My Vampire Idol
Shifting Reality, Book 3
R.G. Alexander
My Vampire Idol
Copyright 2014 by R.G. Alexander
Edited by D.S. Editing
Formatted by IRONHORSE formatting
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the publisher and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Dedication
Just one this time. You. Thank you for waiting, for asking for Mac's story when he thought he'd been long forgotten. For being patient and enjoying the funny. This book is dedicated to you.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
My Shifter Showmance
My Demon Saint
Other Books from RG Alexander
About RG Alexander
Chapter One
“Quick, say something Scottish!”
Mac paused with his glass halfway to his lips and sighed. Here? Here in the middle of the desert in a town he hadn’t even caught the name of? Was there nowhere he could go to get away from these idiots?
Turning away from the bar, he took in the skinny fan in the faded Shifting Reality T-shirt and the camera phone being held up to his face, its red light flashing.
“Och and Aye,” he muttered obligingly, lifting his glass to his lips while his other hand reached out to crush the phone with a speed that made the man gasp. “Now be a good lad, forget you ever saw me and fook off.”
He sent a forceful mental suggestion, not blinking until the dazed man turned and slowly shuffled away.
That was a stronger command than he’d intended. Poor boy probably wouldn’t remember his name for a day or two. He hated doing it, but it was necessary and he was in a foul mood. Being on camera was the last thing he wanted to think about at the moment.
Someday Mac really was going to kill Thomas. The damn cat had ruined his life. His dark, endless and, until recently, unrecorded life.
Thomas had already been a difficult roommate, coming and going at all hours, shifting in the penthouse and shedding all over the furniture. But it had been manageable and, Mac had to admit, life had been more entertaining with the shifter and the demon’s spawn around.
For a while.
Then Thomas had made him famous against his will, revealed some fairly classified information in order to meet his paramour and, now that he had her, had promptly disappeared to some undisclosed love shack until all the movie chaos died down.
The movie. The worst decision Mac had ever made.
When Thomas created Shifting Reality—an online video blog he’d started out of sheer boredom—his goal was to share what he was with the world. What they all were.
Mac believed it would never amount to anything, that it would disappear amongst the insanity and wild imaginings that filled those blasted machines Saint could control and most of humanity was now addicted to.
Instead, the blog had spread like a virus and was considered to be one of the most popular reality shows online. So popular that the “contest” they’d had—inviting people into Mac’s ancestral home in Scotland and allowing them to see for themselves what they were—set records. Interviews with the contestants who were present had piqued outside interest. Too much interest.
He took another drink and shook his head, unable to believe he’d gotten personally involved in that madness by the end. For what? For Thomas and Margo? For true love?
“Hah,” he muttered to no one in particular.
After it was done and they’d all agreed to sign with a particular production company for Thomas’ mate’s sake, Mac believed it was settled. But then the snooty bitch Margo used to work for decided she could retire by selling the rights and announced it before talking to them. An all-out bidding war had ensued, sparking more media attention than anything that had come before. More trouble. Far too widespread for Mac and Saint to clean up alone.
Thank you, Thomas.
Now the major studios were vying to make the star-studded sleeper about a shifter, a demon half-breed and a vampire revealing themselves to the world and finding love online. The last Hollywood rag he’d read before he left California had mentioned that Gerard Butler was angling to be cast as the curmudgeonly Scottish vampire with the heart of gold.
Mac grimaced. Good scripts must be hard to find.
A majority of people still believed Mac, Thomas and Saint were actors taking advantage of the popular paranormal trend. There was even an angry online petition demanding to know why the original cast was being shafted for bigger names.
Most of the world thought they were fictional characters. Most…but not all. And it was that small percentage that had sent Mac away from his castle—which since the show had become a fucking tourist attraction, with his ghostly but loyal housekeeper, Esther, standing guard. It had also driven him away from his comfortable penthouse apartment in Los Angeles after the manager had slipped several disconcerting notes under his door about his wife’s unusual fantasy—something to do with body glitter and handcuffs.
It was that percentage that had initially set him to wandering like a homeless vagabond, desperate to find a world without Wi-Fi. Without cable. Preferably without people. This bar in the middle of the Nevada desert had two out of three.
Good enough.
Not that he was hiding from anything. Vampires did not hide.
Saint, that snarky demonic bastard, would no doubt argue that hiding was all a vampire did. From the sun, from dangerously bitter exes who were angry for being turned. He’d say that lurking in shadows and huddling in coffins were prerequisites.
“Demons might be exhibitionists,” he’d often smirk. “But vampires are the kinky sharp-toothed voyeurs hiding in the closet.”
