Another woman, almost identical to the nudist, except with bright red hair and even bigger boobs encased in white lace steps out. She moves behind Gloria, placing her hand lightly on Gloria’s shoulder. I’m Raggedy Ann at a Barbie convention. The woman eye schtups Oliver too, bee-stung lips pursed in approval. Again, he does nothing. A tsunami of anger washes the anxiety away. Beatrice Smythe doesn’t let sluts mentally undress her husband right in front of her.
“Excuse us,” I say through clenched teeth. I tug on Oliver’s arm to get him moving. We walk past the vultures, my head back and high. Oliver grins like a fool, either from the attention or my reaction. Most likely both.
We’re the last to arrive at the party. The others sit in black and red silk chairs or on the matching couch. The walls and floors are the same dark wood as the rest of the house. Cole, the concierge, stands behind the bar with martini, scotch, and brandy glasses all lined up with bottles of alcohol and blood. The walls, except for the one with the stone fireplace, are filled with photographs and paintings from various eras. The Wild West, the Thirties—it’s a historical society’s dream room. Above the fireplace is another portrait of Marianna, this time lying nude on a bearskin rug with her black hair styled like Veronica Lake’s.
The woman herself lounges on another fainting couch near a huge globe, sipping blood out of a martini glass. Unlike the rest, she’s dressed rather conservatively in black velvet capris and white button-down shirt with charm bracelet dangling from her small wrist. Her black hair rests on one shoulder, not a frizz anywhere. Her light brown skin, the same tone as my friend April’s, darn near glows. Her huge lips are painted red, or it could be from the blood. When we enter, her black eyes drink us in. “So good of you to show up,” she says. “I was beginning to worry.”
The others wait for Oliver’s response. A boy and girl, seventeen if they’re a day, sit next to each other on the couch, the girl’s long red fingernail caressing the boy’s thigh. They could be twins, with the same sandy blonde hair, dark blue eyes, long limbs, and even the same nose. Heck, they even wear the same style clothes, both in black leather suits. Red Barbie slinks in behind us and sits next to the girl, putting her slender arm around the girl’s shoulders and resting her head on her shoulder.
The other stranger sits in a chair, cigar in his mouth and ashtray on his ample thigh. He’s a large man, and even the expensive pinstripe suit can’t hide that fact. His belly rivals a pregnant woman’s. The rest of him is about as appealing as the potbelly. A bald head with a crown of dark brown hair from ear to ear with a matching mustache covering his top lip. I hate to admit it, but I’m relieved to not be the ugliest person in the room.
“I apologize, Marianna,” Oliver says. “My wife and I were … distracted.” He wraps his right arm around my waist.
“Glo, while you’re up, get me a drink,” the cigar man says.
Passing us, Gloria flips her hair back on the way to the bar. Cole pours some blood into a brandy sifter. He’s a vampire? Wonder how that happened. Normally, from what Oliver told me, a vamp gets lonely or bored and the first person they come across or are doing the horizontal mambo with is turned. Of course, usually they look like someone who struts on a catwalk. Who wants to spend fifty or so years making love to someone they have to pretend is Ryan Gosling every night? Cigar man has a story.
Marianna raises her hand, palm side up, presenting her cappuccino wrist. Without a word, Oliver releases me, strolling over to Marianna. Taking her hand, he raises it to his lips, kissing the thin skin where the veins meet. “You are as beautiful as I remember,” he says, mouth still hovering centimeters from her skin.
“As are you,” she says with a smile. “Still enjoy making love with your shoes on?”
He releases her hand. “Now, you know the only reason I did that was Gustave was returning any moment. It was a good thing I had them on, if you remember.”
“As if I could ever forget you.”
Gag me.
“And who is this … lovely creature you’ve brought with you,” Marianna asks, eyeing me.
“I’m his wife,” I say harshly.
Marianna looks at Oliver, mouth agape. “You married?”
“Yes. A year ago.”
“Now, I know you are lying,” she says, smiling. My body locks up again, all joints buckling. I’ve blown our cover. They’re going to eat us.
