“What’s it like living with Stella?” he asked Wyatt. It had only been two weeks since his sister had moved in with the bass player, and he was curious if they were still in love, or if toothpaste disputes had already killed the burn of passion.
But Wyatt grinned, his smile so wide and goofy, he rivaled Saxon for a split second. “Dude, it’s amazing. Everywhere I look, she’s there, either literally, or just there in the sense that her stuff is, and her personal touch on my apartment.”
Oh my God. That sounded like hell on earth. Johnny couldn’t imagine looking in every direction and seeing the same woman over and over. It would be like watching The Notebook every day for a millennium. “Can I have that flask again?”
He took a long drink.
Then he forced himself to say the right thing, which was all true, but it didn’t change the fact that his hand was shaking just a little. “Well, I’m happy for you guys, I really am. Stella is a lot looser with you. She’s happy, bro, and I thank you for that.”
Wyatt clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, man. And your turn will come, you know.”
“I hope not.” Johnny figured he was working on being more responsible and less impulsive, and that was hard enough as it was. Adding a serious relationship on top of all that just might make his head explode.
“Don’t you ever want to wake up and just know that you’re going to turn and the woman you love is lying next to you?”
Johnny stared at his friend, who looked like he’d not only been struck by Cupid’s arrow, but had also eaten it. “I’m moving away from you because now you’re starting to get on my nerves. Go find my sister and cuddle. I’m going to find Drake and then maybe a bridesmaid to flirt with.”
But when he saw Drake, who had been forced to wear a puffy pirate’s shirt at the bride’s request in his role as best man, Johnny decided there would be no picking up women for Drake that night. He’d be better off flying solo.
There was no band, which seemed a little criminal to Johnny, but then again, as far as he was concerned, the best band on the street was theirs, and they weren’t going to play Saxon’s own wedding. Though Johnny could have tolerated the DJ a little more if he hadn’t been alternating between Frank Sinatra and bootygrinding music, neither of which put him in a better mood than his current state. Wandering through the courtyard, ignoring the food that had been set out for the mortals, he narrowly missed getting hit by a leather whip as he passed the head table.
Darting out of the way, he saw that one of Zelda’s bridesmaids was grinning at him, flicking her wrist teasingly, whip in hand. She was wearing a top hat covered in black and red feathers, and she had drawn black tears trailing down her face in makeup and had smeared her lipstick across her cheeks like she was bleeding. There were further fake bloodstains on her substantial cleavage, and as she grinned, he noted that her tooth was blacked out. Or maybe it was really missing. Possibly a whip injury. In any case, Johnny immediately rethought his bridesmaid project. Flirting with a cute girl was usually a foolproof method of improving his mood, but this was one scary bridesmaid. She clearly wanted to hurt him.
Johnny gave her a half smile, then got the hell out of the range of her weapon. He may be a vampire with excellent healing properties, but that didn’t mean it felt good to have his ass whipped.
Turning, he contemplated strangling himself with the leaves of a banana tree, and wondered when the last time was that he’d truly had fun. Probably at his own wake, if he had to be honest with himself. That had involved laughs, gambling, dancing, bull riding, and a spontaneous wedding that wasn’t his. Unfortunately, he was the only one who remembered it. He had been hoping that tonight would be a great night, given the potential of a vampire marrying a dominatrix. Instead it was like cirque du freak meets Lawrence Welk. There were actually bubbles floating down from the misters, and if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a transvestite dressed like Cher making her way across the dance floor with a very determined stride.
And Lizette Chastain was coming through the archway from the street into the courtyard, her posture angry as she marched straight toward him.
Shit.
Johnny contemplated hiding, but she had already spotted him. Besides, he was trying to be more mature. Which meant that when he ditched out on a woman and completely disregarded her rules, he needed to stick around and take responsibility for it instead of hiding. Hey, growing up didn’t happen over night. He was taking baby steps.
