“I like your enthusiasm,” he said, but he didn’t sound half as happy as he looked.
My own smile widened. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
Just as he settled into the seat next to me, I shrieked, “Wait, wait. I have to get a picture of this.”
“There are a dozen cameras recording everything.”
“It’s not the same thing. There’s no guarantee that this will make it on the air and I have to show my friends. They are never going to believe this.” I pulled out the disposable camera I’d picked up on the way over.
“Nick”—Mr. Weather started to motion to one of the producers—“could you help us out here?”
“Oh, don’t bother him.” I shoved the camera into his hand. “You can handle it. Just aim and click.” I struck my best pose.
“But I thought you wanted to show your friends?”
“I do. They are so not going to believe how good my hair did tonight. We’re talking yummy perfection.” When he just sat there, I waved a hand at him. “Go on. Snap a pic. In fact, snap a couple. I’ve got family, too.”
The camera click, click, clicked and I shifted into several different poses. There. Here. Now. Perfect.
“You’re a sweetie.” I snatched the camera from his hands and stuffed it back into my purse.
“Don’t you want to get a picture of us?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I guess I could.” I eyed him. “But do you really want a bunch of pictures circulating with your hair looking like that?”
He touched a hand to his head in alarm. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, for starters, you’ve got a ton of strands out of place.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have even one hair out of place.” Another shake. “That’s crazy.”
I shrugged and pulled out the camera. “Hey, it’s your career.”
He flashed me an exasperated look and his gaze collided with mine. Bingo.
His gaze sparked as I stared deep into his eyes and sent the silent message.
I’m just confirming what you’ve thought since leaving your Park Avenue apartment. Tonight just isn’t your hair night. While most of it is cooperating beautifully, there are those few wayward strands that keep working themselves loose. You tried telling the studio stylist that they weren’t cooperating, but she wouldn’t listen. And now look what’s happened. Everyone is noticing. Staring. Smirking.
“Forget it,” he blurted. “No pictures. Please.”
I patted his hand and gave him an understanding look. “Don’t worry. I’m sure no one else will notice. Oops, then again, some of this is going to be on television so it’s possible someone might notice.”
Like, say, several million viewers.
“I need a mirror!” He shot to his feet and a production assistant rushed forward, mirror in hand. Mr. Weather spent the next few minutes smoothing and slicking at several invisible hairs near his temple while I posed for camera shots with the carriage driver.
Fifteen minutes later, we settled into the carriage and the ride started. The horses clopped their way around Central Park for several minutes while a small golf cart filled with the producer and two cameramen kept time next to us. Another camera guy rode up front with the driver, the lens trained on us as Mr. Weather explained the difference between a funnel cloud and an actual tornado.
Yawn.
Literally.
I opened my mouth and let loose the biggest, loudest aggghhhhhh I could manage, followed by a “Sorry for zoning out. It’s not you. Really.”
We kept riding, he kept talking, and I kept yawning for another five minutes until we were deep into the park. I leaned free of the door, summoned my inner vamp, and directed a furious red glare at our horses.
They stumbled and danced as the driver fought for control. The camera guy fell from his perch, hitting the ground and rolling out of the way just as the horses reared up.
They bolted, and just like that, we were speeding through Central Park. The wind rushed at us and I shouted, “Yippee,” while Mr. Weather tried to duck for cover and save his carefully styled hair.
I smiled and pretended indifference to the damage being done to my own (a vamp had to do what a vamp had to do) and shoved my hands into the air, leaning and twisting like I was riding the Big Boy at Coney Island.
Just as the thought struck, I had the crazy sensation that it meant something, but then the carriage twisted and I forgot everything except putting on a great show for the golf cart speeding in our wake.
Ten minutes and lots of whimpering later (Mr. Weather, not the horses), the animals calmed down (courtesy of yours truly and more Super Vamp mind skills) and the carriage finally came to a stop.
