“What are you doing here?” Ash asked me.
“It’s bingo night.” He grinned and heat flooded my cheeks and a few other places, as well. “Not that I’m here because I have nothing better to do than play a half-dozen cards on a Thursday night. Hardly. I’m here for work.” I sighed. “I need a hot Catholic girl.”
“Don’t we all.” His eyes glittered hot and bright.
Suddenly, I couldn’t think of anything to say. My heart pounded and my hormones chanted that old Rick James song, “Give It to Me Baby.”
I know, right? Rick James is way over, but I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.
Truth be known, I wasn’t thinking at all.
It was funny how the brain worked in times of extreme stress. How it was able to shut out all the self-doubt and second thoughts and send a great big just-do-it to the rest of the body. Just like that, anything seemed possible.
A man could climb a fifty-foot tree to escape a charging bull. A woman could lift a three-thousand-pound car to save her crushed child. And die-hard romantic moi? I could slide my arms around Ash’s neck and hump his brains out without an iota of remorse or a single, solitary thought for Ty.
I could. If I’d wanted to.
“If you’re looking for a woman,” I heard myself say as my body chanted me, me, me!, “I would be more than happy to hook you up with someone. Catholic. Hare Krishna. Born vamp. You name it.” I waved a DED card. “All you have to do is come in for a profile, hand over your credit card, and Auntie Lil will do the rest.”
“Nice try, but I can find my own date.”
“I hate to point this out, but it’s a beautiful night in the hottest city around, and you’re at bingo.”
“I’m not here scoping out women. I’m on a takedown.”
Which explained the two men (Ash’s scrumptious brothers) wrestling with the slime machine a few feet away.
“Nice job, by the way,” he told me.
I shrugged. “You know me. I live to kick ass.”
“I thought you lived to shop.”
“When I’m not kicking ass.” I glanced down at my hand. The slime had dried to a sticky mess. “You wouldn’t happen to have a Kleenex or a wet wipe on you?”
He patted the back pockets of his ultra-tight jeans. “Sorry. Look, you weren’t planning on sticking around here, were you?”
“Maybe. Why?” Even as I asked the question, my mind raced with possibilities.
“Because I was thinking that since you’re here and I’m here, maybe we could share a bingo card. And go for a drink afterward. And get to know each other. And do some primo mattress dancing.”
“Because you’re in the way.”
“I’d love to—” The words stumbled to a halt and the smile died on my face. “Excuse me?”
His lips went from full and kissable to drawn and tight. His gaze hardened. “You compromised this apprehension.”
“Hello? I helped stop a slobbering criminal.”
“You gave him a way out.” He glanced past me as his brothers hauled Foamy to his feet. “You’re just damned lucky he didn’t take it.”
“What are you talking about?” The stench of spoiled, rotten meat pinched my nose as the trio scooted past us toward the back door. The sound of gnashing teeth grated across my eardrums and a coldness prickled my skin.
I stiffened and Ash’s gaze hardened even more. “You shouldn’t have gone after him. You put yourself in a shitload of danger.”
“In case you haven’t heard, I’m not exactly helpless.” I stiffened against a sudden wave of fear. I know, right? I’m a vampire. Invincible. Ballsy. Bitchy. Brave. The scared-shitless chromosome hadn’t made it into my DNA cocktail. I flashed a little fang to emphasize this point to Ash. “I can totally hold my own.”
“Against another vampire.”
“Or a were,” I added. My gaze collided with his and I arched an eyebrow. “Or a demon. In fact, I think I’ll stick around and pass out a few more cards.” I could handle anything, even if I had led sort of a sheltered life before opening my dating service.
Basically, I’d lived at home with my parents and spent the majority of my time with other born vamps. While I’d learned about Others—everything from made vamps to weres, demons to Big Foot—I’d never actually met any of them face-to-face until recently.
Ty had popped my cherry in the made vamp category. Viola had been my up-close-and-personal with a were. And Ash had been my first demon.
While the jury was still out on Big Foot, I felt certain I could do damage in the other three categories.
