“Irresistible, you mean.” I loop my arm over her shoulder. “Now, let’s go get your evil cat and grab an Uber to somewhere we can get food and clothing. As much as I hate to delay getting you behind closed doors, I’m starving. And you can’t run around Vegas in nothing but panties and a T-shirt, as fetching as that would be.”
“I’m hungry, too,” she says. “And Murder isn’t evil. He’s territorial. There’s a difference.”
“Right,” I agree, even as I silently congratulate myself for stealing Kirby’s phone and ordering her assistant to book us a two-bedroom suite. Now the spawn of Satan can have his own sleep space and prowl around after hours, sitting on my chest and stealing my soul or whatever it is evil cats do in their spare time.
Murder is one of my least favorite furry things—he’s hated me from the moment we met—but I still can’t imagine doing anything to hurt the bastard. He’s a creature ruled by instinct, who can’t help being a complete asshole, and he’s one-tenth my size. Anyone who threatens to hurt an animal should be locked in a dungeon and fed nothing but dung beetles until they grow a heart.
I don’t like the fact that some freak figured out Kirby’s agent’s name and address, either. It’s not common knowledge or easily found on the web. Whoever wrote that threatening letter did some digging to get it into the right hands, and who knows what else they found out along the way.
“What about security for you?” I ask as we head down to the pet claim area by the baggage carousels. “Until this person is caught?”
“They aren’t going to get caught. I told you, the police blew me off.” She shrugs. “But they’re probably right. And it’s not like I don’t get threatening emails at least once a week.”
A scowl sinks its claws into my forehead. “What? Seriously?”
“Seriously. A few of my readers are upset that I ended the Funhouse series. They want Beau and Amy back on the case, solving supernatural crimes and stabbing vampire clowns, and aren’t afraid to call me a lazy piece of shit to make it happen.”
“What the hell?” I shake my head, frowning even harder. “That’s supposed to motivate you?”
“I have no idea, but I can’t write any more Beau and Amy right now, or maybe ever. I need a break. New characters, a new world. And I can tell most of the people who tweet and email are just venting. They don’t seriously want me to rot in hell. I probably wouldn’t have worried about this threat, either. It’s just the fact that they went to all the trouble to mail it the old-fashioned way, and that they threatened my cat instead of me, that made it stand out. I mean, you know how it is, right? I’m sure you get weird email.”
I clear my throat. “Um, no. Not that kind of weird, anyway. I get people who want to have sex with me or paint me in the nude or send me their demo tape or collect a few strands of my hair so they can attempt to duplicate my rock god DNA.”
She laughs as we duck into the tiny pet-claim office. “And you send it to them, don’t you? Because you would secretly love to have a clone.”
“You can’t deny having a clone would be cool.”
“I can and I will, at length, but first I need to see the prettiest, sweetest cat in the whole world.” Her voice softens as she adds in a sexy purr, “Mister Murder, I see you back there. Mama’s here to spring you from the clink, Big Boy.”
“Just need your paperwork,” the bored looking woman with tragically bleached hair behind the counter says, chomping her gum. “And ID.”
“I’ve got it.” I hand over my Driver’s license and the form I tucked into my wallet, waiting until the woman glances at them and turns to collect Murder’s carrier from the shelf behind her before I lean down to murmur in Kirby’s ear, “Will you call me Big Boy, later? When we get to the room?”
“Behave yourself,” she whispers back.
“Never,” I vow with a passion that makes her lips quirk. “But I will go order a car to take us to the fancy mall. I’m pretty sure they have a stroller rental so we can rent a ride for Hell Cat and his carrier, grab food, and then get you a few fancy things to wear.”
“I don’t need fancy things to wear. I just need pants.”
“No, you need fancy, my treat.” I hold up a hand to silence her protest. “It’s the least I can do to make amends for kidnapping you.”
“He didn’t really kidnap me,” Kirby assures the counter attendant as she places Murder’s carrier on the counter. “He’s just joking.”
