“Jack’s ruining his afterlife and there seems to be nothing we can do to stop him.”
Jack?
“He’s fallen for a human, which brings me to the reason for the phone call. We had to move the hunt from Sunday to Saturday because we’ve committed to meeting the human’s parents for tea on Sunday evening. Your father wants everyone here early so we can put our heads together and come up with something effective to dissuade Jack from his present course of disaster and get him to cancel the tea. An intervention, so to speak. Your father’s ready to take away his 401K and his PTO, but I think that’s a bit drastic. PTO maybe, but both? I mean, Jack’s still young. It’s only natural that he’ll make some mistakes. Speaking of mistakes, your father and I fully expect that you’ve learned your lesson about all this dating nonsense. We told you it was a bad idea, just like the time you decided you wanted to become a nun.”
I’d been like, five, and totally enamored of Sister Mary Elizabeth who’d been my au pair at the time. At least, I’d thought she was my au pair. It turns out she’d been my aunt Sophie’s food source on account of Aunt Sophie had been going through a strictly Kosher phase. I know, she’s a vampire, right? She had been, before she’d nuked herself in a tanning bed not so long ago.
Bye, bye Vampie!
Before then, however, she’d been an adventurous and fun-loving spirit who’d been fascinated by all things not vampire, including various cultures and people. She’d worn sarongs and learned how to make poi. She’d belly danced for kings, ridden camels across the desert (at night, of course), and dog-sledded through the Andes. She’d traded beauty tips with Queen Elizabeth (the first one) and made love to the real Don Juan.
I’d been told more than once that I’d taken after Aunt Sophie, but I couldn’t really see the connection. Sure, I’m sort of fascinated by unvamplike stuff and I do know more than my share of beauty tips, but you wouldn’t catch me doing it with a player like Don, or wearing a sarong—unless it had a Christian Dior label.
“Now that you’ve seen for yourself, you can forget this crazy nonsense,” my mom’s voice continued, “put your nose to the grindstone and get back to work at Moe’s.” Click.
Back to work?
I’d never actually reported to work.
But since I had a whole stack of lime green polo shirts (courtesy of my father) with my name embroidered right above STORE MANAGER, I was considered the head honcho of my father’s second NYU location.
I listened to three messages from various clients and fast-forwarded through two sales calls, a couple of I told you so’s from my mother and one more poor Jack before I reached the end.
I took one last, lingering look at my office. It wasn’t the biggest space in Manhattan, but it was très chic. Even more, it was mine and I’d grown sort of attached to it. Enough that a lump worked its way up into my throat as I walked toward the back door and slipped out into the alley.
Hello? It’s not like you’re calling it quits and heading over to NYU. You’ve still got your very own business to run. Small and floundering, particularly with murder charges hanging over your head, but a business nonetheless.
I clung to the hope, locked up, replanted the spare key and morphed back into the batmobile.
My tiny wings beat a fast, furious pace as I topped the building and headed for number one on my Alpha Meet Markets list—a Knicks game.
“Evie. That sure is a pretty name.” The man (Knicks cap and matching shirt, and jeans) smiled and glanced up from the business card I’d just handed him. I’d purposely grabbed a stack of Evie’s cards back at the of?ce rather than my own—do I know how to lay low or what?
We stood in the Play by Play near an air hockey machine. The P by P was a sports bar located inside Madison Square Garden where fans could play video games, make jump shots, and scarf nachos.
The game had ended less than a half hour before and the place over?owed with people psyched over tonight’s victory against the Orlando Heat. The two dozen TVs that lined the walls broadcast highlights and the postgame show. Nickelback blasted from the speakers. Cigarette smoke fogged the air. Beer ?owed. Testosterone oozed.
I had my foam finger tucked under one arm (okay, so I’m a Knicks fan, too) and an appletini in my hand. I’d been making the rounds when this guy had flagged me down. A table full of men flanked him. Beers in hand, they eyed me and waited for me to (a) throw myself at their friend and renew their faith in womankind or (b) kick him in the nuts like the usual snotty bitch.