I swallowed my heart, which had jumped into my throat (I’m a vamp, not a stuntwoman) and summoned a look of pure excitement. “Wow.” I turned to Mr. Weather.
He wore a stunned expression, his hair standing straight up, his skin a pale, pasty white despite his spray-on tan.
I jabbed him. “That was so cool. Let’s do it again.”
“I have to get out of here,” he mumbled. He shook his head, as if trying to get a grip. “Get me out of here!” he yelled, and the entire crew rushed toward us.
“But you’ve got nine more carriage rides left,” I reminded him as he scrambled to his feet. “Unless you’re feeling me as much as I’m feeling you.” His gaze collided with mine. “If that’s the case, why don’t you go ahead and send everyone else home. We’ll take another ride, just the two of us, and see just how fast this baby can go.”
He gave me a horrified look and fumbled to open the door.
“Wait,” I called after him as he landed on his feet and stumbled forward. Stop, I willed. Turn. He did and I snapped several quick pics before he got his bearings. “I can’t wait to post these on my MySpace page.”
His mouth dropped open and he looked ready to cry. He whirled and rushed toward the hair and makeup tent that had been set up near the café.
I gave the evil eye to a couple of pigeons flying overhead. They promptly dropped a couple of presents. Mr. Weather screamed, tried to dodge, and slid across the pavement.
I smiled, pocketed my disposable camera, climbed out of the carriage, and headed for the other contestants, who had been watching from the sidelines.
I spent the next two hours sipping club soda and watching, with satisfaction, as Mr. Weather walked around Central Park with each contestant. It wasn’t half as romantic as a carriage ride, but it was much easier on the hair. The evening ended with Mr. Weather saying goodbye to each participant. I stood in line and waited my turn, confident that I’d already made a lasting impression, one that he wouldn’t soon forget if the mustard-yellow stain on his shirt was any indication.
“I had such fun,” I told him when he reached me. “I wish, hope, yearn, pray that we can do it again. I just know we’ll make fab babies together and every year we’ll celebrate our wedding anniversary with a sentimental stampede through Central Park.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” He gave me a quick peck on the cheek before hurrying to the next woman. “Whatever.”
I smiled, an expression that only widened when the producer approached me with the news.
“I’m afraid Mr. Weather isn’t interested in getting to know you further. We hope you’ve had a positive experience on our show and we thank you for your interest in Manhattan’s Most Wanted.”
I summoned a flood of tears and spat, “The bastard!” as an assistant whisked me toward a waiting cab. Five other contestants followed, all equally broken up.
We split into groups of twos and climbed into the back of each cab, all equally torn up over our near brush with married bliss.
“I know we could have been beautiful together,” I sobbed to Pamela, the kindergarten teacher who’d followed me into my cab.
“You guys did make a cute couple,” she said, rubbing at her own eyes. “If it wasn’t me, I th
ought for sure it would have been you.”
Well, uh, yeah. I am a hot, happening, babelicious vamp.
“We would have had six sets of fraternal twins,” I said. “Six boys and an equal number of girls, and two nannies.”
“I wanted four sets myself, but only one nanny. I’d planned to care for the kids myself using the Richard Alcott method of child rearing. What about you?”
“Definitely.” Who the hell was Richard Alcott? “And at Christmas we would all drive upstate and pick a fresh tree at one of those farms and then gather around the fireplace in our eight-thousand-square-foot Connecticut mansion and drink hot cocoa.”
“And sing Christmas carols.”
I wouldn’t go that far. “Oh, well.” I sniffled and shivered. “I guess I’ll just have to settle for a breast enlargement. Or maybe a tummy tuck. Something to cheer me up.”
She flashed me a smile. “I’m getting my porcelain veneers replaced.”
We chatted a few more minutes about various plastic surgeons. Actually, she chatted and I nodded because, obviously, being a Super Vamp, I stood a bigger chance of meeting Godzilla than a plastic surgeon.