“I figured,” the woman says dryly. “And just FYI, you might want to get your cat checked out. The guy who carried him in thinks he might have rabies.”
Murder meows menacingly in response, inspiring the woman to take a step back, away from the bars of his cage.
“That’s demonic possession, not rabies. Isn’t that right, Murder?” I ask, earning a hiss from the midnight-black hell beast. “Yeah, I’m glad you’re here, too. We’re going to have fun.” I take Kirby’s duffle bag and purse. “I’ll get these. You get your jealous boyfriend.”
Murder growls and Kirby clucks soothingly to him as we head out into a sparkling, sunny Vegas day that’s just begging for two friends to get naked and sweaty in it.
Chapter Four
Kirby
“I can’t pull this off.” I turn to the side, amazed by how sexy I look. The dress is tinier than anything I’ve ever worn outside the bedroom—a clingy halter-top type thing with a puffy, sinfully soft, silk tulle skirt in midnight-blue with tiny vintage rhinestones that glitter tastefully in the dressing room light.
It’s gorgeous.
And expensive.
Way too expensive for me to have taken it off the rack, but Colin insisted on bringing me a few more things to try on after we secured a pair of jeans, a black mini skirt, and a blouse with a dinosaur print and an oversize bow at the neck that should pad my wardrobe enough to make it through the week.
If I stay the week, which is still a big if and absolutely a bad idea.
If only Colin didn’t make bad so much fun…
“You’re already pulling it off. And we’re getting it.” His dark eyes rake up and down my body, lingering in the chest area in a way that makes my palms sweaty. I’m that girl—the one who gets damp hands every time she gets nervous or excited—and right now Colin is making me unusually nervous.
And excited.
But also nervous.
Jesus, I’m a hot mess, and the way he’s staring at me isn’t helping things. “Stop checking out my side boob,” I hiss, tugging the sparkly fabric over a centimeter only for it to pop right back to where it was before.
“I can’t. Your side boob is delicious,” he says. “I want to bite it.”
Murder, still trapped inside his carrier and wedged into a rental stroller beside Colin, yowls his disapproval, and I nod. “Exactly. Thank you. I couldn’t agree more.”
Colin arches a brow. “Translation?”
“Murder says friends shouldn’t talk about friends’ side boobs. Even friends with benefits. It’s weird.”
“This coming from the woman who thinks she speaks cat.”
“I don’t think, I know.” I lift my nose higher as I look over my shoulder to check out the view from the back in the mirror—short, but maybe not too short. “Spend enough time listening and you’ll understand just about anything.”
I watch inspiration flicker across Colin’s face in the reflection, and a moment later he’s on his feet, pulling me into his arms and smacking a kiss to my temple. “You’re brilliant, Larry. I’m going to write that down. And a few other things. Meet me outside. Have them add this and anything else you need to the bill. She already swiped my card.”
“But I don’t—”
“No. Stop. I’m paying, end of argument.” He cuts a hand through the air before pointing a warning at me as he backs out of the dressing room area. “And if you don’t get that dress, I’m coming back to get it myself, so you might as well buy it now and save me a trip.”
He vanishes, and I turn back to my
reflection, an increasingly familiar giddy sensation swelling in my chest. If I stay and allow myself to be sucked into the Colin Donovan Vortex at its most charming, I’m going to be sorry.
But maybe I should worry about that later, after the fun is over.
“He’s right—you look incredible,” the salesgirl says, poking her curly red head in through the archway leading into the changing rooms. “That dress is to die for and will sparkle like crazy on the dance floor. You guys going clubbing tonight?”
I shake my head, then pause and shrug. “I don’t think so, but I don’t really know for sure. This was kind of an impulsive trip.”
“An impulsive getaway to Vegas.” She sighs as she leans against one of the faux marble pillars framing the entrance. “You guys are going to have a blast. You know where you’re staying yet?”
“The Legacy,” I say, smiling when she squees softly and claps her hands.
