The guy was staring at Celia.
“Don’t move,” Imogene said and pushed away from the bar. After the whole Danny incident, she punched unfamiliar men near Celia for damn near any reason, like having a mustache—too suspicious, like a cartoon villain. Now, this guy gawked at her pregnant best friend. Why?
Imogene clomped in her big boots in the direction of the stranger, but a drunk in a stained Jimmy Buffet t-shirt got in her way. She shoved him sideways, and although he landed in a pile of empty beer cases, he seemed too hammered to care. Imogene looked up only to find the corner of the bar empty, the man in the suit gone.
She yelped when her cell phone vibrated in her shorts pocket. She glanced at the text and sighed before returning to her friends.
“What was that about?” Celia asked.
“Nothing. Not a thing.” Imogene held up her phone. “It’s Wharf. He needs to go shopping. Why don’t you guys head home?”
“Why don’t you ever have Wharf over to our house?” Ian asked, rubbing Celia’s stomach as he helped her stand and asked for their check.
Imogene fluffed up her big, purple hair. “I don’t want him meeting my friends.”
“But he’s your maker,” Ian said. “It’d be like meeting your dad or something.”
“I can’t even explain how disturbingly wrong that is.” She shoved her sunglasses up onto her head and leaned over to lick Ian’s cheekbone and kiss Celia’s forehead. She avoided the big belly at all costs. Babies gave her the heebie-jeebies, although she thought maybe she’d be okay with one that drank blood.
“Later,” she shouted and stepped into the summer heat after casting one last questioning glance toward The Drift Inn’s empty back corner.
The August humidity on Barkentine Beach was atrocious, despite a light sea breeze—probably because the sea breeze felt sort of like someone shoving a blow dryer up her nose. Although Imogene rarely went anywhere without her combat boots, her summer wardrobe was different from spring. Basically, she wore as few clothes as possible, which explained the scandalous Daisy Dukes and sleeveless, backless shirt. Since she lived on the beach, though, nobody ever called her a slut. Well. Nobody ever called Imogene a bad name at all, probably because she had the sneer of a psycho killer and the angry bearing of someone who’d rip a guy’s ears off and then yell at him.
Not that any of this bothered her clients. They all said she was way better than angry midget Steve—or maybe just hotter. She’d had sex with more vampires in the past month than she had since she first went undead. Basically, blood dealing was great for not only her pocketbook but also her vastly uninhibited sex drive, although she’d never give up bedding humans. Humans were like sex with a side of dinner, and who didn’t need a sandwich after getting laid?
Wharf waited outside when she strutted up her driveway, and she walked right past him.
“You look hot,” he said as she unlocked her side door. His big, meaty hands made their way under the front of her shirt, and she shrugged him off.
“Business before pleasure, bub.” She used her hip to swing the door open.
Business took about five seconds after Wharf got a good look at her and carried her over his shoulder to the bedroom. He did those kinds of things. The guy was built like a stack of cement bricks and just about as intelligent. Still, Imogene liked his frizzy brown hair and big mouth. Literally, the man had a huge mouth.
An hour later, they lay there, totally sexed out, smoking a joint—a gift from Ian, who had a link to some of the best weed on Admiral Key, maybe all of Florida. As a once upon a time California boy, he knew how to shop.
Wharf’s huge, hairy chest rose and fell next to her. He more closely resembled a caveman than a vampire. “You’re going to be a bridesmaid? You?”
Imogene exhaled. “Maid of Honor, actually.”
“I never pegged you for the wedding sort.”
“No shit.” She handed the joint to him.
She and Wharf met in Miami when she was homeless and twenty-three. The first night they spent together was a damn rollercoaster of booze, cocaine, and sex that got them kicked out of their hotel room. They continued out on the streets—sex on a cardboard box, because, oh, why not? He turned her into a vampire soon after, and the sex only improved. They had some fun together traveling. However, she ditched him when they moved to Lazaret and she realized there was a cornucopia of hot guys there. He never tried to get her back, not really, probably because he realized the same was true in regards to hot chicks. They’d only been sleeping together again for the past couple months, ever since she started dealing. It was a perfectly convenient scenario.