My hand itched and I remembered the glob of slime running over my fingers, dribbling down my palm.
I swallowed. “That is, I would love to stick around and pass out more cards if I didn’t have a ton of work waiting back at the office.” All right, already. My aversion to blood also extended to bodily fluids. “I can see you’ve got the situation totally under control now, so I’ll just leave you to wrap things up.”
That is, unless you wanna, you know…
“Later.”
Guess not.
I turned and so did Ash. I limped a few steps before I heard the door rock shut behind me. I was just about to whistle for a cab when my super-deluxe ears perked and I heard the creak of hinges.
My pulse leaped and a zing of excitement went through me, followed by a needle poke to the chest (a feeling I might have mistaken for guilt had I had anything to feel guilty about—which I so did NOT).
I turned, fully expecting Ash to pull me into his arms and lay one on me. Or, at the very least, stare down into my eyes and ask me out for a cup of coffee. Instead, I found myself staring at a head full of snow white hair.
My attention fell to a pair of clear blue eyes surrounded by a million tiny crow’s feet staring up at me.
“Are you Miss Lil?” He was a short, stout old man wearing gray overalls and black loafers. He had a tool belt cinched around his waist. A walkie-talkie sat on one hip while a giant key ring dangled from the other. “Lil Marchette?”
“Last time I checked.”
Relief filled his pale eyes. “You left this in one of our storage closets.” He held up my purse, and the past half hour rolled through my mind.
Schmoozing the bathroom line. Following Carmen into the storage closet. Helping Carmen in the storage closet.
I’d set my purse aside and completely forgotten about it.
Way to go, dumbass.
“I hope you don’t mind that I opened up your wallet,” he went on, “but I needed to see your ID to know who it belonged to. Mighty nice picture, by the way.”
“Thank you.” The realization of what had almost happened hit me and relief rushed full-force through me. Forget my wallet. I’d almost lost my makeup bag, complete with the new Hot Toddy Terrific lip gloss I’d bought just yesterday.
“It’s all present and accounted for,” the old man went on. “Three bucks, fifty-two cents, and nineteen credit cards.”
“Actually, it’s twenty, but I left my Barney’s at home.” I’d reached my limit and couldn’t use it until my next payment. “Thank you so much.” My hand plunged into the bag. My fingers closed around the tube and I smiled. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Glad to be of service.” He grinned. His blue eyes twinkled and his stats flashed like the marquee in Times Square.
Earl Hubert Stanley. Father of four grown daughters—one of whom was a pediatrician in Rockaway Beach. Husband of fifty-two years to Emmaline Louise Stanley, who’d passed away last spring. He’d been the custodian at St. Michael’s for the past twenty-eight years. He’d meant to retire last year (he and Emmaline were going to buy an RV and head for Branson and Dollywood on account of Emma was a huge Dolly Parton fan). But then Em had died and he hadn’t been able to watch a rerun of Best Little Whorehouse in Texas since.
His oldest girl had been after him to join a bridge club or a senior golfers group or something. She said he needed to get out more and meet people. Maybe a
nice woman to share dinner with once in a while, instead of eating TV dinners all by his lonesome. He kept telling Susie he didn’t need a dad-burned dinner date and that he liked Hungry-Mans. Particularly the fried chicken. Sure, he thought it might be nice to have company once in a while, but he couldn’t quite accept the thought of breaking bread with any other woman besides his beloved Emmaline.
Awwww…
“You take care now, Miss Lil, and don’t talk to strangers. The city can be mighty unforgiving at night.” He started to turn.
“Wait.” I touched his arm. “I’d really like to repay your kindness.”
“Oh, no.” He waved me off. “I couldn’t take any money. It wouldn’t seem right.”
I was liking this guy more and more. “What about a date?” I handed him a DED card.
He studied the white vellum for a long moment before he shook his head. “It’s mighty kind of you, but I don’t think so.”
“I could help you find your soul mate.”
“Already found her.”
