Harper and Benny glanced at each other, then burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, indignant.
Harper swiped at her watering eyes. “Oh, honey, it’s hilarious that you think the two of you can just be friends.”
Benny, still chuckling, added, “Yeah, sorry, but that’s not gonna happen, hotness. There’s too much history and zing there.”
“Zing?” she asked, totally confused in a way that only conversations with Harper and Benny could confuse her.
Benny said, “You know how when you’re in the same room with Harper and Riddick you kinda want to puke ‘cause they’re so damn cute together and so obviously banging each other every day?”
Mischa said, “Yes” at the same time Harper said, “Hey!”
“Well, that’s zing, hotness. Chemistry. Disgusting, puke-inducing, sexy cuteness. And you’ve got it in spades with Hunter.”
“So, you’re saying you can’t be friends with someone you have zing with?” Mischa asked.
His nod was immediate and emphatic. “Yep. That’s what I’m saying.”
Harper nodded in agreement. “Not with the kind of zing you have with Hunter, anyway.”
Mischa threw her hands up in frustration. “Well, it’s all I have right now, OK? I have to try.” Because the alternative—letting him go entirely—was unthinkable.
Benny studied her for a moment before turning to Harper. “Ten bucks says they’re back together—really together, none of this just friends shit—as soon as this competition’s over.”
“No way,” Harper said. “They’ll be together before the competition is over.”
Benny rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Ooohhh, I’ll take that bet, sister.”
They did some kind of complicated hand shake to seal the bet while Mischa scowled at both of them. “Ten bucks says I start looking for new friends by the time the competition’s over.”
Harper laughed again. “If you haven’t been doing that already, you’re in worse shape than I thought.”
Chapter Eighteen
Harper had made Hunter sit with her once years ago and watch a television show about people with bizarre psychological problems and addictions. On that show, he’d seen a woman who regularly sniffed gasoline, a man who was involved in a sexual relationship with his car, and a young girl who sucked on dirty diapers because she enjoyed the taste.
He’d watched each story with the same unblinking, horrified fascination that he watched each competition within the Miss Eternity pageant. It was a shocking, gaudy, tasteless spectacle. He wanted to look away. But just like that fascinatingly awful television show, he was powerless not to watch.
He had no idea what human pageants entailed, but vampire pageants included a strength competition (seeing women deadlifting thousands of pounds worth of free weights in evening gowns and heels wasn’t something he would soon forget) and a vampire history trivia competition.
But his favorite? That was pretty easy. Without a doubt, Hunter’s favorite competition so far was human-tossing for distance. The human was a volunteer, a thirty-four-year-old, two-hundred-ten-pound trucker from Rhode Island named Stan. He was a submissive, apparently, and visibly (ahem) really enjoyed being tossed.
Mischa’s performance so far had surprised the hell out of him. After a shaky start with the choreographed opening dance number (she obviously wasn’t accustomed to wearing heels), she quickly earned the judges’ favor by placing second in the strength competition (someone should check Miss Texas for steroid use, in Hunter’s option), cleaned up in the trivia competition with a first-place win, and managed to toss Stan a foot further than any of the other competitors (He’d made some comment to her beforehand that she didn’t care for, apparently, which had fueled her toss. He planned to have a chat with Stan about it later, and he could guarantee the bastard wouldn’t enjoy it, submissive or not).
But through it all, she’d kept her head held high, showing a kind of self-confidence and poise she’d sometimes lacked as a human. She was an absolutely exquisite vampire, and everyone in the competition was now aware of it.
Which could make her a target if anyone had really done something to hurt the former Miss New York and Miss New Jersey.
But that and pretty much every other thought he’d ever had fled when Mischa walked out on stage in her swimsuit.
Although, swimsuit was a fairly generous term, in Hunter’s opinion.
The whole thing seemed to be made of three eye patches and a few yards of ribbon. The deep emerald color was stunning against her golden skin, and Tina had woven matching green ribbons through her hair, which trailed down her back in soft waves. The high cut of the bottom of the suit and her five-inch heels gave her the appearance of being much taller than she actually was, and emphasized the sleek, toned muscles of her calves and thighs.
The small audience erupted in wild applause and whistles, and even from his perch on the lighting catwalk above the stage, he could see her features tighten in discomfort. She was embarrassed.
It was the first time since the beginning of the competition that she’d looked anything other than completely at ease in her own skin. His chest tightened in sympathy.
Hold your head high, love. You’re the most beautiful woman in the room. In the world. You have no equal.
Her face registered a flicker of surprise before her gaze shot unerringly to his, letting him know she’d received his mental message. He smiled at her.
Her answering smile was a danger to his peace of mind. Too beautiful. Too bright.
And that’s when the red laser dot appeared on her chest, right over her heart.
No, please, not again.
***
One minute, she was walking across the stage in her pitiful excuse for a bikini, praying to the God of double-sided tape that her boobs didn’t pop right out of the top, smiling up at Hunter as he paid her the single best compliment ever uttered (well, thought in her direction, technically) and the next, she was rolling on the floor with him on top of her.
