Dead and Dateless

by Kimberly Raye

  “I’m not. But I keep a bottle on hand just in case. I like to be prepared.” When he turned back to me, his smile was gone. His gaze glowed with a heat that upped my otherwise cool body temperature several degrees. He held out the crimson offering. “Drink up.”

  My gaze snagged on the inside of his wrist and I traced the path of a thick blue vein until it disappeared beneath the muscle of his strong forearm.

  I swallowed and suddenly the thought of actually touching my lips to the sweet red heat sparked a rush of panic. “I need coffee,” I blurted. When he stared at me as if I’d ordered well done, I shrugged. “It’s my evening routine. Coffee revs me up.” Yeah, right. But I so didn’t trust myself to drink drink right now. The hunger was fierce enough on its own.

  Already, my palms itched and my throat burned and my insides felt tight and needy. At the first sip, it would grow even worse. Overwhelming. And I feared I wouldn’t be able to sate it before…Before.

  “You do have coffee, don’t you?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry.”

  And here I thought the guy was irresistible.

  “What sort of vampire are you?”

  “The kind that doesn’t drink coffee. In case you haven’t heard, we vampires usually indulge with something else.” He held up the bottle in salute before downing a long swig for himself. His gaze grew even brighter and more intense and my stomach went hollow. “It’s much better for you than caffeine.” His voice was deeper and more husky when he spoke this time.

  And much more stirring.

  “Diet Coke,” I blurted. “Do you have any Diet Coke?”

  He bared his fangs and gave me a semi-ferocious look. “Do I look like a man who drinks Diet Coke?”

  Not exactly. But when it came to pecs, he put Lucky—the shirtless construction worker in their most famous commercial—to shame.

  “All right, all right.” I threw up my hands. “Regular Coke?”

  He gave me a what planet are you from? look before shaking his head.

  “What about tea?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Hot chocolate?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Gatorade?”

  “Nuh-uh.” He took another long swig before he glanced at his watch. “Listen, I’ve got to go.” He shoved the cork back into the bottle and set it on the counter next to the glass.

  “You can’t be full already?”

  “No.” His gaze collided with mine. “Not even close.” Silence stretched between us for several moments as he stared at me, into me, leaving no mistake as to his meaning.

  Oh, boy.

  “Then again, you’re probably really busy. You should go. Really.” Before I do something totally lewd and lascivious.

  His gaze collided with mine and a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Stay inside and keep the door locked.”

  The moment he moved away, my anxiety doubled and I had a rush of helplessness. It was the same feeling I’d had on the autopsy table. Irrational, I know, what with me being a Super Vamp and all. Nonetheless, it was there. Insecurity swamped me and urged me to lunge forward, wrap my arms around Ty, and beg him to stay. That, or beg him for a really phenomenal orgasm.

  I kept my feet rooted to the spot. I do have some willpower. “What if the police show up and try to beat it down?” Unfortunately, said willpower didn’t extend to my mouth.

  “They won’t. They’re convinced you’re hiding out in Connecticut near your folks.” When I stiffened, he added, “Your folks are fine. The police questioned them, but came to the conclusion that they didn’t know anything. But the cops are still betting you’ll turn up nearby, so they’re watching and waiting.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Sugar, I know everything.”

  “Would you stop doing that?”

  He grinned and walked toward the chest of drawers that sat near the massive bed. He pulled open the top drawer, and retrieved a black T-shirt. Muscles rip pled and flexed as he hauled the cotton over his head and pushed his arms through.

  I gathered my courage and averted my gaze, and found myself staring at the glass of red heat he’d poured for me. The scent curled through the air toward me and my nostrils flared. Need gnawed at my belly and crawled its way through my chest and into my throat. I swallowed against the rising burn and fought the urge to lick my lips. My attention zigzagged back to Ty, who’d dropped onto the corner of the bed to pull on his boots. Muscles rippled and flexed and…I swiveled back toward the blood. Then back to Ty. The blood. Ty. Blood. Ty. Blood—

  Stop! Where was a Starbucks when you really needed one?