“Are you gonna have to wear, like, pastel?”
“I think so.” She reached for her nightstand and put on her sunglasses.
He chortled. “And hold flowers?”
“Shut the fuck up, dude.”
Wharf rolled onto his side. “Do you want me to go as your date?”
“What?” She sat up suddenly. “No. Why the… what?”
“Well, I don’t know.” He put his finger in her bellybutton. “We’ve been doing this, seeing each other again and stuff. I thought—”
“Don’t think. You were never good at thinking.” She huffed and kicked her feet out of bed. She walked naked to her uber-modern bathroom and closed the door behind her. “Ugh,” she said. As if she’d take Wharf as a date to Celia and Ian’s wedding. As if she’d take Wharf anywhere. On top of that, she was going to sleep with Ian’s brother, Tommy, at the wedding. It had been two ticks past a witch’s tit since she’d had sex with a human, and she could use some fresh meat—especially if that meat smelled like Ian.
The Maid of Honor dress was, indeed, pastel. Celia said it matched Ian’s bright blue eyes, which would have been cute if Imogene didn’t feel so much like an eighties prom queen. She might have been a child of the eighties, but she did not believe in ruffles. Luckily, she got the dress a week before the wedding so she had time to make some secret alterations, which would only be revealed on the dance floor.
The night of the wedding, Celia sat on the couch while Imogene put on her makeup. Celia, of course, kept blinking and messing up everything. She folded her hands on her belly as if that might make the protrusion go down some.
“I’m going to look fat,” she said.
Imogene applied a thin layer of liquid eyeliner. “Merk, you’re pregnant.”
“But everyone’s gonna know.”
“Dude. Everyone does know. Like, everyone.” She leaned forward and matched the liquid liner on Celia’s other eye.
“How does Ian look?”
Imogene chuckled like Butthead, a kind of low huh-huh. “How do you think?”
“He looks good, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t think good quite covers it.” Imogene reached for blush. “Of course, his suit matches my horrible dress, so he’s kind of awash in blue.”
Celia sulked back into the couch until Imogene dragged her forward again by her elbow. “Your dress isn’t horrible. It’s retro.”
Imogene gestured to the big bow on her right shoulder. She flapped it like a huge, floppy wing. “I think you did this to me on purpose.”
“It doesn’t matter what you wear, Imogene, everyone’s always staring at you anyway.”
Imogene thought of the way Ian’s brothers all struggled to keep their eyes in their heads when she walked in earlier, but snapped back to the present when Celia made a chirping noise.
Her lower lip trembled. “Did I trick Ian into marrying me because of the baby?”
Imogene froze. “What?”
Celia pulled on her yoga pants. The dress would come after hair and makeup were complete. “I mean, he had to marry me once I got pregnant, right?”
Imogene hadn’t seen this insecure side of Celia in months, not since she almost tore her maker, Danny, to shreds for threatening Ian’s life. It was like seeing a pussy willow plant growing out the side of a person’s head. Imogene flailed her skinny arms in the air-conditioned
living room and Freddie watched from the wall.
“You cut this shit out right now.”
Again, Celia’s lip trembled.
Imogene groaned. “And don’t fuck up your makeup!”
Celia bit her lip.
“Ian loves you, right?”
“Right.”
“He loves you more than that baby, more than Jeopardy! He loves you more than anything and thinks you’re perfect and cute and nerdy, and he’s so excited right now.”
Celia sniffed. “Yeah?”
“He was singing Queen.”
Her eyes lightened. “Oh! He always sings Queen when he’s in a good mood.”
“I know. It’s terrible for the rest of us.” She sighed. “Are we going to get this dress on you, or what?”
“We have to get Ian’s mom. She wanted to be here for that part.”
“So she can see you naked?”
“Imogene!” Celia smacked her arm but laughed. There was no sign of an additional lip tremble. She stood and walked across her and Ian’s tiny living room to the full-length mirror Imogene had driven over in the back of her convertible. “Oh,” she said.
“Yeah, you look perfect,” Imogene said.
“I do. I really do.” Again, her lip started trembling.