Mac snorted, finished his scotch and mentally corrected his absent friend. He was no voyeur, and the goal of his kind had never been to stay in the dark—but to hide in plain sight, saturating the media with fiction and embracing the clichés. That was the one true way to ensure any “witnesses” would be treated with skepticism. It was why he’d been upset, but hadn’t taken drastic action when Thomas had decided to come out. Why he’d believed helping the shifter get his girl wouldn’t cause any lasting harm. Hell, at the time, he’d had several vampires begging him to be on “the show”, so he’d assumed he was making the right call.
Deception and misdirection had always been key to the vampires’ survival, and even as Mac scorned that aspect of what he was, he knew he’d practiced both. That was how he’d continued to re
main in his home, to retain his wealth…to survive. The only creatures vampires were meant to be utterly forthcoming with were their own kind.
If someone had ever asked him to compare the vampire community to a human group? It would be the mob. If you were a “made man”—in the more literal interpretation of the word, of course—you were in. And once you were in, you followed the rules or faced the consequences. Bullshit excuses, even if they were true, were pointless.
The latest rumor he’d heard on the vamp grapevine was that they were no longer amused by Shifting Reality. They wanted explanations. They wanted his head on a platter along with the death of everyone involved in the online revelation that they hadn’t sanctioned. The one they couldn’t blame on large studios with exquisite special effects and Hollywood stars.
“Good fucking luck with that.” He tilted his glass in salute, knowing there was no way they could get their wish without creating a worse public relations nightmare. This genie couldn’t be shoved, beaten or drained back into its bottle. At least, not until the spotlight had turned away from them and onto another shiny toy.
Meanwhile, if anyone tried to touch his friends or the women they had finally found happiness with…there would be consequences. Mac knew as long as he was on the move, their attention would be focused entirely on him, which was the point. He was the more appetizing bait. The real traitor.
Two of their hunters had already failed and wouldn’t be trying again any time soon. Fucking demons for hire—a classless and desperate move in Mac’s opinion. If “they” wanted him, they could get up off their dusty arses and come for him themselves instead of hiring soulless thugs.
He swore softly. What was he doing? It would be easier to get it over with, to go to them and receive their judgment. But damn it, he didn’t want to. Not yet. He wanted to be left alone for a while. To find some peace before he faced his fate.
He’d had enough of watching Thomas and Saint live out their bliss with their significant others—he didn’t want to sign any autographs and he damn sure didn’t feel the need to kiss the cold, dead ass of some old-world, sissified vampires to be forgiven for his conduct or allowed a quick end.
Hell, he was in a dark mood.
Mac pounded his glass on the bar once to let the bartender know it needed to be refilled. He hadn’t been this maudlin since the decade after he was made.
High-pitched feedback from a microphone on the small stage made him flinch and grit his teeth. He was too old for this shit. He would go out into the desert at dawn and be done with the whole bloody thing, but that was a coward’s path. Mac was many things, but he had never been called a coward. He was just…what had Thomas called him?
Grumpy.
Hunkering down at the bar and attempting to appear as forbidding as possible, he tried to ignore the chipper, female twang that now echoed through the bar. The speaker smelled of canned peaches and Ivory soap. A perky scent for a perky voice.
“Welcome to the first annual Belly Up Jam,” she started, before whooping and causing the microphone to screech again. “Yippee! Oops. Sorry everybody.”
No one responded, enthusiastically or otherwise, and after a moment he could hear the shuffling of papers as she continued, “I can see a lot of people got last minute jitters and decided not to come in spite of all the flyers and hard work everyone put it. Well, shame on them. But the show must go on, right? Besides, I just have a really good feeling that they’ll be pouring in to enter before the contest is over. Maybe after the diner closes down for the night. This is an opportunity to represent our town, after all. And to win money for our school, which everybody knows could sure use some fixing up after that fire.”
Mac’s curiosity got the better of him and he turned on his barstool to look around the room. Including the man whose camera now contributed to the sawdust already coating the floor, there were six people—the skeletal bartender, dressed in a tattered leather vest and sporting a long, bushy beard; the short, plump woman with the dimpled smile currently at the microphone; and four other patrons besides himself. None of them looked as though they were here for a contest.
The woman continued, undeterred. “For those of you who are new here, I’m Jolene. Named after a popular song made famous by the irrepressible Miss Dolly Parton.” She did an impromptu curtsy before moving on. “My husband there, behind the bar, is Hobie. We own this little slice of heaven you’re sitting in, The Belly Up Bar, and we’re also the ones that thought, ‘You know what? Those kids are right. Our town has just as many talented people as anywhere else in the state of Nevada. Some of them could probably use a trophy and a recording contract. Some of them would love to have two hundred and fifty thousand dollars donated to their local school district. Let’s remind the folks way over there in Sin City what we’re made of’.”