My chest hitched and an image of Ty popped into my head. Not that he’s my soul mate or anything. Or that we have a connection that goes beyond the physical. He’s a made vamp and I’m a born vamp (oil and water), and the mental connection is simply a byproduct of my drinking from him and him drinking from me. It doesn’t mean anything, certainly not that we’re destined to be together or forever linked or anything silly like that.
Fughedaboudit.
“What about a companion?” I asked, eager to ignore the depressing thought. “I could help you find someone to spend your free time with. Someone who likes the same things that you like.” I handed back the card, along with a mental You should call me because Emmaline wouldn’t want you to be lonely. She would want you to have fun and make the most of the years you have left. Really.
He seemed to think. “But it wouldn’t be a date, right? I’m not looking for romance.”
“We’re talking companionship only.”
He gave the card another once-over. “She has to like chicken. And golfing. And poker. I’ve been playing online, but my dream is to go to Atlantic City and break the bank.”
“No problem.”
“And Reader’s Digest. I love the funnies—” The loud crackle of his walkie-talkie drowned out the rest of his words.
“Earl? You there, buddy?”
He grabbed the receiver and pressed the button. “Right here.”
“We need you in the sanctuary ASAP. And bring the mop.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said when he clipped the radio back onto his belt and stuffed my card into his pocket. “Clean up on aisle nine?”
“It’s a tough job”—he shrugged—“but somebody’s gotta do it.”
I thought of Dead End Dating, Vinnie’s detailed list, and the all-important fact that I could very well be this close to kissing my afterlife goodbye. I stiffened. “Tell me about it.”
Six
I hopped a cab back to the office and headed straight for the bathroom and a bottle of antibacterial soap. Clean and barefoot (I stashed the booties until I could get them repaired), I spent the next few hours entering profiles, setting up various client dates, and dodging phone calls from my mother.
Despite having my afterlife threatened and getting slimed by a stinky demon, it turned out to be just another typical work night. So much so, that by the time I powered off my computer and killed the lights, I’d stopped worrying altogether.
Everything would work out.
Carmen would fall madly in love with Vinnie and his mother. Remy would turn out to be gay and my mother would give up trying to fix me up. Barney’s would extend my credit line. Ty would show up with an engagement ring the size of a third-world country. Brad would come to his senses, dump Ang, reunite with Jen, and they would live happily ever after.
Hey, it could happen.
I locked up, let myself out the back door into the alley, and closed my eyes. A little concentration and I started to feel weightless. The flutter of wings echoed in my ears and just like that, I went from fantabulously dressed matchmaker to megalicious pink bat (I wasn’t hitting the pavement in my bare tootsies any more than I absolutely had to).
By cab, my apartment was about ten minutes away in a renovated duplex on the east side of Manhattan. Via bloodsucking creature of the night, I made it in a minute flat.
I flapped my way around the side and landed behind a large green dumpster. The smell of cat litter (my neighbor Mrs. Janske was a widow with about a zillion cats) and old newspapers (the accountant down the hall from me had an addiction to the Wall Street Journal) burned my nostrils.
A tingling swept over me and the rhythmic whap whap whap faded into the beat of my own heart. The cold of the ground seeped into my feet and something wet and sticky squished between my toes (I so needed to work on my landing skills).
I ignored the urge to look down and proceeded around the side of the building. Climbing the front steps, I keyed in the security code and slipped inside.
If apartments were retailers, my place would be a dollar store in the burglar-bar section of Brooklyn. Obviously a huge step down from the flagship Neiman Marcus—aka my parents’ Park Avenue penthouse—where I’d crashed prior to asserting my independence, but still the best move I’d ever made.
Having my own digs was primo. I could prance around in my thong, drink my dinner straight from the bottle, and leave my lingerie hanging all over the bathroom. There was no one telling me what time to be home or how to decorate or what pretentious born vamp I should boff (all right, already, so my ma was still doing this, but she did it via nagging cellphone messages rather than live and in color).
Still, in all fairness, living with my folks hadn’t been a total nightmare. There had been a teensy, tiny sliver of sunshine in an otherwise overcast sky.