“Mr. Malone,” Lizette said, her voice clipped as she stepped right up to him, dressed in a suit that, while a lighter gray, was essentially the same one as the day before, though she was wearing lower heels with a splash of red on them.
“Ms. Chastain, it’s a pleasure to see you again. What brings you to a wedding you weren’t invited to?” He turned so that he moved under the archway, away from the view of the majority of the courtyard. She shifted as well, and they stood under the red, uneven bricks of the arch, the twinkle lights and dull volume of the wedding to his right, the dim light from Chartres Street on his left. Her lips were pursed in agitation and again it struck him at a completely inappropriate time how attractive she was. Everything about her was delicate. Except her expression.
“You are not a gentleman,” she accused him.
He wasn’t sure that he had ever claimed to be one. Growing up potato-poor in Ireland, he had learned that his fists spoke volumes, and that stealing a loaf of bread filled his hungry belly faster than trying to find work that didn’t exist. Then when he’d come to the States with Stella in the twenties, he had taken those lessons and applied them to running with the Chicago mob. In his immortal life, he had set aside crime and violence, and had established a pretty firm personal code of ethics, but that didn’t mean he knew a whole lot about which fork to use and putting out his pinky and shit like that.
So he just agreed with her. “Probably not.”
She gasped. “We had an agreement to meet at seven, and you did not attend our meeting. Not to mention that Dieter informed me you have stolen your drum set.”
“I can’t steal what I already own. Look, I didn’t want to deal with this today. I’m sorry I no-showed on you, but I didn’t want to sit there and answer questions for five hours when I had a wedding to go to. If I have a key to my apartment, and can tell you where everything is, and a couple dozen witnesses can back me up that I’m Johnny Malone, I don’t see what the big deal is. Just take me off the list and we can forget this ever happened. You can even keep the twelve hundred bucks if it will get the VA off my back.” The longer he spoke, the more irritated he felt. Seriously, where did they get off?
“That is not the way it works, as we discussed.” It was clear she was struggling to contain her frustration.
“Well, why do I have to follow their dumb rules anyway? I didn’t vote for any of those douchebags. This isn’t a democracy.”
Her face blanched. “We exist to ensure we continue to exist. Rules are in place to guarantee the safety of each and every one of our kind.”
“I think we’re doing just fine on our own. Here in New Orleans, people don’t give a shit if you’re a vampire. It’s cool to be a vampire, hip even.”
“You tell people the truth?” She sounded shocked to the core, and she actually swayed a little on her heels.
“No, not outright. But if we did, no one would believe us. They would just think we were pretending. Being a ‘vampire’ is part of a fetish lifestyle. People get fang implants and drink blood and dress Goth all over the city—and all over the country for that matter. This isn’t the Middle Ages, it’s a freaking great time to be a vampire. We’re trendy.” He had to say, he loved it. It made life a lot easier than trying to be something he wasn’t. “I think it’s awesome that Saxon could marry a mortal. If she makes him happy, he should enjoy it while he can.” Before Zelda got old and wrinkly and couldn’t lift her crop anymore.
“This is a mixed wedding?” Lizette looked like she might faint.
He frowned. “Sweetie, that sounds racist.”
“We can’t marry mortals. We can’t. It’s the antithesis of everything the VA stands for. I am shocked at the utter disregard for rules and self-preservation going on here. I can only tell you that my report back to my superiors will recommend a full investigation into the coven here and your misconduct.”
Oh God. And he meant that most sincerely. He had just accidentally opened up Pandora’s Parisian box in the form of Lizette Chastain, and everyone he knew was going to kill him if the Vampire Alliance suddenly showed up in New Orleans, taking attendance and inspecting their quarters. “I think coven is a strong word. We’re just a cover band.”
She kept swallowing and blinking, and Johnny was actually starting to worry about her. It looked like she was having some kind of aneurysm, which was of course, impossible. “Can I get you a drink? You look like you’re overheated or something.”
At first she started to shake her head, but then changed her mind. “Actually, yes, I would, thank you.”
