Way, way up I decided after several minutes of deep thought. I pushed to my feet and grabbed my purse.
A quick swipe of lip gloss and I headed for—where else?—the nearest church.
Four
I didn’t actually go to church.
Despite my soft spot for MasterCard commercials, I am a vampire. Not that I’m liable to start smoking or burst into a ball of flames or anything that clichéd. But I do get this very uncomfortable case of hives.
My father says it’s because we’re born and bred in darkness, vessels of evil, minions of Satan (Yeah, I know. Overinflated ego fueled by way too many reruns of Dark Shadows).
My mother—just as much ego, but with an edge of practicality—says I’m allergic to the chemicals used in the stained glass (my great, great, great aunt Michelle has a similar problem. She fed on a clergy member during a tour of Canterbury Cathedral a few years back and swelled up like a Weeble). That, and I’m allergic to the accumulated holiness.
My POV? It’s the overabundance of guilt.
Which was why I bypassed the sanctuary of St. Michael’s Cathedral and headed for the recreation hall situated in the rear. It was Thursday—ladies’ night—which meant plenty of bingo and beer. The place was packed.
I paid my donation, picked up a Corona and a game card, and went in search of an empty chair. After winding my way around several tables filled with retired couples, I wedged myself between two thirty-ish blondes.
The one on my right had blue eyes (yeah, baby), a nice complexion, a decent figure (at least from the waist up) and a passion for bingo. She had seventeen cards spread on the table before her and the look of a woman on a mission.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Lil. Lil Marchette. I own Dead End—”
“Ssshhh.” She flashed me a glare before directing her attention to the old woman who stood at the front of the room pulling balls out of a spinning wire cage. “What did she just say?”
“B5,” I said. “I think.” She gave me another glare and I took the opportunity to use my super vamp skills to peek into her thoughts. Allison Martin. Paralegal from Queens. Single mother of two. Celibate since her last boyfriend six months ago (unless you count Buddy the Boner, an extra-large vibrator she’d purchased last month). She was desperate to win tonight’s pot because her youngest needed a communion dress and she herself needed a new stash of batteries.
Maybe.
Vinnie hadn’t mentioned kids on his Must-Have list, but he hadn’t listed them in the No Friggin’ Way section either. No, the only thing he’d written there had been NO PLASTIC SURGERY. Because Vinnie wanted a real woman.
With big breasts.
And a nice butt.
And great feet.
And—
I bailed from the mental list before it could lead me straight into a murky pit of hopelessness. Pulling out a business card, I slid it near her beer bottle. Then I turned to blonde number two.
“Hi,” I started, but quickly clamped my lips shut when she turned a frown on me.
Cecilia Dehart. Computer programmer. Three cats, one dog, and a hamster named Monique. She liked rollerblading and shopping (atta girl) and cuddling with her animals. Major talk-show junkie whose five minutes consisted of running into Jerry Springer at a Hard Rock Cafe and spilling the sordid details of her last breakup. She hadn’t made it onto the show—“My Boyfriend’s a Cross-dressing Bisexual and I’m Having His Twins”—but she had landed a ticket to be in the studio audience. She was eager to win tonight’s pot because she wanted to send her babies—Laffy, Taffy and Daffy—to Fur-Sace, the new elite pet spa that had just opened up in the Village.
Hmmm…My own cat—which I owned completely by default, NOT because I was lonely—was overdue for a makeover. I made a mental note to make an appointment for Killer (complete with ultra-deluxe deodorant package), stashed one of my cards next to Cecilia’s Diet Coke, and turned my attention to the half-dozen other people at the table.
Three of them were women. A widow who’d just celebrated her eightieth birthday. A middle-aged nurse who worked nights at Bellevue. And a recent high school graduate headed to Columbia.
“Hi,” I announced, and received a collective “Ssshhh,” followed by a muttered, “Talk about a nervy bitch.”