The cab dropped Pam off at her Upper East Side apartment, and then whizzed back out into traffic and headed for my place. A few more minutes, several jarring turns, and I was home.
I climbed out, tipped the driver—a lonely, single twentysomething with nice abs and an addiction to Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman reruns—with a Dead End Dating card, and a mental “You will call.” The driver gave me one of those dazed and confused smiles, a huge thank-you, and then he pulled away. I was halfway up the front steps when I smelled the strange aroma.
My nostrils flared and the scent of mustard and diesel slid into my nose and made my heart pound. I glanced around, my gaze slicing through the darkness, but there was nothing there. Just sidewalk. A few plants here and there. More buildings.
My ears perked and dozens of sounds filtered through. The purr of Mrs. Janske’s cats. The voice of a local announcer doing the nightly news. A couple arguing about mothers (were they the bane of everyone’s existence?). The sound of potatoes sizzling on the stove. The whistle of a teapot. The pop, pop, pop of a popcorn machine—
Wait a second. My mind played a quick game of Which of these sounds do not belong?
The pop, pop, pop continued. Along with the voices. The sizzling potatoes. The groan of metal and the rattle of wood. The creak of a doorway. The sound of footsteps echoing on the concrete. The lash of a whip—
A fiery whack jagged up my back and I stumbled on the steps. My anger stirred, my fangs extended, and I whirled to face my attacker.
There was no one behind me. I turned. Left. Right. Around. My gaze cut through the darkness. I didn’t see anyone.
But I could hear them. The footsteps. The crack of leather—
“Shit!” I cried as white-hot pain ripped through my arm and I fell toward the front door of my building.
I blinked against the pinpoints of light that danced in front of my eyes and felt for the door handle. I didn’t know who or what, but something was after me and I had to get away.
I turned the knob. Metal groaned and twisted. The lock snapped open and I stumbled inside. I almost went for Mrs. Janske’s door when I heard the voice, so pained and pleading, so Ty.
“No.” His frantic plea echoed through my head.
The whip cracked and the pain exploded and I fell to my knees for a long, heart-stopping moment.
“There’s more where that came from.”
The strange voice beat at my temples, trying to push past the heat that gripped my senses, but it was no use. I couldn’t think. Or see. Or hear. I could only feel. The white-hot sensation. The cold floor biting into my knees.
When I finally managed to get my footing, I stumbled toward the elevator. A few seconds later, I reached the safety of my apartment. I barely made it a few feet before another pain hit and I fell face-first to the floor.
I fought against the fire that danced up and down my spine. I panted. I wasn’t sure why except that I felt like I had to do something and I knew—thanks to my mother who, on every one of my birthdays, felt compelled to share her horrific experience enduring hours and hours of hellacious labor—that breathing really fast, in and out, could sometimes help. It didn’t do jack.
The only thing it did do was jar me out of whatever mental connection I’d had with Ty.
I lay there for several minutes, calling out to him, trying to reestablish the link, but he obviously wasn’t answering.
Because he didn’t want to?
Or because he couldn’t?
The questions haunted me as the pain, slowly but surely, subsided. The gripping sensation turned to a steady throb and I became aware of my wet fingers and the soft fur brushing against my palm.
I cracked open one eye to see Killer licking my hands. He paused. His big green eyes collided with mine.
Get up, already. I’m hungry.
No “Gee, I’m sorry you’ve fallen and you can’t get up” or “Wow, you must really be hurt to still be lying there like that.”
“I hate you,” I told him as I staggered to my feet.
Yeah, yeah. We’ve already established that. Now get your ass in the kitchen and open up one of those little cans before I get ugly.
I headed for the kitchen, found some cat food, and left Killer lapping up his snack while I headed into the bathroom. I peeled off my hot pink dress and eyed the angry red welt that ran diagonally across my back. Another oozed on the back of my arm. The left cheek of my ass. The back of my thigh.
What the hell was happening?