The guy had a twinkle in his eyes and a come here, baby grin. He leaned in closer and eau de Heineken burned my nostrils. “Listen here, sweet thing, why don’t we blow this joint and go back to my place?” He winked, which looked more like a blink on account of the fact he was sloshed and both eyes were involved. “I’ll let you ride the pony.”
Pony? I shook my head, snatched my card back, and stuffed it into my pocket. “Sorry, but I’m in the market for a Clydesdale.”
“What?” He looked confused until one of his buddies leaned forward and clapped him on the back.
“She’s saying your equipment’s too small, dude.” A round of laughter erupted and eau de Heineken’s face turned bright red.
“Actually, I didn’t say anything.” I smiled at the blinker. “You filled me in on your own.” I held up my drink in salute. “Have a good evening.”
“Wait a second! That was just a figure of speech.” He grabbed my arm as I started to turn. Quite forcefully, I might add.
I gave him another once-over. “Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“Damn straight.” He nodded fiercely and puffed out his chest. “There isn’t anything small about my equipment. I’m locked and loaded, baby.”
My mouth twitched. Where did men come up with this stuff?
“Come on,” he begged. His gaze dropped to my chest as if to remind himself what was behind door number one. “Lemme have the card back. I’ll give you a call and we can get together. I swear you won’t regret it.”
“Maybe.” Look into my eyes, bozo.
He did (have I got it going on in the vamp department or what?). I met his gaze and his stats echoed through my head. Scott Martin Danvers. Played high school football and one year of college. Injured his knee during his sophomore year and felt like his world had ended. Graduated college—barely—with a degree in liberal arts. He worked construction for the city five days a week, played hockey every Saturday afternoon, and went out with his buddies every Saturday night. He liked his beer cold, his women “stacked” and his pre-sex conversation nonexistent. He had a few hang-ups about the size of his package, but what man didn’t?
“Here.” I tucked several cards into his shirt pocket. “Pass the rest out to your friends.” I pointed to the table full of guys who were now whistling and high-fiving each other.
He glanced at the cards. A smile spread from ear-to-ear as dozens of suggestive images raced through his intoxicated brain.
I started to turn.
“Where are you going? I thought you wanted to—”
“Not me,” I cut in. “I’m here on behalf of a few close friends. Hot friends,” I added when disappoint ment killed his smile. “They’re mega hot.” He perked back up. “And busy. They don’t have time to cruise for their own men, so I’m doing it for them. If you or your buds are interested, give me a call at my home number—it’s on the back—and we’ll set up an inter view.”
“You want to interview us for sex?”
I nodded. “Twice. The first is a preliminary where I find out your sexual likes and dislikes. The second is a little more detailed, including some health questions. If you pass, I’ll pair you up with a woman and introduce you to her. You’re on your own after that.” My throat tightened on the last word.
When I’d thought the process out, it had struck me as very smart and meticulous. But saying it out loud made it sound so…smart and meticulous and completely unromantic.
Hello? Viola doesn’t want romance. She
wants sex.
Case in point. I was an advocate for lifelong commitment. A crusader for deep, meaningful relation ships. A cheerleader for (gimme an) L-O-V-E. With all of my undead heart and soul, I’d rejected the idea of meaningless sex, yet here I was facilitating it.
On the other hand, if I didn’t help Viola and the NUNS, they would simply go on the prowl them selves. Who knew what jerks they might end up with? Not to mention, the survival of all paranormal species hinged on keeping a low profile.
I had a mental picture of twenty-seven ferocious werewolves humping unsuspecting men during the next Knicks tip-off. Smack-dab in the middle of the Garden. In full view of mucho television cameras and a gazillion reporters. Talk about in your face.