“Just stand here for a second. I’ll get you a drink and a chair.” She was actually scaring him a little. He didn’t really know what the hell was wrong with her. Vampires didn’t get sick, but she looked feverish.
It occurred to him maybe she needed to feed, but he could only imagine her reaction to his suggesting she have some blood to drink.
Which left him only the shitty sherbet punch to give her. Gag. Even as he lifted the ladle and scooped it, he wanted to hurl a little. But he poured two glasses in case she really was dehydrated, went under the skirt of the table where Stella had left her messenger bag, and pulled a bag of blood out of it. His sister was always prepared. Pouring a little in each glass, he figured it was enough to cut off the urge to feed, but not enough to make Lizette even realize she was drinking it until she had already swallowed. He sniffed it. There was a slight hint of blood, but maybe she would be so thirsty she wouldn’t question it.
When he got back, she was actually leaning on the wall, looking like she might slide down it at any given second. Johnny held out the glass in front of her, and slipped his arm around her. “When was the last time you fed?” he murmured.
“Before I left Paris.”
“Are you crazy?” That had to have been at least three days. “Drink this.”
“What is it?” She frowned at the glass.
“Punch. With ice cream in it.”
She swallowed a huge gulp then promptly started coughing. “The texture is horrible.”
“Just keep drinking, you’ll feel better. Take it back in one whole shot, okay? We’ll do it together.” She looked unconvinced, but he raised the second glass to his lips. He may have been responsible for being a pain in her ass, but he didn’t want her passing out from lack of blood in his presence. “Come on. One, two, three.”
Johnny threw back the drink and let it slide down his throat in one massive, gelatinous glob of gross. He tried not to shudder and gave her a reassuring look. “Mmm. Good, huh?”
Lizette was shuddering and wiping her lips, but her glass was empty and there was already more color in her cheeks. “I am not sure if ‘good’ is the term I would use, but thank you. I do feel slightly better.”
“I’ll get you another glass.”
She nodded, eyes glassy, posture still hunched.
Johnny repeated the process, trying to work around the ice cream, going mostly for the liquid and a healthy shot of blood. He himself was feeling a nice hint of warmth in his extremities from the drink. He hadn’t thought he was particularly hungry, but now he had to wonder, given that he was definitely craving more. This time he had his glass halfway down before he even got to Lizette, and she drank it quickly as well, with no encouragement from him.
Within a minute, she was standing straighter and sighing. “Thank you, I feel much better.”
He wanted to reprimand her for taxing her ability to go without feeding like that. But that really wasn’t his style, nor was it any of his business why she had gone days without blood. Maybe she had her reasons. All he knew was that she looked better, and he was suddenly aware again of just how smoking-hot she was. He normally dated balls-to-the-wall kind of chicks, but that wasn’t Lizette. She was elegant. She was beautiful in an ethereal, nonshowy kind of way. He wanted to trace his hands over her delicate body and see if she would keep her eyes open or close them. He wanted to bite her, gently, suck her blood into his mouth, then smooth over the wound with his tongue while her dark hair tumbled over her petite shoulders.
Johnny blinked, his erection suddenly painfully obvious in his black jeans. Why his thoughts had taken a tumble into the French gutter, he wasn’t sure. But if he didn’t lighten the mood, he was going to end up in more than a disagreement with Lizette. She was going to call the cops on him. Or more likely, her brawny assistant. Johnny wondered where her muscle was tonight. Probably at his apartment, sitting on his couch, wearing his underwear, and downloading expensive movies on his TV. Fucker. Johnny laughed a little out loud, though he wasn’t sure what was really so funny.
When he turned, it seemed like the twinkle lights shifted a little, undulating in and out. Weird. He was feeling a little strange. For a second he wasn’t even sure what he had been doing.
Lizette. Right.
He gestured to the courtyard. “Do you want to dance?” he asked, because that seemed like a totally logical question to ask. Even though he never danced, and he didn’t think Lizette was the bootygrind type. Who had almost just fainted. Yet, he asked.