“Oh, that’s my favorite. I’ve only been once, but it’s so swanky. You’re going to love it.” She leans down, lips puckering as she peers into Murder’s kennel. “And you, too, buddy. It’s so sweet of your mama and her boyfriend to bring you along on their vacation.”
“Oh, he’s not— I mean we’re not—” I wave a dismissive hand through the air. “We’re just friends.”
Red stands, her brown eyes widening. “Oh, I’m sorry. I just assumed… Usually, friends don’t buy friends two-thousand-dollar dresses.”
“We’re weird friends.”
Her mouth curves. “Well, weird can be good. Anything else you need right now? Can I get you shoes to go with the dress? I’ve got a strappy heel that would be perfect.”
“Yes, please, thank you,” I say, pondering her words as I try on the sandals, agree that they’re perfect, and dart into the dressing room to change back into my black skirt, vintage Smiths T-shirt, and Chucks.
She’s right—weird can be good. Heck, that’s practically my mission statement. If I hadn’t embraced my weird at a young age, locking myself in my storage shed office behind our house and writing for hours while other junior high kids were playing video games, I never would have been published by seventeen or supporting myself and my sister on my royalties two years later. If I hadn’t trusted the wild and weird stories that called to me, I might have blended in with the other make-you-jump novels and never connected with my rabid and wonderful readers.
And if I weren’t open to weird, I wouldn’t have become Colin’s friend in the first place. Sure, he’s a sexy, confident rock god now, but when we met, Colin was a home-schooled kid with a mop of hair, freaking out on his first day of normal-kid high school. As a musical prodigy who’d spent most of his early life in rehearsal rooms and stuffy concert halls, he was completely unprepared for the wilds of the public education system.
For weeks, he followed me around like one of the stray cats I seem to attract wherever I go, changing his course schedule so we’d have the same classes and lurking quietly at my lunch table until my other friends pulled me aside to ask what was wrong with him, and what they should do to make my strange new buddy more comfortable.
But Colin wasn’t strange—he was a sheltered genius who had music unspooling in his head all the time. Incredible music that he’d play for me after school when we were hanging out at his place, eating nachos his not-insane-or-scary mother had made, and talking about everything under the sun.
We got so close that my boyfriend at the time—Gordan, a tragically serious graffiti artist who specialized in painting spoons on anything that would hold still—eventually emerged from his self-involved haze long enough to get jealous.
Just like Peter…
But neither of them had any reason to be.
Colin and I have always been just really good friends.
At first, I was too protective of my skittish stray to feel anything but platonic affection for him. Later, I needed him too much—needed his rock-solid support and knack for helping me loosen up and not freak out—to risk letting him know that there were times when he’d smile at me and I would secretly wish…
Murder meows, soft and low, as I emerge from the changing room and circle around to grip the handles of his stroller. “I know, I know. Your lack of enthusiasm has been noted. But no biting Colin this trip, okay? I expect you to be on your best behavior.”
He grumble-purrs in response, a sound that could mean he’s going to be good or that he’s going to bite the hell out of Colin as soon as he’s out of his carrier—I’m fluent in feline, but cats like to keep people guessing.
I push him to the checkout, where Red already has my packages wrapped in tissue and tucked into classy silver-and-champagne-striped bags.
“Have so much fun,” she says, waving as I head for the exit. “And tell Colin I love his music so much. ‘Dear Abby Black’ was basically my theme song in high school.”
I force a smile and say, “Sure thing,” but I’m a little thrown by the comment, a fact Colin notices as soon as I stop in front of the bench where he’s furiously tapping something into his phone.
His fingers freeze, and his brow furrows. “What’s wrong? Did you get the dress?”
“I got the dress.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I nod to the right. “Ready to take the stroller back and get out of here?”
“Yes, but I’d like to know why your face is pinched, first.”
“The sales girl recognized you,” I say with a sigh, conveying her message in a rush before adding, “It still takes me by surprise, I guess. How often you get recognized these days.”
