wasted an entire day and hadn’t so much as glimpsed
the
elevator where Remy and I had supposedly done the deed?

That was a good thing. As long as I hadn’t actually seen yours truly having manic orgasms, there was still doubt.
Hope
.

At the same time, I was in a race against time to figure this out before Ty came home. Even more depressing, there was an extremely good chance that it would take several days—even weeks--to watch all of the footage, which meant I’d better get used to bad hair, horrible skin and the insane urge to have Evie for a McSnack.