Oliver stays as cool as the Fonz. “Why do you say that?”
“The very thought of you in any form of relationship longer than a weekend is incredulous,” she chuckles.
I have to agree with her.
“I am a changed man. Love transformed me.”
“You must be some form of magician, kitten,” she says to me. “You have performed the impossible.”
“I’m good like that,” I reply.
“You look it,” the boy on the couch says in a thick German accent. He reaches across to touch my leg, but I move away, flinching. He wouldn’t have gotten me anyway. Oliver moves faster than I can see. One moment he’s next to Marianna, and the next he’s got the boy’s wrist in his hand, teeth snarled.
“Attempt to touch my wife again and I will break every bone in your hand. Twice.”
The German snarls back, making his gaunt face close to skeletal. His companion matches his look, but hisses like a snake too. The German yanks his arm away.
“Everyone,” Marianna says in a calm tone, “we are all friends here. Let us not fight.”
I touch Oliver’s shoulder, leaning in and whispering, “Let it go.”
He glances at me and drops the vampire face. The Gruesome Twosome remains poised to strike.
“Klaus. Ingrid,” Marianna says like a scolding mother.
It takes a moment, but their faces return to normal. Snooty, but normal. They still shoot daggers at us with their eyes. Oliver crosses his arms across his chest, I’m sure mentally willing them to try again. Gloria, who lounges on the armrest of Mr. Cigar’s chair, winks at me. I suddenly feel like a hick in Beverly Hills, out of place and pitied. Marianna sits up, stretching her long legs in front of her, staring at me. “Kitten, you must have been Helen of Troy in a past life. We almost had a war on our hands.” She pats the now empty seat next to her. “Come. Sit. Oliver, prepare some drinks for me and your lovely wife.”
Like a good boy, he does as she says, as do I. All eyes follow me to the couch. I slowly sit, delaying the inevitable a second longer. My body remains at a state of readiness just in case she does strike, but I do cross my ankles to keep Gloria and Klaus from getting a cheap look. (Their eyes do glance there.) Oliver starts mixing, but doesn’t take his eyes off me. My protector.
“So, tell me about yourself Beatrice. It is Beatrice, correct?”
“Yeah, Um, not much to tell. I was born, now I’m here,” I chuckle nervously.
“Well, how did you meet our Oliver?” she asks.
“I met my husband … um … at the library.” Not a total lie, we did meet in a library. “He was checking out books on … knitting.” Oh yeah, I’m a jerk. Oliver stops pouring vodka, raising an eyebrow.
“Knitting?” Cigar asks.
“I have been alive almost five hundred years. I am running short on things to learn,” Oliver says, not missing a beat.
“Whatever,” Cigar says, sniffing said item. He hasn’t taken a single puff. Gloria takes it out of his hand. She inhales, and blows smoke in his face. O … kay.
“Was it love at first sight?” Marianna asks.
“Actually, no. I couldn’t stand him,” I don’t lie. “He was rude, crude, obnoxious, he scared me, and hit on me at the most inappropriate times.” I meet his eyes. Grin Number Three greets me. I smile back, then look away. “But then he showed his real self. He helped me when I really needed a friend, and my opinion changed. We were married a year later in Vegas. It was one of those places with Elvis. I know it’s not official, but it means something to us both.”
“You don’t have rings,” Cole, the concierge
says.
“I don’t like jewelry,” I say. “I’m allergic to gold and he’s allergic to silver.”
“The sign of our commitment is in a location we intend only each other to ever view,” Oliver says, staring at me.
That was for the knitting remark, I know it. Okay, enough about me. “And how did the three of you meet?” I ask the scary Germans.
“We are brother and sister,” Ingrid answers with her hand still on his thigh. Oh. My. God. Mondo grossness. Eww.
“Oh,” I say for lack of something better. “And you?” I ask the redhead.
“Gigi is our consort,” Klaus says harshly.
“And what about you two?” I ask Gloria.
Oliver, balancing three glasses, two filled with blood and another with a screwdriver, walks toward us. He hands us our drinks and walks behind me, putting his hand on the back of my neck. Kudos to me, I don’t flinch.
