Here Comes the Vampire (Dead End Dating)

by Kimberly Raye

  “Vampires don’t eat. We drink.” He gave me an odd look. “You should know that.”

  “My bad.” I forced a laugh. “I could get you a smoothie,” I offered, searching for some way out short of throwing the donuts at him and lunging for the door. Plan B should A fail. “We’ve got a Smoothie King right around the corner. I could be back in five.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Plan B, here I come.

  He must have noticed the way my gaze slid toward the front door, because in the bli V

  nk of an eye he’d rounded me and now stood blocking my escape. “I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.”

  “My head on a platter?” Okay, so I wasn’t trying to give him ideas, but better to just get it out and deal with it. I’d faced off with crazies before and the worst were the ones that you thought were your friends. “I really don’t do well with a head.”

  “I don’t want your head. I want the tapes.”

  “What tapes?” I gave him a surprised look because the last “tape” in my possession had been part of a very impressive cassette collection of 80’s hair bands. “Motley Crue? Poison? Ratt?”

  It was his turn to look surprised. He shook his head. “The surveillance tapes.”

  I was so busted. “You mean the DVDs.”

  “So you do have them?”

  Yes. “No.” I gave my best shrug. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “But you just said they were DVDs.”

  “So? Everyone knows that surveillance is stored on DVDs nowadays. Nobody uses tapes anymore.” I shook my head. “Talk about yesterday’s news.”

  He stiffened. “Just hand them over and I’ll let you walk out of here. With your head,” he added. “And most other body parts.”

  I had a vision of my severed arm tossed across the room and a shudder went through me. As much as I wanted to give up the tapes, I couldn’t. Otherwise I would be waltzing down the commitment aisle in a re-creation of that night in Vegas. I was damned if I did, and damned if I didn’t.

  I thought of Ty crying over my limbless body as opposed to Ty staring at me with a look of complete betrayal.

  Limbless won.

  “Hand what over?” I heard myself say.

  “The tapes,” he growled, his patience obviously growing thin. As if BVs had any in the first place. “The ones you stole from the Mayan. Give them back and nobody gets hurt. Don’t, and I’m afraid I’ll have no choice.” In the blink of an eye, the lethal looking stake was in his hands. A chill raced up my spine even before he said the words. “I’ll stake you first and dismember you after the fact. If there’s anything left, that is.”

  The words barely registered before I threw the platter in his direction. One donut sailed past him and hit the wall. Another dive-bombed for the floor. Missile number three smacked him right between the eyes and he stumbled backwards.

  “What the fuck...?” The curse bounced off the walls and echoed in my ears.

  I didn’t waste any precious time.

  I ran as fast as my preternatural legs could carry me, out the door, around the back. I hopped a fence into a nearby alley, lunged past several dumpsters, and kept running until I felt sure he wasn’t hot on my heels.

  Ducking into an open doorway, I darted into the back storage room of an Indian restaurant. The smell of curry powder and spiced ginger surrounded me. Plates clinked and pots banged together. I hunkered down behind several crates and forced my brain into rational think mode.

  When Riley didn’t catch up to me, he was sure to go back to DED and search the place. Not that I knew for certain how the criminal mind worked, but that’s what I would do if I were looking for DVDs and my prime suspect had just given me the slip.

  He would search the place, find the DVDs I’d already watched and know beyond a doubt that I was the thief. Then he would head for my apartment to look for the rest.

  That meant I had all of five to ten minutes to get home, retrieve the rest of the surveillance footage, snag a few essentials and get lost before he caught up to me.

  Then I could find a place to lay low, finish watching the DVDs, prove my innocence and then give them [en re all back. Riley would stop chasing me and bam, problem solved.

  Yeah, right.

  If Riley was after the DVDs, that meant that there was something extremely important on one of them, something that he, or whoever had hired him, didn’t want anyone to see.

  The two guys going at it behind the potted plant in the lobby? The couple out by the pool? The two lesbians in the stairwell?