The sounds of shattering glass and shrill screams sounded all around them. People were knocked from their chairs as the humans in the audience stampeded to the exits. Her fellow contestants dove into the empty orchestra pit and cowered together, crying.
And all the while, Mischa wondered what the hell was going on.
Her eyes flew to Hunter’s face, which was right next to hers as he shielded her with his body, one hand cupping the back of her head protectively.
She gasped as she noticed a red stain creeping across his chest, saturating his white T-shirt. “Someone tried to kill you!” she blurted.
The look he swept her way was a blend of concern, anger, and pity. It was the pity that really made her rethink the situation.
He’d been on the catwalk high above the stage. They were now on the floor, with him on top of her. If someone had been aiming for him, she wouldn’t have needed rescuing.
“They weren’t after me,” he confirmed. “They were after you.”
She swallowed hard. “Well…shit.”
Chapter Nineteen
Mischa paced from one side of Harper’s bedroom to the other, gnawing on her thumbnail as Riddick dug the bullet out of Hunter’s back.
“Well, I think we can safely assume the missing girls didn’t just get shy about their swimsuits and drop out of the competition,” Harper said, digging enthusiastically into the cherry cheesecake resting on her lap.
Hunter took a deep swallow of the whiskey Riddick had pressed into his hand. “I’d say that’s likely,” he said dryly.
“I still don’t know why you brought him here, Mischa,” Riddick grumbled, digging into Hunter’s back with a pair of tweezers. “I don’t need crazy gun-toting vampire killers coming after you at my house, where my pregnant wife is on bedrest.”
Rushing Hunter here hadn’t been her finest moment, of that she was certain. Hunter couldn’t reach the bullet hole to dig the bullet out himself, she certai
nly couldn’t do it (she’d rather dig into her own flesh than his), and he’d refused to be taken to a hospital.
It had taken her a moment to realize he probably hated hospitals because the last time he’d been in one, she’d died and he’d been carted off to prison after bringing her back as a vampire. Not too many good memories there, she’d imagine.
But the bullet couldn’t stay in his back, and without a better option, she’d panicked and brought him to Harper and Riddick. She hadn’t even stopped to change out of her bikini. Thank God Harper had given her a T-shirt and pair of sweats to throw over the damn thing. And still, even though she agreed with him, Riddick’s comment irked the bejesus out of her.
“Your concern for our welfare is heart-warming, Riddick,” she said, adopting the same dry tone Hunter had used with Harper.
“Of course I’m concerned,” he said, not taking his eyes off his task. “If the two of you died, Harper would be devastated, and she doesn’t need that kind of stress right now. I just don’t want your shit ending up at my door.”
Mischa looked to Harper for some kind of intervention— Riddick had just said that his only concern for her welfare was the potential impact it might have on his wife, for Christ’s sake—and found no help there. Harper was snout-down in her cheesecake, cradling it like a newborn, looking beyond content.
Mischa hissed in sympathy as Riddick finally, finally pulled the bullet out of Hunter’s back.
He held it up for her inspection. “Wooden. If it had hit an inch to the left, he’d be dust right now.”
“Christ, Riddick,” Harper said around a mouthful of cherries and cream cheese, “don’t sugar-coat it. Tell it like it is.”
His brow furrowed. “Well, what do you want me to do, lie? Hug him and tell him everything will be OK?”
She smirked. “That’d be super-helpful. Would you?”
He shuddered. “Fuck no.”
“I’m just saying you could be a little more sensitive, babe,” she told him.
He looked revolted by the idea, but muttered, “Sorry,” to Mischa and Hunter as he put the bullet in a plastic bag.
Mischa sat down on the end of the bed next to Hunter and put her hand on his knee, completely powerless to not touch him. He’d almost died. For her.
The thought alone made her throat close up. She couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.
“Did you get a look at the shooter?” Harper asked.
Mischa shook her head. “No. When you’re on stage, the lights are right in your face. You can’t see anything but shadows and movement in the audience, no faces.”
Hunter rolled his shoulder and Mischa winced when he did. God, that had to hurt. “I didn’t see anyone, either,” he said. “I only saw the light from the rifle’s scope on her chest.”
He laid his hand on hers. Apparently he was having trouble not touching her as well.
“My mom called and said the police showed up about ten minutes ago. She’d already talked to all of the contestants and feels like they’re not directly involved,” Harper said. “She wants to take another run at Miss Utah, though. Said she was looking a little squirrelly.”
Mischa nodded. “It doesn’t seem like anyone is nervous or hiding anything, or holding any grudges. Miss Texas is the only one there who could even be considered…edgy at all.”
“What about the crew?” Riddick asked. “Building maintenance?”
“They’re clean,” Hunter answered. “Nothing unusual at all. No malice towards any of the contestants. No signs of guilt.”
Harper tapped her spoon against her lower lip thoughtfully. “So, none of our powers are working on this one. We’re going to have to solve this thing Cagney and Lacey style.”
Mischa blinked at her. “With bad haircuts and ill-fitting jackets with shoulder pads?”
Harper scowled. “No, smartass. Detective work. Actual detective work.”