“I was a dancer at one of Sal’s clubs,” Gloria says.
“I was big time in Detroit in, you know, waste management. I got the head honcho out there out of some trouble, and he turned me in return. I hooked up with Glo about a year later.”
So there’s incest, lying, stripping, and the mafia all crammed into one house. I gulp my screwdriver.
“What about you, kitten? Thinking of joining us, or has this naughty boy never offered?”
“He offered and I declined. Like Queen said, Who wants to live forever?” Everyone in the room stares at me blankly. Wrong question to pose to this group. I clear my throat. “I may change my mind.”
“There is no rush,” Oliver says. “We are quite content with how things are.”
“I just cannot picture it. How do you live?” Marianna asks.
“Blissfully,” Oliver answers with grin Number One, full fang.
“Well, you won’t catch me settling down,” Sal says. “Glo here knows the score,” he says, patting her hand. If this bothers her, it doesn’t show. She sips her martini. “I did that whole married, kids crap for over twenty years. I got my balls back from that woman; I ain’t giving them up again.”
“Trixie does not ‘have my balls’ as you so eloquently put it,” Oliver says.
“Bet she has you gardening or some such shit,” Sal laughs.
“Hardly. We travel.”
“Yeah? Where you been since Gidget got her hooks into you? She doesn’t strike me as the adventurous type, if you catch my drift.”
Um, hello? I’m in the room.
Oliver’s grip in my neck tightens. “I believe you are mistaking adventurous for whorish. Not surprising considering the company you keep.”
“Hey!” Sal says.
“And for your information, I have shown my wife the best of the world. Paris, London, Cairo, Rio to name but a few.”
“Paris, huh? Been there three times,” Sal says.
“We have been there four.”
Okay, they’re about to whip out their johnsons and compare size. Macho men drive me nuts. I stand, tugging down my skirt. “Well, I think I’ve had enough socializing for one night. Nice to meet you all. Oliver?”
With my chin up, I walk past the Gruesome Twosome out the door. I’m halfway up the staircase when Oliver catches up, taking my elbow. We don’t speak until the door to our room shuts.
“We don’t have to do that every night, do we?” I ask, finishing my screwdriver.
“Thankfully, no. I am sorry for how they treated you. It was inexcusable.”
“They’re predators, it’s their nature to toy with food. And you didn’t help matters. Can you please not get into a fight while we’re here? The guy touched me, he wasn’t going any further. Low profile, remember?”
“I was a husband defending his wife.”
“No, you overreacted. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to get dragged into vampire court if I can help it.”
For a fleeting moment, something passes over his face. His mouth tenses and eyes double in size, but it’s gone so fast maybe I imagined it. Was he scared? I’ve only seen him frightened three other times, and they were bad situations. Like, we-almost-died situations. “Oh, crud. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. You are right, I will control my temper.”
“You didn’t have a nothing face. Is there something you’re not telling me? Because if—”
“Trixie, dear, you are looking for trouble where there is none, I assure you. Now, we should leave. I had George arrange for us to review copies of the case files on the missing. They are expecting us.”
“You’re kidding, right? I can’t walk into an FBI building dressed like this. Can’t we do it tomorrow?”
“Would you rather stay in this house, alone with me?”
Good point. “Don’t want to keep the Feds waiting,” I say, picking up my purse from the floor. I also pull out my suitcase feeling in the side flap for my credentials. There it is. I love this thing. It’s like a black card case, but when opened, there’s a gold shield with “Federal Bureau of Investigation” written on it. This thing can get me into anywhere: people’s homes, work, you name it. It’s also great if you’ve been caught speeding. (I was doing eighty in a fifty-five, and the guy let me off with a smile.)
I also take out my fitted black leather jacket that flares out at the waist. My best friend in the universe, April, made me buy it, convincing me I looked rock-and-roll in it. It was a bargain at half my paycheck. With the matching leather skirt I definitely feel rock-and-roll, but more on the groupie side. If Nana could see me now, she’d throw me in reform school.