  Nah. Born vampires lived for sex. Made vampires tended to be pretty horny, as well. And werewolves? They got more than their fair share of nookey, too. And none of them worried over social norms or what others might think.

  A human seemed a more likely suspect behind Riley’s sudden appearance. Maybe a local city official who’d been caught with his pants down and now wanted the evidence destroyed. And so he’d hired a born vampire to retrieve the tapes from the born vampire who’d stolen them.

  That made more sense.

  Sort of.

  Except I had that strange tingling in my gut that told me it was something else. Something bigger.

  I fought down the possibility and focused on the here and now.

  Because I needed to get out of here. Now.

  Closing my eyes, I thought of the one thing I wanted most in my life—besides Ty and this cute pair of shoes I’d spotted on the Sky Mall during the flight home from Vegas. I wanted professional success. Personal satisfaction. Money. And, okay, the cute shoes and the equally cute made vampire. I wanted it all and so I visualized it in my head.

  A few seconds ticked by and my entire body started to tingle and vibrate. Just like that, the pounds started to melt away—yep, morphing into a bat kicked Jenny Craig’s ass any time for us vamps. The beating of my heart faded into the flapping of wings and suddenly I was going higher and higher, moving faster and faster, away from Dead End Dating and the vamp I’d slapped with a couple of strawberry donuts.

  #

  “I need Killer,” I told Mrs. Janske when she opened the door a few minutes later.

  I held tight to the massive suitcase in my hand—loaded with the surveillance DVDs, several outfits, ten pairs of shoes and enough accessories to dress a runway show.

  What? I could be on the run for who knew how long. A girl had to be prepared.

  “Finally,” the old woman said, practically throwing the ball of dark fluff into my arms. “I meant what I said. This was the last time.”

  “But I thought you loved cats.” I slipped Killer into his travel case hanging on my left shoulder.

  “I do, but that’s not a cat.” She glared at Killer. “He’s a demon spawn from hell. He humped my poor Daisy.”

  “Bad kitty.” I glared down at him.

  “And my Sweet Baby Cakes.”

  “Bad, bad Killer.” I wagged a finger.

  “And my First Lady Barbara Bush.”

  “Now that’s just plain wrong.” I tightened my grip on the bag containing the cat whore in question. “I’m sorry if he crossed the line. It’s just that your cats are so beautiful.” I stared past her to the various animals planted here and there throughout the living room. “So healthy and well-groomed. I’m sure he couldn’t help himself.”

  “They do have shiny coats,” she added after a long pause. “But that still doesn’t excuse his behavior.”

  “Of course not. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you. Somehow.” I looked hopeful. “Some way.”

  “Well,” she seemed to think. “I was hoping to take my girls to that new Kitty Spa a few blocks over. I suppose a gift card might ease the shock of the past few days.”

  “Done. I’ll drop one off l [rop migater.” I gathered Killer close, gripped the suitcase and headed for the stairs.

  I’d just reached the first floor when I caught a whiff of caramel and apples coming up the front stoop. I tightened my grip on my bags
and darted out the side Exit leading to the dumpster. I rounded the overflowing bin and made my way through the alley. Down the street. Two blocks over. And then I hailed a cab and headed for DED now that the coast was clear and Riley was busy casing my apartment.

  I left Killer in the idling cab while I walked in and picked up my purse—or what was left of it since Mr. BV had upended the entire thing in a frantic search for the rest of the DVDs. The contents had been scattered across my desk, but everything was still there. My prized Chanel lipstick. My mirror. My favorite brush. My cell phone.

  Wait a second.

  What kind of born vamp hit man overlooked a cell phone?

  The kind who’s a rookie and not really good at his job?

  That, or he was really good, so much so that he already knew everything about me, which meant he didn’t need my cell phone.

  Or worse, he’d planted a tracking device inside and left the cell on purpose.

  Easy. You’re not going to panic. You’re going to get your stuff and get out. Fast.

  I debated just leaving the phone, along with my complete contact list, three dozen apps and a super cute Hello Kitty screensaver.