“No! No, no! Think of something meaningless like the Earth’s orbit or Cheez Whiz!”
Celia laughed. “Okay, just go get Char. Oh, how’s it going with Tommy, by the way?”
Imogene wagged her eyebrows. “Well, he’s hot—not as hot as Ian, but hot nonetheless. And he has some dank weed. Should be a slam dunk.”
Celia gawked happily at her own reflection. “It usually is with you.”
“Indeed!” she shouted. “Guess I’ll go find Mommy Dearest.”
“She’s not that bad.”
“No, but she hates me.”
Celia patted her up-do. “She doesn’t hate you. She just thinks you’re a slut.”
“Great.”
At least a majority of the August heat had burned to a low boil outside. Torches surrounded every edge of the soon-to-be Hasselback shack, as well as candles hanging in the trees. It was something of a fire hazard, but Celia said she wanted the whole beach to glow. A few people milled about, most of them Ian’s relatives since Celia didn’t have any. Her parents got pushed off a bridge by a hurricane years ago while listening to a Kenny G album. Imogene couldn’t think of a worse way to go, except maybe death by hugging.
She spotted Dr. Rayna Savage and her human, both vampire hunters, chatting with Ian, who laughed at something Dean said. The boys had a thorough bromance over their shared love of immortal women. Some girl Celia grew up with stood nearby looking awkward with a date. Imogene thought the girl’s name was Layla. All the Hasselback brothers were there, even the one nobody liked, Randall, although Imogene suspected he’d super glued his cell phone to his head prior to arrival. Oh, and Vixen, of course—Danny’s ex-girlfriend, recovering murderess, and Dr. Savage’s live-in protégée, dressed in a sensible sheath gown. Dr. Savage was trying to tone down the whole exotic dancer thing. Even Celia’s coworkers from Happy Gas were there, bald Omar and pothead Ralph.
Char jumped out at Imogene like she’d been hiding in the bushes. “Is it time?”
Imogene didn’t quite know what to make of this ex-beauty queen Southern belle. She treated her sons like they were five-year-olds and Celia like she was an egg that might crack. Technically, she guessed, the pandering was good for Celia, who’d never had a mother who cared. Char and Ian’s dad were thrilled about the pregnancy, which could conceivably become a problem if the baby was born with fangs.
Imogene plastered on a fake smile that made Char take a step back. Okay, Imogene, ease up on the smile. “She’s ready!”
Char squealed. She did that when she got excited.
“You go in,” Imogene said. “I’ll be right there.”
Char, in a dark blue evening gown and diamonds that looked as if they were stolen from the Crown Jewels, hustled into the beach house. Imogene snuck to her car. She kept an ice-filled cooler in the trunk at all times. Making sure the coast was clear, she sat on the back hood and chugged a bag of B-negative. She loved being negative.
Her meal was soon interrupted by the sound of whispers.
“I don’t even know why I’m here.”
“You’re her best friend.”
“I’m not her best friend. I barely know her. I just used to feel bad for her when we were kids.”
Imogene kicked the empty blood bag under her car and glanced over her shoulder. It was that awkward friend of Celia’s, Layla, with her boyfriend.
“How embarrassing to have to get married when she’s obviously about to poop out a baby,” Layla said.
The boyfriend chuckled. “Yeah. Right?”
“She must have trapped that guy. Ian. He’s way too good-looking for stupid, chubby Celia Merkin.”
Imogene had yet to put on the strappy sandals Celia required for her Maid of Honor, so it felt good clomping toward them in combat boots across the sandy driveway. She punched Layla right in the nose before she could open her idiot mouth again. Imogene found it spectacularly satisfying to watch Layla’s dress go up over her head as she fell, revealing a pair of pink granny panties.
Layla bellowed, which brought people running.
Imogene smelled blood—probably a broken nose, which made her fangs throb a little. Lucky she wasn’t hungry.
Ian, long legs and all, arrived first and took in the scene with his usual calm. “Huh,” he said. “Imogene?”
“She’s a bitch. She shouldn’t be here.”
He shrugged. “Okay.” It was alarming how much he trusted her.