Two words. Maid service.
I ignored a faint niggle of regret and took the stairs toward the fifth floor. I was halfway down the hallway, humming the latest Fergie tune, when I spotted the small gift-wrapped box sitting on my LIFE IS A BEACH PARTY mat.
My heart stalled and I froze. My gaze zeroed in on the trademark Tiffany blue box.
Ty.
It was the first thought that popped into my head.
All right, already. My first thought was holy shit, but Ty followed right on its heels.
A notion that was too ridiculous even to contemplate, of course. I was an ultra-hot born vamp. Jessica Simpson and Carmen Electra and Jenna Jameson all rolled into one. We’re talking sexy, seductive, irresistible.
I thought of all the cab drivers and newsstand attendants and Starbucks clerks I’d smiled at over the years.
And then I thought of the average salary of a cabbie/newsstand attendant/Starbucks clerk.
Okay, so maybe Ty wasn’t that far out of the realm of possibility. Capturing criminals was dangerous work. Surely it paid megabucks.
My heart started beating again, shifting into overdrive as I knelt and retrieved the box sitting on my faded palm tree.
Excitement zipped up and down my spine, along with a rush of pure joy. I was definitely tipping the scales toward crazy. It wasn’t like this was it. The right guy. The right time. The beginning of the rest of my afterlife as a committed vamp.
Sure, I’d given up dead-end relationships because I was ready to settle down, but not with Ty. We were all wrong for each other. I knew it. He knew it. That’s why we put on the brakes after monumental, fantabulous sex and a crystal-clear connection even Sprint couldn’t screw up. We weren’t going anywhere.
Except maybe the Guinness Book of World Records for the most orgasms in a twenty-four-hour period. Fantabulous orgasms. The kind that made your toes curl and your skin tingle and your knees go weak and…oh, baby.
My cheeks heated up (along with a few other places) and I gave myself a mental shake. We had no future together.
Made.
Born.
Comprende?
Whatever waited i
n the box—even if it was the gargantuan marquise with the side baguettes and platinum setting I’d been lusting after forever—was going straight back to the store.
Not happening.
Forget it.
No thank you.
And so there was no reason to torture myself by looking, right? I should simply call Ty, tell him that what we had was beautiful, but strictly superficial. It was over and I was terribly sorry if I misled him.
At the same time, he’d probably gone to a ridiculous amount of trouble to pick out just the right thing. He’d probably spent days, maybe even weeks, searching for the perfect thing to wow me. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t at least take a quick peek and admire his selection?
I tore off the bow and gripped the lid.
Easy. My conscience went from preachy to reasonable. It might not be platinum. It might be silver. Or gold. It might not even be a marquise. It might be a princess cut. Or a solitaire. Hell, it might not even be a ring at all. It might be a diamond necklace. Or one of those divine filigree bracelets. Or a pair of bloody fangs—
My mind went numb and my stomach dropped to my ankles as I stared at the surprise nestled on a bed of white satin.
After several heart-pounding moments, I snapped the lid shut as quickly as I’d opened it. I stood there doing more of the heavy-duty stress-reducing breathing I’d seen on Dr. Phil. The frantic in and out of oxygen only made my pulse beat that much faster. The panic mounted. Cold horror slid through me and I became quickly aware of the dark, ominous hallway that lurked around me.
I forgot all about the key in my purse, twisted the knob on my door, and pushed. Hinges strained. Wood cracked and splintered and I rushed inside. I slammed the door shut behind me, stuffed the nearest chair I could find under the doorknob (on account of I’d just taken out the dead bolt and a good chunk of wood), and went in search of coping mechanism number two—alcohol.
Since I’m more of a social drinker (Cosmos with The Ninas, appletinis after work with Evie, Jell-O shots while helping my human sister-in-law pick out an atrocious wedding dress), the best I could come up with was a travel-sized bottle of Crystal left over from a cruise I’d taken with my family ages ago in celebration of Moe’s going national.
Just One Bite Page 4