“That is a fetching look on you,” Oliver says throwing on his own leather jacket. He loves that thing. It reaches down to his hips and hangs loose. What a pair we are.
“Did they give you keys to a vehicle?” Oliver asks.
“Desk,” I answer, putting the suitcase back under the bed.
He grabs them. “Are we ready?”
“I was born ready.”
Five
The FBI Agent Rode a Black Motorcycle
We make it downstairs and past the still-chatting group without incident. The Germans glare as we walk out the front door, and Marianna shouts “Have fun you two,” but that’s it. The breath I hold escapes when the door shuts. At least it’s a nice, clear night. The temperature has gone down about twenty degrees, but considering it was a hundred before, that isn’t saying much. The still- hundred-percent humidity doesn’t help either. I don’t like eating soup, let alone having to walk around in it. Leather in the middle of summer is never a good idea. Get me in air conditioning fast.
The door to the garage is unlocked. Even though Oliver walks in first, I’m the one who flicks the light switch by the wood door. Holy mackerel. It’s like James Bond’s garage in here. A black Porsche, a vintage green Aston Martin, a red BMW, and a silver Mercedes. How the other half live.
“I am so driving. Give me the keys.”
Oh, no. Grin Number Two surfaces. “You do not know how to operate our motor vehicle.”
“What?”
Oliver steps away from the Porsche he was leaning against. Instead, he walks over to the other side of the garage where the black BMW motorcycle with matching helmets rests. “Our chariot.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” I say, hands instinctively moving to my hips. “I am not riding on that thing with you.”
“It is a perfectly safe mode of transportation, I assure you.”
“No way. Uh uh. I draw the line here.”
“You do not trust me?”
“No, I just see right through you. You chose this so I’d have to hold onto you on something that … vibrates.”
Grin Number Two becomes grin Number One, the widest with fangs. “Would I do something as underhanded as that?”
“Oliver, you are such a creep.”
“It is too late now, unless you wish to go back inside and speak to Marianna.” He raises an eyebrow. “Alone.”
It would take a nuclear explosion to get me back in that
room. With a scowl, I push the button to open the garage. The motor above grinds to life. “Tomorrow we take the Aston. And I drive.”
“I can live with that.”
“You’re not alive,” I mutter.
He climbs on first, kicking out the stand and leveling the bike. I put the helmet on. There goes my hair. Oliver puts his on too, flipping the tinted visor down over his eyes. I do the same. Now comes the tricky part. In the tight skirt, I can’t lift my leg up high. I try but almost topple in the stupid boots.
I have no choice. I hike up the skirt so the world can practically see the control top of my pantyhose. I’ll be flashing my nether regions to all of Dallas tonight. Oh, joy. If people could die of embarrassment, I’d be a corpse right now. To his microscopic credit, Oliver doesn’t turn to get a look at the view. I manage to get my leg over this time and sit on the bike feet up on the metal rests. I swing my purse around to my back, and scoot up so my front touches Oliver’s back. I know he’s grinning even though I can’t see his face as I loop my arms around his torso, clutching onto my own wrists for dear life. Motorcycles have always made me nervous ever since April’s brother fell off one and was in a coma for two days.
Oliver turns the key and kicks the starter. Like a bear, the bike growls to life then hums. The entire body shakes lightly to the hums. Hello. My unmentionable place jumps to life as well, drawing much more attention than I like to give it outside the privacy of my own room. Think unsexy thoughts. Baseball, doing the dishes, old Jack Palance. He so planned this. If I have an orgasm on the interstate, Bette will get a workout tonight.
“Are you comfortable back there?” Oliver asks.
You have no idea. “Let’s just go!”
And we’re off. The bike jerks forward out of the garage and down the driveway. I hug Oliver tighter. If he could breathe, he’d be gasping right now. The gate opens as we approach. We pass through and he guns the engine, which roars louder than a chainsaw. I scream and darn near break Oliver’s ribs as we zoom down the quiet street. The possibility of becoming a road pancake sure does take my mind off the other problem. He slows a bit as we turn the corner but ignores the stop sign.
To Catch a Vampire Page 6