  But if Riley really wanted to find me, he would. Tracking device or no tracking device.

  I scooped up the phone and turned my attention to the rest of my personal belongings. After stuffing everything back into my purse, I reached for the stack of files Evie had left on my desk. Shoving them under my arm, I grabbed my laptop and was just about to lock up when my last appointment walked in.

  Erica Godfrey was the forty-three year old financial analyst Evie had mentioned earlier. She wore a fitted black business suit and modest heels. Her medium brown hair was styled in a simple bob, her blue eyes accented with a minimal amount of mascara. She wore a serious air that said she was a royal bitch when it came to work. She frowned and her eyes narrowed, and I knew the attitude definitely spilled over into her personal life.

  Ten seconds in and she was already thinking she’d made a huge mistake by coming here when she could be sitting in the plush office of Marilyn Davidson, the matchmaker to New York City’s elite. Even if the woman was asking too damned much for one measly date.

  “Lil Marchette?” she asked, hoping against hope that I would tell her she’d come to the wrong place.

  I ignored the twinge to my pride and summoned my biggest smile. “The one and only. Looters,” I added, when she glanced around at the mess that had once been my tastefully decorated office. “I think they were after the donuts.” I motioned to the crushed pastries littering the lobby floor. “I’ve filed a police report and called my insurance, but I’m not supposed to touch anything until the scene has been processed. Why don’t we, um, head down the street?” I steered her toward the door. “I know a nearby coffee bar where we can chat and you can tell me all about the man of your dreams.”

  “A partner,” she corrected. “I’m looking for an adequate business partner. Someone to up my value in the eyes of the big wigs at my firm.”

  “Of course. We’re all about good business connections here at Dead End Dating. Shall we go?”

  She didn’t want to, but a little persuasive You want to go because I’m a hot, happening woman and it’s been years since you’ve taken a sick day, much less had any real fun with another person.

  Sure, she wasn’t gay, but three years of celibacy equaled confused and desperate, an [deswidth="d so she was totally susceptible to my beauty and charm. That, and she loved gourmet coffee.

  An hour later, I sent Erica on her way with an extra large whipped mocha latte with a double imported espresso shot and a fierce promise that I would find her someone by the end of the following day. I so needed that fifty thousand dollar bonus and while she’d paid me a sizeable retainer for my ultra deluxe package, it wasn’t even close to fifty Gs.

  Mine, I told myself, sending out the whole positive vibe thing. All mine.

  I was feeling pretty good as I loaded her into a cab, despite the fact that I had barely escaped with my head not an hour earlier.

  Until I crawled back into my own cab, that is.

  “Where to?”

  “Connecticut,” I heard myself say, and the sad state of my existence came barreling at me like a stampede of desperate shoppers at a Barney’s half-off sale.

  I know, I know.

  I was trading one hell for another, but at least my parents had their place locked up tighter than Angola thanks to my mother’s love of expensive art and my father’s addiction to Italian sports cars. With my dad’s state-of-the-art security system, there would be no one sneaking up on me any time soon.

  On top of that, my folks were from one of the oldest BV families in existence and well-respected in the community. No matter how much Riley was getting paid to shake down one of his own—if he wasn’t doing it to save his own neck, that is--he would think twice before barging onto my family’s estate.

  No, he would come up with a clever plan to lure me out into the open and cover his tracks. And while he worked on that, I could finish watching the tapes, prove my innocence and hand them back over to him.

  Viola. Happy ending.

  Killer’s soft purr drew my attention and I glanced down to see the Keep dreamin’, sister glittering in his dark eyes.

  “It could happen,” I muttered.

  Yeah, yeah. And that hot little number from the Friskie’s commercial could beat down my door any day now and beg me to father her kittens.

  Okay, so while I had the whole eternal optimist thing going on, Killer not so much.

  “Why do you have to be such a gloomy guss?”

  First of all, what the hell is a gloomy guss? And second, its called being a realist. You should try it sometime.

  I glared.

  He purred.