The guilt faded in a rush of conviction. I wasn’t going against my principles and hooking up one-night stands. I was preserving the safety and well-being of all the Otherworldly races. For a fee, yes, but we’re talking preservation.
Pumped, I downed the rest of my appletini and headed for a particularly rowdy group of men near the jump shot area. I was halfway across the room when someone touched my shoulder and a deep voice slid into my left ear.
“Yo baby, you give fries with that shake?”
I turned and sized up the man who’d stopped me. He was tall with broad shoulders and a trim waist. Blond hair curled down around the collar of his Knicks T-shirt. Jeans and an interested smile completed the outfit.
I met his gaze.
Jeff. Single. Personal trainer. Hadn’t been laid in six months on account of having been desperately in love with his last girlfriend—Tanya—and he wasn’t ready to jump into a relationship for fear of getting his heart stomped on again.
My nice guy-o-meter registered a big, fat ten.
“Sorry.” I shook my head. “McDonald’s is closed.”
Viola and her girls would swallow this poor chump in one bite. I started to turn and he caught my arm.
“Look, I’m sorry. I know it was lame but I haven’t done this in a while. What’s your name?”
“Li—ttle,” I finished. “Little Evie.” I’m not used to being undercover, okay? Give me a break. “But my friends call me Evie, without the Little. Evie Dalton. I work for Dead End Dating, the hottest dating service in Manhattan.”
“A dating service?”
“It’s really more like a life-long commitment facilitator. While we do set up dates initially, we’re ultimately looking to hook up each of our clients with their one true love. We’re all about the future.”
“What about you?” His pale green eyes sparked with hope. “Have you found that one true love?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, it’s a bit more complicated for me. See, there are other factors involved when I personally hook up with someone.”
“So you don’t do much dating yourself?”
“Actually, no.” His disappointment was so profound, that the words tumbled from my lips before I could stop them. “Not anymore. I mean, I can’t because one of those factors I mentioned actually involves a boyfriend. See, I have one. Yeah.” I smiled. “I’ve got one of those, so I really can’t go around dating.”
“Say no more. Good luck.” He let go of my arm and started to turn.
“But you can still call me.” I stopped him with a card. “I mean, not me personally, but I’m sure I can find someone nice for you.” When he hesitated, I added, “You have to get back in the game sometime.” Besides, you’re a great guy. Forget about whats-hername. She wouldn’t know a good thing if it jumped up and bit her on the ass. I know dozens of clients who would kill for a guy like you.
Okay, so maybe not dozens. But I had a good two or three human women who would be totally jazzed to go out with a single, successful guy who actually believed in love.
“You think?” I nodded and the doubt swimming in his gaze faded. He stood a little taller. A smile tugged at his lips as his fingers tightened around the DED card. “Thanks. Maybe I will give you a call.”
“I hope so.” I really hope so, I added silently. “I’ll be waiting.” The prospect of making a genuine love connection on top of preserving the races pumped my ego.
I spent the next hour and a half until last call scoping out alpha material and handing out business cards.
It was half past one a.m. when I decided to quit for the night. Not that it was late by my standards, but I hadn’t slept much that day and I felt tapped out. Besides, I had every intention of getting home before Ty.
After all, the poor guy was going out of his way, putting his own career and reputation on the line just to help me out. The least I could do was limit the amount of stress I heaped on him.
In other words, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Or me. Nuff said.
Being a hot, happening, fantastically well-dressed vampire wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. When people thought of vampires, they generally pictured these extraordinary, larger-than-life beings with oodles of power and charisma and sex appeal.
Talk about a tough image to live up to.
For the most part the portrayal was pretty accurate, but we did have some flaws. Obviously minimal compared to most humans, but flaws nonetheless.
Geez, nobody’s perfect.
In fact, it’s really those imperfections that make us likeable. Loveable, even.
I stared at Ty’s front door and barely resisted the urge to beat my head against the damned thing. In stead, I reached for his doorknob and turned. Again.