But I already knew. Ty had shut me out for so long but his will had finally dwindled. He’d endured too much. The pain. The confinement. His strength was sapped, his control fried. He was dying now, his defenses crumbling once and for all. Which meant he could no longer keep me out if I wanted to get in. We were one and the same now.
“There’s more where that came from.”
The voice echoed and my wounds throbbed and I knew then that the night was just starting.
Twenty-eight
“Open your eyes.”
I tried. Not because he told me to, but because I wanted to. I wanted to be conscious, eyes open, mind alert. My senses alive. Anything was better than lingering somewhere between afterlife and permanent death, lost in the pain, mindless with it.
But the hunger was even worse.
My gut twisted and clawed and my throat burned. My insides churned, pushing and pulling, driving me crazy. I felt my fangs against my swollen tongue, grazing the tender flesh, drawing a thin line of blood. But my own blood wasn’t enough: too slow and sluggish and cold.
I needed fresh blood. Then I could think. Fight.
As if my thoughts had conjured it, I felt a drop of sweet, delicious heat against my lips. My mouth opened and my tongue moved of its own accord, lapping and sucking.
More! the hunger demanded, and it came, flowing sweetly into my mouth.
I drank greedily until there was no more.
But I needed more. Another taste. Another chance.
I forced my eyes open and stared through a blur at the shadow that loomed over me.
“I knew that would wake you up.” The shadow grinned, the expression a startling break in the black mask of his face. “Time to rise and shine.”
The words registered, but they couldn’t get past the hunger that growled and clamored for more sustenance.
I licked my lips and blinked. “More.”
“Oh, you’ll have more, all right, but not by my hand. I’ve been the gracious benefactor long enough. It’s time you started fending for yourself.” He turned and walked to the corner and suddenly there were two shadows. Logan, that was his name, larger and more sinister, and a silhouette maybe half his size.
“Come along now,” he said to the small, belligerent shape.
No. The dread welled, but then excitement came rolling in, crashing over me an
d washing everything else away.
I was hungry, and finally he was going to give me something to eat. It had been so long, so long that I’d stopped counting the days since I’d last eaten. I cast a quick glance at the window. Darkness again. More lights. Music blared in my ears, mingling with the thunder of my heart and the frantic pop, pop, pop of a machine.
“Now, now, don’t fight. It’ll be much easier if you don’t fight.” Logan laughed. “Then again, that’s the point, now, isn’t it? The harder you fight, the more exciting, eh?” He jerked the shadow the final few feet into the dance of colored lights that spilled from the window.
“Please, mister.” The young boy tugged and pulled at Logan’s hand. “You better let me go. My mom will be looking for me.”
“She can look, my friend, but she won’t find you. There’ll be nothing left to find when my friend, here, is done.”
I heard the creak of metal, felt the chains on my wrists tighten and release. And then days, weeks of confinement staggered to a halt. I was free.
I struggled to sit up, my gut clenching, my throat burning.
My gaze swiveled to the young boy tethered to the table. The steady thump of his heart echoed in my ears. I heard the blood pulsing through his body and my mouth watered. I gripped the stone table, my fingers clamping around the edge to keep from reaching out. One swipe and it would all be over. I could feed and gain my strength. I could escape.
“How gallant,” Logan said as he moved toward the doorway. “Fight all you want, but you won’t last long. The hunger is too fierce. It rules you. Take a taste, Ty Bonner. You know you want to.”
But I wouldn’t be able to stop with just a taste. I was too hungry, my control too tentative. I felt my fingers loosen. My vision narrowed. My gaze centered on the pale ivory throat, the pulse beat.
“That’s it. Give in. Give in to a night you shall never forget, and then you can regret it for the rest of eternity. Just like I do.” The door creaked and slammed shut. The lock clicked.
My own heartbeat grew louder, drowning out the music and the boy’s cries, and the damnable pop, pop, pop. I reached out.
Your Coffin or Mine? Page 18