This wasn’t working quite as well as I’d anticipated. Since I was looking for a woman, the power of suggestion wasn’t going to work (I can only wow the opposite sex). I needed an actual conversation to get them to see how lonely and pointless their lives really were without a significant other. Case in point: it was a beautiful, moonlit night in the most vibrant, happening city in the world and they were playing bingo. Alone. Talk about depressing.
I blinked against the sudden burning in my eyes. Not that I was actually crying because I realized how lonely and pointless my own life was without a significant other. Or because I missed Ty. Or because I was contemplating letting my mother fix me up.
Remy was prime material when it came to born vamps. While I knew we had no romantic connection, I had no qualms about getting together as friends.
Especially if it got my mother off my back.
On top of that, I had great hair, a kick-ass wardrobe, and a thriving matchmaking service.
Sure, I was playing bingo, alone, on a beautiful, moonlit night, but I wasn’t enjoying it. It was purely in the interest of self-preservation.
“N32,” the loud speaker crackled.
I glanced down at my own game card, saw the square, and a tiny thrill went through me.
So maybe I was enjoying it a little. It wasn’t as if I had anything better to do until the game ended and I could network.
Fifteen minutes later, I was a mere I27 away from victory when an elderly woman with a flowered hat let out a “Whoop! Whoop!”
“Looks like we have a winner, folks,” the game caller announced, and several four-letter words echoed around the room, a few courtesy of yours truly. “We’ll take a ten-minute intermission to check the winning card. In the meantime, enjoy the food and beverages, and don’t forget to donate for the annual spring jubilee. The proceeds go to help our missionaries in Costa Rica.”
Tamping down my disappointment (we’re talking a five-hundred-dollar pot), I poised myself and reached for my business cards.
I was about to open my mouth when the collective sound of chairs being pushed back grated across my eardrums. Just like that, I found myself alone except for eighty-year-old Clara.
While she wasn’t even close to Vinnie’s type, I wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to add one more eligible single to the Dead End Dating family.
“I own a local dating service and would love the opportunity to help you find the perfect man to share your golden years,” I blurted as she struggled to her feet and reached for her walker. “Maybe we can chat—”
“Sorry, dear, but if I don’t get to the concession stand, they’ll run out of nachos and the popcorn gives me gas.” She swung her walker around and waddled away.
This so wasn’t working like I’d anticipated.
I sat back in my chair to regroup and plot my next move. Since I wasn’t stupid enough to try to compete with a bag of chips or a Snickers bar, I wasn’t going near the snack bar line. Nor was I moving on to Bunko night over at St. Andrew’s or “Name That Reality Show” over at St. Mary the Virgin, not when I’d already wasted a good twenty minutes—and come this close to five hundred bucks myself—right here.
Seventy-one hours, twenty-eight minutes and counting…
Panic bolted through me and jump-started my brain cells. Genius struck and I pushed to my feet to head for the one area in the church sure to be brimming with desperate, available women—the restroom.
Out in the hallway, my gaze snagged on the line stretching out the door and down the hall. I sent up a desperate thank-you to the Big Vamp Up High, pulled a handful of cards from my favorite Dior box purse, and went to work.
By the time I’d schmoozed my way down the line, I’d met a to
tal of zero possibilities. The single women were either (a) brunette, (b) old, (c) flat-chested, (d) bitchy (we’re talking a long line), or (e) all of the above.
Ugh. Where was Catholic Barbie when you really needed her?
The question nagged at me as intermission ended and I watched everyone file back into the main room.
I was about to head back in myself and snag a few extra game cards (what?) when I heard a door open. I watched as a fairly attractive woman (tall, curvy, blond) headed for the far end of the hallway. Platform wedges thumped the laminate as she rounded the corner and disappeared.
I glided across the floor after her in time to see her walk through a doorway on the left marked STORAGE. I stepped into the small room just as she climbed halfway up a six-rung ladder propped against a wall of shelves. She reached up, stretching her arms toward a gallon-size can of nacho cheese sauce on the top shelf.
“Shit,” she muttered, followed by a “Sorry,” as she crossed herself and tackled another rung. The ladder wobbled and she grasped at the edge of a shelf. A can of jalapeños fell to the floor and rolled toward the corner.