His expression sobering, he falls in beside me as I push the stroller toward the exit. “Yeah. The past two years have been a game changer.”
“But it sounded like that girl has been a fan for a while. It was nice of her to wait until we were leaving to say anything.”
He clears his throat with a dubious sound. “Yeah, it was. But she did ask me where I was staying half a dozen times while I was picking out a swimsuit for you.”
My head jerks his way. “What?”
“I bought you a swimsuit. A red bikini. I know you prefer black like your soul, but you’re going to look amazing in it. And I don’t want to hear any bitching and moaning about putting it on or going out into the sun to frolic in the pool. Sun is good for you. You need a little color before you turn translucent.”
“No, not that,” I say, though I’m not on board with wearing an obnoxious bikini. I mean, hello? Do I look like a refugee from a 1980s hair band video? No, I do not. I look like Wednesday Adams if she decided to go blond and smile occasionally. And Wednesday Adams and a red bikini go together like salmon and dark chocolate.
But there’s something more pressing that needs addressing at the moment. “She asked you where you were staying? And you…didn’t tell her?”
He snorts. “Of course I didn’t tell her. I didn’t get a stalker vibe, but I didn’t want to give her any encouragement to come find me, either.”
“Of course not,” I murmur, my stomach balling into a knot.
“And the hardcore fans have a network where they report sightings of band members. Last time I lingered too long in the Apple store in New York, I came out to a crowd at the bottom of the steps. Eventually, the police had to be called to keep the street clear.”
I cringe. “That sounds awful. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” he says with a laugh. “Last time I checked, you didn’t twist my arm and insist I become a rock star. If I remember correctly, you thought I should keep playing the violin.”
“You’re brilliant with a violin. Makes me cry almost every time.”
He pauses in the shade a few feet from the valet stand and turns to me, brushing my bangs from my forehead. “I don’t like making you cry.”
“It’s a good cry. A so-beautiful-it-makes-your-heart-fragile kind of cry.”
“Is it just me or are you talking in poems today?” he asks, lips curving. “Everything you s
ay, I want to write it down and turn it into a song.”
I arch a dubious brow. “I think you’re probably just sleep deprived.”
“I think it was tasting you for the first time,” he says, making my blood go thick and sticky in my veins as he leans closer and adds in a softer voice, “It was very…inspirational.”
“Thanks,” I say, my cheeks heating. “I hope you still find me inspirational when I confess that I told the salesgirl where we’re staying.”
He winces. “You didn’t.”
“I did, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I thought she was just making small talk.”
“Oh, well, it’s not a big deal,” he says with a shrug. “Maybe she’ll keep it to herself. If not, there are worse things than having fans excited to meet you. Worst case, I have to spend some time signing autographs.”
When we arrive at the hotel fifteen minutes later, Colin’s words prove to be downright prophetic. There are, absolutely, worse things than a crowd of screaming fans. Much worse things, like a psycho ex-girlfriend wearing sky-high gold sandals, a gold lamé bikini, and a see-through fishnet cover-up lurking in the lobby.
Only the Dark Lord knows how she got to the Legacy so fast—and she must have made a deal with the devil to look this good while doing it. But whether it’s cunning or coincidence, there she is, She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, lounging in wait on a couch near the check-in desk, grinning like a vampire clown who found a juicy virgin taking a nap in her clown car.
Chapter Five
Colin
Shit. Fuck. Shittity-fuck-fuck-fuck.
There she is, the one person I was hoping I wouldn’t run into while Kirby and I were in Vegas. Regina, looking like she’s ready to claw Kirby apart with her bare hands and feed the pieces to the alligators over at the Wild Kingdom Casino. I’m sure most people looking at my leggy blond ex wouldn’t notice the mad glitter in her eyes above her shiny white smile, but I see it, and there’s no way I’m letting her anywhere near Larry.
The Bangover Page 4