One old man in the corner beat his beer mug on the table approvingly, and Jolene beamed. “Thank you, Dickie. So this is how easy it is. Come up here and sing a song. Any song. It can be a cappella,” she lowered her voice. “That means without instruments. Or you can take one of these guitars up here and show us what you’ve got so we can pick a winner and send him or her to Las Vegas to represent our community. Heck, we even rented a karaoke machine for the night. And if you don’t use it, Hobie will.” She winked at her husband who nodded in silent agreement. “He has hidden talents. For example, I bet y’all had no idea that when I met him he was a championship beat-boxer in Reno.”
One of the patrons groaned and Mac felt his lips twitch. He’d had no idea. Hobie didn’t seem the type. He might pay to see something like that before moving on. Who knew? It could put him in a better mood. Nothing really had in at least fifty years, but he was willing to give this a chance.
No one moved or made a sound and Jolene’s dimples disappeared. Mac sensed her emotions wavering, deflating like a balloon with a leak. “Doesn’t anyone want to go first? Dickie? Kip? We won’t judge too harshly, we promise. I’ve heard a few of you sing to the jukebox before. This is no different.”
Silence.
Mac had a sudden urge to leave. Her emotions were so strong they were affecting him. He could feel the waves of disappointment, embarrassment and worry rolling off her, knew she’d been waiting for this night, planning for it, for months. He was unaccountably angry on her behalf. No one deserved to be left hanging out to dry like that. To be made to twist in the wind because other people let you down. He, more than anyone, knew what that was like.
Maybe he’d stop by that diner she’d mentioned and make a few suggestions. His last good deed before he continued on his way, reminding himself for the next decade or so that attachments were for suckers.
He pushed back his stool to stand and his eyebrows lifted in astonishment when a bony hand covered his on the bar. The bartender. People rarely touched him without an invitation. Margo and Ume swore he had a menacing air.
“I paid my bill, Hobie,” Mac growled with extra attention to that menace, in case the man needed a double dose. “What’s the problem?”
“Sing.” Hobie’s voice was low and surprisingly cultured, belying his scraggly appearance. “I have a feeling in my gut that you can. Jolene has pinned all her hopes on tonight. Our young Kip had promised to be the first one on stage to sing something he’d written for his girlfriend. He’s good too, but he must have gotten nervous before he came and swallowed a touch too much liquid courage. He seemed fine a few minutes ago, but now the poor guy is drooling in the corner.”
Mac winced when he glanced over his shoulder to follow Hobie’s line of sight. Kip. The man with the phone. The man whose brain he’d turned to temporary pudding just moments ago. Hell.
Hobie squeezed his hand and Mac could feel him. His emotions might not be as jarring as his wife’s, but they were powerful nonetheless. Determined. He tightened his grip. “Drinks are on me, sir. All night long. I’ll even reopen the kitchen and make you something special, since you look like a man who can appreciate fine cuisine. I studied under a few m
aster chefs in Paris once upon a time. Whatever you want, just help me out. She pinned a lot of hoping on tonight and I can’t stand to see the woman I love cry. I’m sure you understand that, right?”
What was that thing Saint always used to say about his gifts? Damn vampire empathy? Of course he understood. Whether he wanted to or not. And he was hungry. It had been a few days since he’d had any food, any blood, or any reason to want either.
He’d never been a glutton. In fact, resisting temptation was one of his natural gifts—so much so his maker had often expressed jealousy at his restraint. Usually, he was also gifted at staying out of trouble and helping others do the same. Now Hobie wanted him to sing for his supper, so his perky peach-scented wife wouldn’t cry. Jesus, was he that soft a touch? Had all the romance he’d been surrounded by recently ruined him forever?
“Why the hell not?” he muttered, surprised by the words even as he spoke them. He did love music. Always had. There’d been a time he’d been praised for his voice. A time he’d found peace in a melody.
One song before he selfishly abandoned his castle staff and his friends for some much-needed solitude. No one would ever know, unless Dickie had a website no one was aware of or a hidden camera in that strange wandering eye.
He stepped away from the bar and held up his hand. “I’ll sing.”
Jolene shielded her eyes with her plump hand and gasped. “I think we have our first entry for the night! And he’s so handsome. You know I have a thing for men with facial hair. Look out Dickie, you may have some competition for our in-house-hottie contest.”
The old man glared at Mac, his whiskered chin practically touching his nose, his toothless mouth all but disappearing at the offending thought. Mac shook his head. “I think you’re safe, Dickie.”
He stomped toward the stage, cursing under his breath the entire time. All he’d wanted was a little alone time to brood.
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