  “I’m working on a few cases.” He opened the bottom nightstand drawer, retrieved a large handgun and holster, and I stiffened.

  Not that I was scared of the thing, mind you. I’d just never seen the need for a gun. After all, I’m a vampire. Mucho powerful. With an extra sharp pair of incisors and a fantabulous collection of MAC lip gloss. Ditto for Ty. Minus the lip gloss, of course.

  To me, guns seemed like such…

  An inconvenience.

  A waste of money.

  A macho phallic symbol to mask an underlying fertility rating that was less than impressive.

  Even more, they were an easy way to blow off a certain body part if, like my great uncle Paul, you weren’t smart enough to turn on the safety before stuffing the thing down your pants. Sure, it had only been a temporary setback (we vamps have great rejuvenating capabilities), but it had still put him out of commission for quite a while. And, according to great aunt Zelda, the “incident” had been responsible for several performance issues that had prohibited them from conceiving a sibling for their one and only son, Ivan. Which meant Ivan was a spoiled, arrogant, pompous bastard.

  Then again, that just meant that he fit right in with the rest of the born male vamp population.

  Ty hooked the holster over his shoulder and I heard myself say, “I didn’t think you carried a gun.”

  “I usually don’t. But I either take it with me or leave it here with you.”

  On the other hand, we vamps aren’t exactly invincible. Superman had his Kryptonite and we have sunlight. And stakes. And any and all sharp objects capable of piercing the heart. If Ty were facing down a dangerous criminal, it would be in his best interest to have a “little friend” as backup.

  “Make sure the safety is on,” I told him.

  He gave me an odd look, but I was happy to note that he checked the safety before sliding the gun into its holster.

  He walked back toward me and retrieved his wallet, which sat on the coffee table. “Stay inside,” he said again as he stuffed the leather fold into his back pocket.

  “No problem. I’ve got tons of work to do. Speaking of which, can I borrow your laptop to check my e-mail?”

  “No checking e-mail. Not until we know exactly what’s going on. I want you to keep as low a profile as possible. I’m sure the cops are monitoring your online accounts. Even if they can’t trace your whereabouts, they’ll know you’re still out there. We want to make them think you’ve disappeared completely from their radar.”

  “Like maybe I’ve left the country?”

  He nodded. “Anything to throw them off track until we can figure out how to fix whatever’s happened.”

  “What about the phone? Can I use the phone? I really need to call my assistant. We’ve got a lot of work right now and she’s—”

  “No. Just take it easy and forget about work.”

  “Excuse me? For your information, I’ve killed my self to gain a pretty respectable client base. I can’t just forget about them for an indeterminate amount of time. Do you know what a lull will do to my momentum?”

  “I doubt sitting on Death Row will help much, either.”

  He had a point. Still. I shook my head. “I can’t not work.”

  He looked ready to slide his hands around my neck and squeeze. “Fine. Call her. But make sure you time it. Don’t stay on for more than twen
ty seconds.”

  “Twenty seconds? But that’s barely enough time to say hello, much less go over our scheduled workload—”

  “Thirty seconds tops,” he cut in. “Anything longer and they’ll be able to trace the call.”

  “But I need to check my voice mail.”

  “Thirty seconds.”

  “It takes longer than that just to punch in my pass word.”

  “Thirty,” he ground out, “or I might as well turn you in myself.”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  He eyed me. “Wouldn’t I?”

  No. Yes. I held his gaze for several long seconds be fore I finally nodded. Not that I felt one hundred per cent certain that he would. I just wasn’t one hundred percent certain that he wouldn’t. “Thirty seconds,” I grumbled.

  “Good. And keep—”

  “—the door locked,” I finished for him. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

  He stared at me long and hard before his expression softened. “I’ll be back around two. Just behave yourself until then and we’ll talk.” He winked and then he was gone.

  I locked the door and barely resisted the urge to pick up the phone and call the cops myself.

  Thirty seconds? Was he crazy in addition to being totally megawatt hot?