It would probably take an actual detective to figure out why Harper referenced that particular show when there were literally hundreds of less obscure, more current options, but Mischa thought better of pointing that out. Harper was probably onto something. “I could go back to the auditorium. Talk to the police. See what they’ve been able to find.”
Hunter’s fingers tightened around hers. “I’ll go. I don’t want you anywhere near that place tonight.”
Harper took another bite of cheesecake before mumbling, “That auditorium is probably the safest place she could be right now. It’s crawling with cops, according to my mom. And they’re looking for the two of you, anyway. You’re the only witnesses they haven’t been able to locate for questioning.”
Riddick handed Mischa the plastic bag with the bullet in it. “Take them this. I’m sure they’ll completely fuck up the investigation, but it probably belongs in evidence.”
Riddick’s eagerness to get rid of them must have rankled Hunter, too, if his scowl was any indication.
Mischa shook her head, turned her palm up, and laced her fingers with his. “Back to the scene of the crime?” she asked.
He couldn’t look any less enthused as he said, “Sure. Why not? An evening with the police should top the evening off nicely.”
Chapter Twenty
The Vampire Crimes Unit (or, VCU for short) was pretty much a joke. If it hadn’t been mandated by law, the Whispering Hope Police Department most likely wouldn’t have established a “spook crimes” division (as the other divisions not-so-lovingly referred to it). So, the detectives assigned to investigate vampire crimes were either the department’s weakest and laziest detectives, or the detectives with…behavioral issues. The ones who didn’t play well with others.
Detective Lucas Cooper fell into the latter category.
A wolf shifter who’d long ago given up the pack life, Lucas was a loner who had little use the rest of his department or, well, anyone really. He was a good cop, charming when he needed to be, but otherwise a grumpy curmudgeon.
As a fellow grumpy curmudgeon, Mischa had always liked Lucas. But right now? Not so much.
He’d dragged them to the police station as soon as they showed up at the auditorium, and now, she sat next to Hunter in an interrogation room, answering the same questions over and over again.
She rubbed her temples, feeling completely drained. “Lucas, I told you already, the pageant rep thinks two contestants were forced into dropping out, and the police—you—wouldn’t investigate. So, she hired Harper, who sent me in to talk to the other contestants and see what I could dig up. I have no idea who shot at me.”
Lucas had his cop face on. When he wasn’t purposefully erasing all emotion from his face like that, he was a seriously good-looking guy. Square jaw, chiseled cheek bones, messy dark blond hair…he was undeniably hot. But with the cop face on? Mischa just found him…annoying.
He turned his gaze to Hunter. “You don’t work for Harper. Why were you there?”
“I took Riddick’s place,” Hunter said, arms crossed over his chest, doing his own version of the impassive, annoying cop face.
Lucas mimicked his posture. “And why did you need to take Riddick’s place? What’s he doing that’s more important than taking care of this case?”
Mischa didn’t like the implication that Riddick was blowing off the case. “He’s at home with his pregnant wife, who was just put on bedrest, OK?” she snapped. “None of this is relevant. And why do you sound so suspicious? You know we’re not suspects.”
His cop face remained intact, but he flinched at the mention of Harper. “Is she OK?”
Not that he really ever talked about his feelings, but it was fairly obvious that Lucas had been in love with Harper at some point. Maybe still was. But from the moment Riddick entered the picture, Harper was all his. No competition.
To say she was sympathetic to his plight—loving someone you couldn’t be with—was a gross understatement.
“She’s fine. Angry that she can’t be more involved in the case, but otherwise fine,” Mischa sai
d gently.
He was quiet for a moment, eyes lowered and masking his expression, as he digested that bit of information. Then, when his lashes lifted again, he was back in full-on cop mode. “It’s nothing personal, Mischa. Everyone is treated as a suspect until proven otherwise.”
She frowned at him. “I thought everyone was innocent until proven guilty.”
“Not in the VCU.”
Well that was just…sad. She sighed. “Have we answered enough of your questions to be cleared of suspicion for now? At least until someone finds the missing girls tied up in our basement or something, right?”
Note to self: cops are miserable, humorless fucks. Mischa would just file that little tidbit away for future use.
“I couldn’t give a shit about the missing girls right now,” Lucas grated out through clenched teeth. “We don’t have any evidence to suggest anything bad happened to either of them. I care about finding whoever opened fire in the auditorium. So, until I’m able to do that, your case is shut down and you’re out of the competition.”
Mischa’s jaw dropped. “You can’t do that!”
“I can, and I will. It’s not safe for you to be in there, anyway. Someone obviously doesn’t like you. My guess is someone is trying to clear a path so that his or her favorite can win, and you’re in the way. And since you haven’t really figured jack out yet on your own yet, I’m gonna need you to stay out of my way while I figure this all out.”
Her eyes narrowed on him. “You can’t kick me out now. Now more than ever you need someone on the inside! And having the cops crawling all over the competition—all big and obvious—might send the shooter underground altogether. You. Need. Me.”
He leaned forward. “I don’t need anyone. And I won’t use you as bait to draw this guy out. I’m doing you a favor by forcing you out.”
Semi-Twisted: Page 9