All right, so I’d locked myself out. Loveable, re member? He had said to keep the door locked, and I’ve always been an extremely conscientious houseguest. The delectable aroma of rich leather and hunky male drifted from the other side of the door and teased my nostrils. I had the sudden urge to kick off my boots, collapse on Ty’s couch, close my eyes and drink in the scent of him that filled the place.
My grip tightened on the handle. I could get in if I really wanted to; at the same time, I didn’t want to mess up Ty’s door.
No problem.
I turned and put my back to the door. Sliding into a sitting position, I crossed my legs and settled in. I would simply sit here and when he arrived, I would make up some reason for being out in the hallway.
Yeah, Einstein? Like what?
I wasn’t sure, but I figured I had at least twenty minutes to figure it out. I’d left the bar at one thirty and Ty’s place was a five to ten minute flight—whoa!
The door jerked backward and I found myself lying flat on my back, staring up at Ty, who towered over me.
He wore the black jeans and T-shirt he’d left the house in, black biker boots, and a mad-as-hell expression.
Uh-oh.
“You’re home,” I blurted.
“And you’re not.” He plucked the foam finger from my hand and left me laying on his doorstep.
I scrambled upright—another black mark on the ultra hot vamp image. Vamps didn’t scramble. We vaulted or glided or whirled, or something equally cool sounding.
I searched my brain for a believable story as I climbed to my feet and followed him over to the sofa. I had a really good one by the time I reached him, too. I’d heard a loud siren and I’d felt certain the cops were about to bust through the windows (did I men tion I heard choppers, too?). Anyhow, I’d panicked and ran. But his words had stayed with me and so I’d subconsciously locked up behind me. Once I’d realized the choppers weren’t real, I’d been forced to camp out on his doorstep and wait for him to return.
Sounded good to me.
I opened my mouth, but the only thing that came out was, “Give me the finger.”
“Believe me, I’d like to.”
“No, really.” I reached for the foam contraption.
He held it just out of my reach. “The Knicks,” he mused, turning the souvenier this way and that. “Can’t say as I’ve ever seen a game in person. I’ve wanted to, but I’m usually too busy chasing down bad guys and helping stubborn born vampires who refuse to listen and completely undermine my effort
s.”
“You’ve helped another born vampire before?”
His frown deepened. “You’re going to get us both staked.”
He looked so serious that my stomach tilted and I knew then that there was more to my situation than just clearing up a little misunderstanding. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
He set the finger aside, ran a hand through his hair, and nodded. “Worse than I expected.”
“How much worse?”
“They have evidence. Real evidence.”
“The cell phone picture, right?”
“That and a DNA sample.”
“My DNA?” I smiled. “This is good news. See, there’s no way they can have my DNA. If I go in and they test me, they’ll know that. The charges will be dropped and I won’t be starring on this week’s Cops.”
“And what if it does match?”
“But it can’t. I didn’t do anything.”
“I know that.”
“Then what are you trying to say?”
“That I think someone is trying to frame you for murder. Someone really smart. Someone who left absolutely no evidence behind that could incriminate them. Instead, it all points to you.” His bright blue gaze collided with mine. “Someone’s framing you.”
His words sank in and panic ballooned in my stomach and floated into my chest. My throat burned. Framed? Me?
My brain raced with this new information. I wanted to argue with him. Who in their right mind would want to frame me?
I was so totally likeable. Just ask The Ninas. Or Evie. Or any of my clients (with the exception of Mr. Slice and Dice) who put their faith in me to find them a soul mate, for Damien’s sake. I also gave change to homeless people and waited my turn at crosswalks and I’d always tipped Dirkst, my tanning specialist, rather generously (the guy had the biggest spray gun in Manhattan and knew how to use it). Sure, there was that time when the cashier at Starbucks had given me a twenty back when I’d only handed her a ten, but that had been her mistake, not mine. Overall, I rocked in the likeable person department.
Dead and Dateless Page 10
