“You’re saying there are guys in those coffins?”
“Yes.” This said like guys in coffins were an everyday sight, above ground.
It was just unbelievable.
“What do you do? Animate them with lightning bolts and electricity?” Veronica quipped, gawking at the coffins. “How can they breathe? Do they have air pumped in?”
“They don’t need air.”
“The only people who don’t need air are dead people.”
“Well, technically, yes, they are dead,” Cynthia agreed. “But we don’t look at them that way, of course. To us, they’re just resting. They will be up in about four hours.”
“Up?” Veronica Davis, master of the English language.
Cynthia nodded. “They will rise at sunset and be dressed and gorgeous by sundown.”
Veronica would have sat right down, if there had been a place to sag. As it was, and fearing what might be on the floor if there were coffins on the tables, she allowed Cynthia, who obviously had sniffed out a runner, to take hold of her arm.
A funny little sound escaped from her lips. She closed them tightly to keep it from happening again.
“It was a bit thoughtless of Annie not to have let you in on a few particulars,” Cynthia mused. “Still, you’re here, you need an escort for tomorrow night, and I have eight for you to choose from.” She patted Veronica’s arm. “If you’ve gotten over the initial shock, would you like to begin?”
What? Of course she didn’t want to begin! She wanted her car keys! She wanted daylight! A fresh breeze!
She wanted revenge!
“You can’t view the men up close,” Cynthia explained, leading Veronica forward even though her feet were dead weight. “What you will be choosing from are their photographs. However, I assure you that each of them is much sexier and much more handsome than their head shots. Your complete satisfaction is guaranteed.”
Head shots? The guys Cynthia said were in these coffins had head shots? This was such an absurd idea that Veronica had a revelation. Maybe this wasn’t a joke after all. Maybe this was merely a really unusual publicity gimmick. A different take on escort services.
It could be that there were so many escort places in this city that a gimmick would be necessary to make this one stand out from all the rest. After all, what did you get when MTV had ceased to be cutting edge? Dead escorts in coffins.
Cynthia took another step. Veronica did the same, able to see now that each of the coffins had something on top — which turned out to be a framed photograph, highlighted by the low voltage lighting from above.
One photo per coffin.
Eight by ten glossies.
Of the guys “resting” inside.
The guys who would rise in four hours and be raring to go.
“Ah.” Veronica’s breath whooshed out as the full extent of this gimmick dawned at last. Dead guys. Coffins. Door handles like bats. Would the male employees from this service also wear fake teeth and a drape of black satin cape over those thongs? Red cummerbunds to highlight their six-packs?
Isn’t that what Dracula would wear if he were here and for rent?
Panic was still there, but hovering. Feeling some of the tension ease from her stance, Veronica rearranged her priorities on the spot to One look. Then run.
She repeated this mantra inwardly as they approached coffin number one in the eight coffin lineup, sorry now that she hadn’t worn her glasses to better see the thongs in case these guys did arise.
“Well,” she said to Cynthia loudly, in case the “dead guys” were listening. “Let’s just have a peek at these photos, shall we? Then I have to get back to work.”
If she could sprint down this row of coffins, she’d still have had time to grab a sandwich before heading back to her cubicle. There would be plenty of time to take care of Annie after she had replenished her strength.
Veronica moved closer to the first coffin. After checking out her lip gloss in the coffin’s mirror-like shine, she casually leaned in to gaze at the photo — not too closely, of course, in case the jack-in-the-box inside popped up.
Okay. Big surprise. The guy in the photo was soap-opera star handsome. Dark, shorn hair. Dark eyes. Then again, the photo was in black and white. His eyes could have been red, for all she knew.
“The bios are on the back,” Cynthia said.
“Bios, huh?” Veronica picked up the photo she’d been looking at and turned the frame over. Taped to the backside was a list, not unlike what she supposed an actor might send to a casting agent, of this guy’s particulars.
He was thirty-four years old. Such a shame he had died so young. Six-foot-one. Who actually would go in there with a tape measure? His hair was actually brown. His eyes were brown. He was Harvard educated. Aren’t all the best ones?
But, handsome as he was, something nagged at Veronica from the periphery of her mind. What?