Stranger yet, she nodded. “I’d love to.”
The girl had moves like Jagger. She swayed back and forth, hips swirling, and Johnny had no sense of time or space or sound. Everything moved in sensual slow motion, a hazy, breezy, and dark erotic dance of their bodies next to each other, not touching, but speaking volumes, the banana trees fanning behind Lizette’s head.
And that was just during the Cupid Shuffle. Johnny could only imagine how she would dance to Usher or Flo Rida.
The problem was, he could only imagine. Because after that, he didn’t remember a single thing.
*
LIZETTE TRIED TO remember why she was at a wedding with Johnny Malone. She tried to remember why she was angry. It had something to do with Johnny not being Johnny and stealing something that was his, if he was he. But then she had felt faint from not feeding, which was odd, because she was old enough to be able to go days without blood. But for some reason, she had felt desperately hungry and that awful sherbet had caught in her throat and she’d been afraid she would vomit in front of Johnny.
Instead, she had immediately felt better. Much better. Like her inner thighs had been laid under a heat lamp and she was alone in a dark room, dancing for herself in the mirror kind of better. Like no one else existed but this charming man in front of her and a soft breeze. Which reminded her that she was actually outside. Wasn’t she? Lizette turned and turned, taking in the fairy lights, and the thick green plant leaves, the rich red brick, and the parade of feathers on women’s hats. Where was she?
Then Johnny Malone handed her another drink and she decided she didn’t care, just as long as she could drink sherbet for the rest of her very long life.
It was the last coherent thought, if you could even call it that, she had that night.
Chapter Four
ONCE … TWICE … FIVE TIMES A CHER
D RAKE had to admit this wedding had suddenly become a lot more interesting. That little caterer was definitely sexy and had fit perfectly in his arms and against his body. And she could kiss—damn, she could kiss. But she was also a spitfire. He could see it, even though he knew she’d been trying to remain calm and businesslike. But her blue eyes had flashed with fire.
A woman who gave as good as she got—now that was hot.
He glanced at the maid of honor, who now chatted with a man in a dog collar who looked ready to drop to his knees at the first flick of her wrists. Definitely a better fit for her. Just like Cupcake was a
better fit for him. He liked giving as good as he got, but only when it didn’t involve whips, ball gags, or safe words.
Just call him old-fashioned. Plus you didn’t live for two hundred years and not learn what you like. So now he had something to distract him from the horror of this wedding. He was going to convince the caterer to have a little fling with him. Maybe he should tell Saxon he was going to try a cupcake after all.
Yeah, no. But it was clear that he did need to get laid. That was probably why he was so irritated with all his “in love” friends. And why he was so cranky.
So he was going to go apologize appropriately to the caterer, then work on taking her home for the night.
He smiled broadly just thinking about it, but his grin faded as he watched the kid who worked for the caterer push the slimy tuna around on the slate tiles with a broom. He did feel bad about the ruined food and the mess he’d created.
All the more reason to go give her a very sincere apology. Maybe several. In his bed. In the shower. Maybe even in this courtyard once the freak-show wedding was done.
Another grin curved his lips. Oh yes, he was having a lot more fun.
Then he realized the maid of honor was watching him from the other side of the room, studying him over the rim of her punch glass as she took a sip of the vile Lake Ponchartrain punch. And Dog Collar Boy appeared to be nowhere in sight. He looked at the ground in front of her. Yeah, nowhere in sight.
Great.
She lowered her glass and continued to stare at him, but now she no longer looked flirty and determined. She looked angry and determined.
Shit, maybe a spurned dominatrix was scarier than a horny one.
Yeah, definitely time to go talk to the cute caterer in the kitchen.
The brunette was easy to find. She stood at a stainless steel counter that was littered with dirty dishes, utensils, and trays of food in various stages of preparation. She swiped at her bangs with the back of her wrist, the movement tired and a little agitated, then she started dolloping some kind of sauce onto minicrepes.
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