  And we both settled in for a long ride straight to hell, er, that is Connecticut.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  You can do this.

  I told myself that as I pulled up in front of my parents’ massive estate in the upscale suburb of Fairfield and climbed out of the cab.

  I’d lived with my parents well over four hundred years. I shouldn’t be so shaken up over a little trip home. A few nights in the interest of self-preservation. A week at the most. Just until I made it through all the surveillance footage.

  It wasn’t like I was admitting failure and moving home for good. Back to plush surroundings and round-the-clock maid service and an unlimited American Express Gold Card.

  Okay, so the last three wouldn’t be so bad. Except that they came with my mother. And her opinions. And her nagging. And—

  Who was I kidding?

  I couldn’t do this. I’d barely made it out once. Who knew if I would have the strength or the will to survive a second time?

  Maybe I was better off taking my chances with Riley.

  “You sure this is wh ^deswi I wasere you want to go, Miss Lil?” The cab driver’s voice drew me back around. “I could take you to a motel until all the trouble passes.”

  Hey, I’d been desperate to talk to someone besides a snotty cat. Not that I’d spilled the truth in vivid color, but I’d told Larry enough—minus vampires and Elvis and humping at the Mayan--to earn a sympathetic ear.

  “I’ve got a spare couch if you want to stay with me. And a baseball bat,” he added. “No two-timing loser of an ex will bother you at my place.”

  Forget a toned down version of the truth. I’d kinda, sorta told him I was being chased by a crazed ex-boyfriend and going home to my folks—no matter how stressful—was the only option.

  ”No, no.” I summoned my courage. “This will be good for me. My ex hates my parents so he’s sure to leave me alone here.” I smiled. “Thanks Larry.” I handed him a few twenties and an impassioned It’s time to get over your last break-up and get back on the horse, buddy. Call me. I’ll hook you up and give you a discount just like I promised.

  Not that I normally handed out discounts to any and every taxi driver who happ
ened to pick me up. But Larry had needed his own shoulder to cry on and so we’d sort of bonded.

  Twenty-eight year-old Lawrence Schmidt had been going to school in his spare time, working on a degree in secondary education because he wanted to become a gym teacher and work with underprivileged kids. But then his girlfriend—a money hungry bitch named Colleen—had dumped him for a pre-law major with family money and a really sweet Mercedes. Lawrence had been so upset that he’d quit school to watch reality TV in his free time and drown his misery in a nightly pint of Rocky Road.

  That had been six months and fifteen pounds ago.

  The poor thing. His pride had taken a nosedive and his ego was so far in the dumps that he didn’t think he would ever find another date.

  Luckily my own ego was completely intact.

  I could so hook him up.

  I waved and watched Larry drive off before mounting the steps and heading for the front door. Killer snored softly from his travel bag. Three steps shy of the front door, I heard the noise behind me and every nerve in my body went on high alert.

  Bracing myself, I whirled, ready to sling my pet carrier at Riley and make a run for it—

  “Dad?”

  “Sssshhh,” my dad, clad in black golf pants, a black polo shirt, a black bandana tied around his mouth, held up a hand. He motioned behind him to the massive lawn. “She might hear you.”

  “Who?”

  “Viola.”

  Viola Hamilton aka the proud president of the Connecticut chapter of the Naked and Unashamed Nudist Sisterhood (NUNS for short). The group of female werewolves met weekly at Viola’s estate to dance naked under a starry sky and piss off my politically incorrect father who saw them as little more than cockroaches. He and Viola had fought over property lines and azalea bushes, and he’d even tried to blow her up last year because she’d cut down a few trees close to the east boundary—his trees, or so he and a local judge had said. A born vamp judge.

  I’m just sayin’.

  I know, I know. It seems extreme, but we’re talking vampires vs. werewolves. It was a fight as old as time itself. The front runner? That depended on who was asked at any given time. The vamps thought they were the superior race. The werewolves believed they were dominant. Me? I just tried to stay out of the line of fire and make a profit whenever possible.