Carefully, but quickly, she replaced the photo under Cynthia’s watchful gaze and strolled to coffin number two, thinking this whole ordeal creepy, but pretty sure she could handle it, after all.
Coffin two’s photo was a frontal shot. He had blond hair, long to his shoulders, which gave him a beach boy look. His eyes were wide-set and light. There was no drip of fake blood pooled at the corner of some fairly lush lips.
She flipped the frame over.
Thirty. Blue eyes. University of Austria educated.
Wasn’t an accent always a plus? Maybe so, but the nagging sensation was back, stronger than before. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck were prickling.
She replaced the beach boy’s frame.
Next.
Coffin number three.
Pretending nonchalance, she scuffed her feet and shook off a slight dizziness that was probably due to the lack of air in the basement.
She reached for the current coffin resident’s photo, stopping short of actually picking it up. Swaying, suddenly thrown off-kilter, Veronica grabbed hold of the coffin’s brass handle for support, then recoiled, remembering what it was she had touched.
Oddly, as the coolness of the brass shocked her fingers, the room started to undulate in a vague, hazy circle. Mist seemed to gather around her ankles. Slowly, she raised her eyes to the photo sitting atop coffin three, almost afraid to look. Then her heart stuttered like a stalled engine. She whispered, “My God!” And meant it.
Moving her attention over the photo, then down to the coffin beneath it, and back up to the frame, and feeling a bit silly over her reaction to this picture, Veronica rubbed her mouth to make sure it wasn’t hanging open, then put a hand to her heart.
Box number three had a real heartthrob inside. A major heartthrob.
Alongside the tap dance her heart was doing, and the little pricking hairs, her hands were reaching out to touch the coffin, as if each finger had a magnet attached. Her hands were shaking. So were her knees. Not with fear or cold or claustrophobia now. These shakes were a physical reaction of pure, unadulterated greed.
She wanted to see this guy in the flesh, in his briefs and cape, all stretched out in that coffin, creepy gimmick or not.
She wanted to wake him up right that minute.
If the guy in coffin three was this supernaturally endowed in the handsome department, what else might he have up his . . . sleeve?
Admittedly, this was a naughty thought. Shocking, even, especially in this particular circumstance. But the man in there was so gorgeous, looking at his picture hurt her eyes. What’s more, in his over-the-shoulder pose, he seemed to be staring straight at her. His eyes met hers with an intensity that was completely unnerving.
Her skin began to tingle. Her motor revved. With her fingers splayed on the oiled mahogany, Veronica took in the guy’s long hair, his intelligent brow, his perfect, almost noble profile — all there, all chiseled and refined as though he might have been a fairytale prince. On top of all that, the slight quirk of the corners of his very fine mouth gave him a slightly arrogant air of distinction.
/> She ran through a list of what sort of things a mouth like his could do to a girl like her. Kisses. Dry ones, wet ones. Long, velvety lappings with a hot, wet tongue — over her lips, her neck, her hips, and other needy parts now dusty from a lack of male attention.
Streaks of anticipation shot though her body, head to foot, one after the other. Her knees threatened to give way. Assuming her strange reaction to the photo was lusty anticipation, and not merely a full mental breakdown, Veronica pressed her legs tightly together, fanned herself with one hand, and thought she heard music in the distance that sounded a lot like the Alleluia Chorus. A sign from the universe that this man could very well be her savior. She would take him to Charlene’s wedding, and it might go well.
He was perfect.
Absolutely beautiful.
With one little glitch.
Why was he here in the first place, with attributes like his? Couldn’t he get a real date? Was there some flaw she wasn’t aware of that would show itself brightly in person?
Why would such a man work for a silly agency like this one?
All right. Fine. The reason for him doing this wasn’t so hard to grasp. He probably needed the money. And she wasn’t altogether stupid. Cynthia had no doubt turned up the heat in here, utilizing advanced sales techniques.
She wasn’t having some kind of a sexual fit, after all. And even if she was, so what if this guy in coffin three made her feel lusty and bothered? The truth was that she, Veronica Violet Davis, had not had a real date in some time, and it was starting to show. As lame as it was, she had the hots for a photograph.
But more importantly, and in spite of her over-reaction to the guy in coffin number three’s obvious sex appeal, she knew that this man, in this basement, provided a glimmer of hope as to her survival of the next night’s event. Her big sister’s wedding.