Layla’s date dragged her to her feet but made no move to defend his girlfriend. He eyed Imogene as one might a talking alligator, and Layla cried and whined about getting blood on her dress.
Imogene pet Ian on the shoulder and made a mental note to not leave a random empty blood bag in Celia’s driveway when she left later. She returned to Celia’s living room, where Char already had Celia half into her wedding dress and was frantically fastening all the tiny buttons up the back.
“Did I hear someone screaming outside?” Celia seemed too preoccupied with her own reflection to really care.
“I punched your friend Layla in the face.” She fluffed her hair. “How’s the dress?”
Ian insisted Celia walk down the aisle to Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman.” Imogene shouldn’t have put so much time into Celia’s makeup, because by the time the vampire officiator—referred by Dr. Savage—said, “You may kiss the bride,” her friend’s entire face was a swollen mess of emotion. Ian was no better. Imogene had never seen a grown man cry that much, but the whole time, through the tears, they both kept smiling. Once, way ahead of time, Ian even leaned forward and kissed Celia’s cheek. Imogene was moved or as moved as she ever got about anything other than blood.
Ian’s best man, his older brother Doug Jr., gave an embarrassing speech about how Ian used to sleep with a Barbie doll—not play, but sleep—which was how they all knew he wasn’t gay. Then, he called Celia the new Barbie, which was sort of funny and creepy in equal measure.
Afterwards, Imogene stood, glass of champagne in hand. They’d set up an impromptu stage on the beach, right near the edge of quietly breaking waves. Candles covered the white tables, and Celia’s big bouquet of yellow and pink roses added a blast of color center stage.
Imogene cleared her throat. “I’m supposed to make a speech,” she said.
Char and her hubby, Doug Sr., looked a little nervous.
“That’s what the Maid of Honor does.” She glanced at Celia and Ian. “I haven’t known Celia and Ian that long, but it feels like a long time. Like, a really long time.” She winced, which at least made everyone laugh. “Celia always used to freak out that it would never work between them, that they were too different, but I don’t think being different is a bad thing. I mean, you don’t want to marry
yourself. That’d be really boring.” She swirled the wine glass in her hand. “I once dated this musician. He was super hot. I mean—”
“Imogene,” Celia whispered.
“Right. So anyway, he played me this song about how he never knew love could be so easy. No dramatics. No lies. Just, you fall into each other’s arms and that’s it, and I think Celia and Ian knew.” Her eyes burned. She laughed at herself, threw one arm in the air, and gestured to her face, only to turn and find her two best friends crying, too. “I don’t fucking cry.”
The sound of Dr. Savage’s laughter rose above Celia and Ian’s sniffling.
“Anyway.” Imogene raised her glass. “You’re going to be happy together forever.” She chugged the champagne. “Now, let’s get drunk.”
Imogene and Ian agreed on the playlist for the reception, because he wanted some of his damn silly hippie music. Imogene only acquiesced because it was his wedding—he was Ian—and she would do anything for the guy. Of course, Imogene dominated the dance floor, especially when she revealed that she’d made the bridesmaid dress tear away. The long, frumpy skirt was only held on by some tiny clips, as was the obnoxious bow, so by the time Imogene made her grand entrance, she was in a skin-tight, light blue satin mini-dress. She even got rid of Celia’s chosen Maid of Honor shoes, replaced by her favorite pair of Swarovski crystal pumps. Tommy’s eyes about bugged out of his head, but his attentions could wait. David Bowie was playing, so Imogene put on her red plastic sunglasses and spun.
She didn’t notice the stranger staring until “Come on Eileen,” a song that made even Ian’s long noodle limbs look cool, since all that was required was hopping. The guy on the party’s outskirts wasn’t as tall as Ian but he had a bit more beef on his bones. He was in a dark, tailored suit that looked like it cost more than a year’s worth of top shelf blood. In the candlelight, his short hair glowed brown with a hint of red, and his face was long and thin. He looked young, really young, and he stared right at her with a small notebook and pencil in hand.
Imogene was accustomed to being stared at, especially on the dance floor, but something about this guy’s silhouette seemed familiar.
Bite Somebody Page 25