  I dropped to the sofa and stared at the cordless phone sitting on the coffee table. I thought of Viola and the desperation I’d seen in her eyes. And then I thought about the big, fat check that had been left in my desk amid the chaos of my arrest and escape. And then I thought of at least a zillion other things I needed to discuss with Evie.

  Thirty seconds?

  Totally impossible.

  I simply couldn’t do it.

  I wouldn’t.

  But thirty seconds was longer than the initial twenty. On top of that, while Ty had limited the call length, he hadn’t limited the number of calls. I wasn’t an expert, but I’d seen enough cop shows to know that the good guys couldn’t trace short and sweet no matter how many. I could make as many phone calls as I wanted which beat, hands down, the one phone call from jail. It wasn’t the ideal way to do business, but a vamp had to do what a vamp had to do.

  I smiled and reached for the phone.

  I pinched my nose the minute I heard Evie’s familiar Hello? “Yes, this is Mrs. Vanderflunkinpitt”—the voice came out very high-pitched and nasal—“from your local telephone provider. We received a service call stating that you were having difficulty with your phone line in Room A.”

  “We don’t have a phone line in—”

  “The trouble started yesterday evening. Big trouble.”

  “Lil,” Evie’s incredulous voice asked. “Is that—”

  “I promised your owner—a Miss Lilliana Marchette—that we would deal with the problem ASAP and we are. We’re fixing everything as we speak. Just proceed with business as usual while we make the necessary adjustments to get things back to normal.”

  “What did you say your name—” Clunk.

  I let loose of my nose and counted the seconds on Ty’s digital clock until a full minute had passed (I wasn’t sure how long it took to fully disconnect, but I wasn’t taking any chances) and hit redial.

  “Vanderflunkinpitt,” I said when Evie picked up the phone. “Mrs. Vanderflunkinpitt.” I emphasized the last syllable and silently begged her understanding.

  “Oh.” Two seconds ticked by. “Oh.” Evie’s voice perked up. “Well, um, thank you. I was, um, really worried about the, er, problem with that line. That’s my favorite line and I’ve grown really fond of it and I don’t know what I would do if it were out of commission permanently.”

  “You and me both.”

  “But you’re okay? I mean, you’re sure the line is all right? It isn’t permanently damaged or traumatized or anything like that?”

  “Nothing a new outfit won’t fix.” Open mouth, insert designer-clad foot. “New wiring,” I blurted, “Nothing new wiring outfitted to the, um, initial wire won’t fix. You just keep things running on your end and take care of new clients and I—that is—we will do our part on this end with the pre-existing ones. That is, we’ll make sure your phone calls get through. And make sure to go to the bank. I—that is—we usually charge an arm and a leg, so you’ll need lots of funds, particularly that extra large check from your latest client. Not that I know the exact amount or anything, it’s just that Miss Marchette mentioned it when she placed the service call and I’ve got a good memory for these things.”

  “I’ll take care of—” Click.

  “Sorry,” I told Evie when she picked up the phone the third time. “I must be losing signal on this end.” I crackled for effect. “Take care and I’ll see you—that is, we’ll contact you as soon as we can. In the meantime, just tell Miss Marchette when she calls from Costa Rica where she’s on special assignment until her communication problems are fixed, that Vanderwalkenpitt is on the job.”

  “I thought is was Vanderflunkinpitt?”

  “Whatever. Just keep things going.”

  “You’re the boss. I mean,” she rushed on, “you’re obviously the boss at your service center because you sound so authoritative and in control. You’re not my boss, of course. She’s, um, in Costa Rica, probably basking in the sun and buying really cool souvenirs.”

  “Exactly. Don’t worry about anything,” I reassured her again. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  I hope.

  The thought lingered in my head as I made more phone calls to everyone on my close, personal friends list—The Ninas. Francis and Melissa. The Ninas.

  I know, I know. Depressing. But at least I didn’t have to keep pinching my nose or thinking up stupid names. Besides, it wasn’t the quantity of friends that mattered, it was the quality. And I happened to think that mine were right up there with a silver lamé Fendi and a Tiffany bangle bracelet.