The door clicked shut behind me and she let out a startled “Oh.” She threw a glance over her shoulder, followed by a relieved smile. “Thank God somebody’s here. Can you hold the ladder while I see if I can reach this?”
“No problem.” I set my purse on a nearby box of Styrofoam cups. My hands closed over the ladder supports and Barbie tackled the next rung. Then another. Until she reached the top.
“Darn it.” She shook her head. “I still can’t reach the stupid thing.” She started to climb down. “I’ll have to go find Earl—”
“Oh, I bet we can get it.”
“But my arms are too short.”
“Maybe you just needed to loosen up. Now that you’ve stretched, you’re more pliant. Give it another try.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said, but she climbed back up again.
“There you go. You’re so limber. I bet you’ll have no trouble.”
“Yeah, right.” She shook her head. “Here goes nothing.” She stretched.
I summoned my ultra-BV strength and lifted the ladder as if it were made of Lincoln Logs. Her fingers snagged the can and crawled around the side.
“I’ve got it,” she declared. “I’ve really got it.” She pulled the can down into her arms. “You were right.”
By the time she glanced down, the ladder was back on the floor. She looked victorious a full second before she did a double take.
The ladder, the shelf. Ladder. Shelf. Confusion clouded her baby blues.
“That’s weird. It looks farther away—”
“I don’t think we’ve met,” I cut in, giving her my most brilliant smile. “I’m Lil Marchette.” I stepped back as she climbed down. “I own the dating service a few blocks over.”
“Carmen,” she offered, hefting the cheese onto her left hip.
Carmen Gianno to be more exact. Fourth-generation Italian and the only one of nine kids who’d yet to tie the knot. She’d been close. But then her partner of eight years had left her and she’d sworn off relationships for a while. Since she’d been flying solo for so long—two years to be exact—she wasn’t sure how to get back in the game, especially since she was so busy. She volunteered for a local KEEP NEW YORK CLEAN project on the weekends and ran the church daycare during the week. She’d started working the snack bar on Thursday nights in the hopes of meeting a man—specifically a straight guy who wouldn’t cheat on her with a stockbroker named Dean. She loved kids and cookbooks. Her ultimate dream was to have a traditional Catholic wedding, move to New Jersey, and have a family of her own. That, or pledge her loyalty to the church and enter the convent. She’d made up her mind that if Prince Charming didn’t show up in the next six months, she was giving up her Levis and buying a penguin suit.
I swept a gaze from her head to her toes. Pink-tipped toes peeked out at me from the wedges. Long legs clad in modest but nice-fitting jeans. Tiny waist cinched with a dynamite Brighton knock-off belt. Decent chest covered in a white peasant’s blouse—
My gaze fixed on the deep cleavage peeking over the top button. “Are those your real boobs?”
“What?”
Yeah, what?
“I’m, uh, just wondering,” I rushed on, “because I’ve thought about having some work done myself.” It wasn’t like I could blurt out the truth—that I was scoping her out as the potential Mrs. Balducci. Not yet. She needed to meet Vinnie first. To get to know the man beneath the rough exterior (and panty fetish). “Whoever did yours is a genius.”
She smiled. “Thanks, but the only one who gets credit for these is the Big Guy himself. And a pricey Wonderbra with gel cups.”
“Fabulous.”
I spent the next five minutes giving Carmen the low-down on Dead End Dating and how I could help her find the love of her life if she was, you know, interested. (Which of course, she was. We’re talking two years.)
Since she was up to her armpits in nacho cheese and couldn’t abandon Marge the concessions manager on the busiest night of the week, I made an appointment to meet with her the following evening at DED. She could fill out her profile, I would work my magic, and bam—three potential matches (Vinnie, Vinnie, and did I say Vinnie?). And all for the rock-bottom price of—drumroll, please—zero dollars (on account of I was running a special for au naturel Catholic blondes who actively served the community).
“It’s just my way of giving back,” I told Carmen as I helped her carry the cheese and three giant bags of tortilla chips back to the concession stand.