  I set the phone on the coffee table and ignored the urge to push to my feet and pace. Pacing would mean that I was worried and I was not—repeat not—worried. Everything would be okay. It was just a matter of laying low until the police realized their mistake.

  If they realized it.

  They would, I promised myself. Meanwhile, I was going to forget all about chopped-up undercover reporters and Death Row and the way the handcuffs had felt when they’d snapped around my wrists.

  Relax. Ty’s deep voice echoed through my head.

  He was right. I needed to relax. Even more, I deserved to relax. I’d been under nonstop stress since opening Dead End Dating and so this confinement could be viewed as a good thing. This was my time. I could rest. Regroup. I could even take a nap if I wanted, provided I could calm my hormones down long enough to think about sleeping rather than the fact that I was stretched out in Ty’s spot, in Ty’s bed, in Ty’s apartment.

  Okay, so I wasn’t going to take a lot of naps, but the point was I could. Just like I could take a long, leisurely bubble bath and give myself a facial and do my toenails and watch oodles of cable TV.

  Why, before I knew it, it would be daybreak and another night closer to freedom. I pushed off the couch and made a beeline for the bathroom.

  It turns out that Ty didn’t actually have a bathtub and I didn’t actually have any facial scrubs, much less a pedicure kit. I ended up taking a quick shower (he definitely needed a new hot water heater), before pulling on my favorite terry bathrobe and planting myself on the sofa, remote in hand.

  I channel surfed for the next thirty minutes before finally settling on an infomercial for a breakthrough exercise machine called the Boob Buster. Tell me about it. I followed several women as they increased their bra size with a measly commitment of forty-five minutes a day, six days a week, before I switched to MTV.

  I found myself watching a show called Pimp My Ride. Hello? Where were the music videos?

  Here’s the thing, I don’t actually watch television very often. And when I do, it’s usually something I’ve specifically recorded—Dr. Phil, The Bachelor, The Bachelorette,
Lost, QVC’s designer hour—you know, the really important stuff I simply cannot miss.

  Forget the TV. You can still relax.

  I leaned my head back and stared at the darkness just beyond the windows. The stars twinkled and the moon lit up the skyline. A far cry from beach-basking in Costa Rica, but that was the point. With any luck, the police had been tapping Evie’s line and maybe, just maybe, they might take the Costa Rica comment seriously.

  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it would really feel like. Warm, I knew. I tuned in to my skin and tried to conjure the sensation, but nothing came. While I’d felt the sun’s effects before—drained and powerless because I’m a born vamp and all that—I’d never felt the breezy, airy sensation of being outside, fully exposed to the sun’s rays.

  The closest I’d ever come had been this really cool papier mâché lamp I’d bought down in SoHo. It had been a hanging light shaped like the sun. I’d suspended it in the corner of my apartment and stood under it many times and thought about the real thing.

  Not that I wasn’t happy being a denizen of the dark, mind you. I love my life. Absolutely, positively, completely and totally adore being a vampire and all its perks—enhanced senses, super fashion sense, and primo shape-changing abilities.

  But sometimes (don’t tell my folks) I still wonder what it would be like to be, you know, human.

  I lifted the edge of Ty’s forgotten duster, which lay draped over the back of the couch, and ran my palm over the cool material. While he couldn’t walk in the sun any more than I could, he hadn’t always been so limited. I conjured an image of him poolside at a posh resort, a mai tai in one hand and a bottle of suntan oil in the other.

  While I could totally get into a slick, coconut-scented version of Ty, the mai tai thing (complete with a little umbrella) sort of blew the big, bad alpha bounty hunter image.

  I wrinkled my nose and let go of the jacket.

  Then again, such a scenario might prove helpful. The next time I wanted to rip off my clothes and do a little mattress dancing, I could picture him with a plastic umbrella drink. Even worse, I could put him in a Speedo, wearing some of those paper sunglasses they hand out at the eye doctor’s office. I’d had a client walk in just a week ago wearing a pair of those because—quote—they served a purpose and saved him from having to spend his hard-earned money to buy some real ones—end quote.