By the time I left (after slipping Marge a DED card of her own), I was feeling pretty confident that I would still be around for the début of Barney’s new spring collection (six weeks and counting). Not only had I just saved my butt, but I’d done it with seventy-plus hours to spare. It was just after nine p.m., and I had plenty of time to head back to the office and get some work done for my paying clients.
I hit the nearest exit and stepped out onto the sidewalk. My footsteps echoed on the pavement as I headed around the side of the church toward the front to catch a cab. I was five steps shy of the corner when a door crashed open behind me.
And just like that, my evening went from fantabulous to freakin’ scary.
Five
A growl vibrated my eardrums a split second before a man plowed into me from behind. I stumbled, despite my ultrafast reflexes (this guy was hea-vy). My ankle twisted, pain zapped up my calf, and I pitched sideways.
Forget the “Are you okay, miss?”
Or a “Sorry, I didn’t see you.”
Not even a “Watch where you’re standing, bee-yotch.”
No, the guy kept running. He hauled it toward the corner, leaving me flat on my ass, my left Zac Posen bootie completely ruined…
My screaming ankle pain shushed to a steady whine as I stared down at the chunky black heel that had broken in two. My stomach pitched and my chest constricted.
No way. No friggin’ way.
I’d sat on a waiting list for six months for these booties. Spent an entire month’s salary. Searched days for just the right outfit to wear with them. And for what? So that some bozo could send them to couture heaven on their first night out?
Not.
I bolted to my feet.
In a split second, I caught the guy by the back of the neck and put on the brakes. I lifted him until he was a good six inches off the ground, his legs and arms flailing. “I think you owe me for some booties, chick.”
His entire body went rigid as he turned to stare over his right shoulder. But then his head kept going all by itself, twisting on his torso until he faced me.
No, really.
Glowing yellow eyes met mine and he opened his mouth. A chorus of moaning and wailing burst past his lips, along with a rush of putrid breath. A glob of slimy green foam spewed down his chin and plopped onto the hand gripping the back of his collar.
My hand.
> I snatched my fingers away (I know, right?) and dropped him. He stumbled forward (or would that be backward, considering his head had done a one-eighty on his body?). His feet hit a pothole since he wasn’t looking where he was going, and he pitched forward (or backward). He hit the ground and struggled to his feet. Nearby, another door crashed open.
I whirled, ready to kick butt again, and slammed into a hard, blatantly male body.
The male body that had fueled the occasional Ty-dumped-me-so-I’m-going-to-show-him-and-have-fantabulous-rebound-sex fantasy.
Ash Prince.
Tall, dark, and oh, baby.
He wore a black leather bomber jacket, faded jeans, and a brown henley shirt. His black hair was cut short and cropped close to the head without a hint of product. Stubble darkened his jaw, circled his sensuous mouth, and crept down his throat. He had the blackest eyes I’d ever seen fringed with long, thick lashes. He was a demon (or so I’d guessed) and one of New York’s finest. He’d helped during Ty’s disappearance the previous month and I’d been lusting after him ever since.
Not willingly, of course. See, Ash wasn’t any old demon. He oozed sex appeal (rather than green slime) and women couldn’t seem to resist him. Nix your ordinary Exorcist variety. This guy was a bona fide incubus.
Which meant that said fantasies were totally NOT my fault. An incubus doesn’t just reek of S-E-X, he inspires it.
Still, let’s say for the sake of argument that I had been thinking about him—so what? It wasn’t like Ty and I had an actual relationship. I hadn’t seen or talked to him in a month. No phone calls. No e-mails. No text messages. Not even a measly comment on MySpace or Facebook. Nothing since our goodbye-sex marathon.
I had absolutely no reason to feel like an über-slut because my heart was pounding and I was thinking that Ash had really terrific pecs. And kissable lips. And a gaze that promised the most wicked things.
It wasn’t like I was committed to anyone, or even going steady.
Rather, I was a single, vivacious vampire having a normal reaction to a member of the opposite sex.
Just One Bite Page 3