Charlene’s wedding.
The realization was so intensely close to orgasm, Veronica moaned. She wanted to hop up on top of coffin three, hoist up her skirt, and straddle the box, running her panties over the wood.
She wanted to call this guy’s bluff and lure him out of hiding. See him in person. Wrap her fingers in his soft chest hair and pull him close.
Dammit, she wanted everything coffin three had to offer, right then, without further ado. "Yes," she said aloud. “Perfect.”
The spinning ceased. Her spine snapped straight from being so quickly heated up from the inside out.
She reached for the photo, swiveled it around without lifting it, and listened to the small grating sound the brass stand made on the smooth coffin lid. Oops.
But she only glanced at the bio before turning the photo back toward her. She didn’t care where he had gone to school, or what color his eyes were. This was some guy! And all those sumptuous features were wasted on an agency that would gussy him up like the walking dead.
Anxiety had turned to hope. Hope had filtered into pangs of sexual attraction, lust, greed, because this man, who caused so much heat, would take the heat off of her at the wedding. Looks like his would be a winner, hands down, because beauty was everything in the Davis family.
Veronica found her chest not only heaving, but pressed tightly against the smooth curved lid of coffin three when she opened her eyes. Her cheeks felt feverish. She knew they were flushed.
Her sister’s wedding reception appeared before her, big and frosty and doable with this guy by her side. He would have all the women eating out of his hands, while she could safely blend into the crowd. It was a brilliant plan. Perfection. This walking dead dude would be a hit!
“A-hem.”
For a second, Veronica thought she had made the sound. Her mind was spinning so fast and so deliriously, she was about to set foot on that marble table, determined to yank open the lid.
“Miss Davis? Veronica?”
Cynthia Saleswoman was standing right there. She removed the photo from Veronica’s hands and placed it back on the coffin, where the frame glinted in the fallout from the overhead light.
“Would you like to see the rest?” Cynthia asked.
“No.” Veronica’s hands now clung to her skirt instead of the frame. “This is it. I mean him. This is him. He will do very nicely, I think.”
And darn if her hands didn’t go back to the coffin of their own accord, seemingly independent of her will and the art of adhering to the finer principles of decorum.
Touching the smooth curve of polished wood, she again experienced a flutter, down there, in her underwear. Just a little one, but significant.
“I assume he won’t smell bad. No rotting flesh or anything?” she said.
The question appeared to temporarily tongue-tie Cynthia.
Point for V.
“He will be rested and ready to tackle my family affair?”
“Absolutely,” Cynthia assured her. “He will pick you up in our limousine at the designated time tomorrow night. You can have him until midnight.”
“Like Cinderella?”
“Yes, like that. Would you like him to wear a tux?”
Should she have asked if the coffins were roomy enough to contain closets, besides hunky male bodies. Or if the basement converted into a men’s store.
“No tux,” she told Cynthia. “A dark dinner suit will be fine. My family doesn’t stand on ceremony.”
Lies. All lies. Her family was ceremony. She just wasn’t in on the deal. And this guy in coffin number three would stand out no matter what he wore. This guy would wow the crowd, if not half naked like a Chippendale dancer, then at least understated, and with distinction.
“You’re pleased, then?” Cynthia asked.
“Heck yes.”
She was going to show up with a live one! She was pleased as punch!
Well, maybe not a live one, technically, but . . .
Cynthia turned to lead the way out of the escort service crypt, jarring Veronica’s concentration back to the present. Wanting to manhandle the coffin some more, but knowing it would be foolish, as well as pretty darn embarrassing, she reluctantly followed, asking Cynthia as they climbed the stairs:
“What if he doesn’t want to go?”
“Oh,” Cynthia said, “he has made it clear to me that he is very much interested in this particular event.”
“Huh?”
But Cynthia let it go at that, and Veronica knew she had already misbehaved too badly to pursue the matter. Cynthia probably wore an invisible microphone that connected her to her employees. If they didn’t like how she sounded, early on, maybe they would wheel themselves out of the lineup.
Just one more question plagued Veronica.
She had to ask.
“Was this the guy you would have chosen for me?”
“Yes,” Cynthia replied.
Yes.
What more was there to do but shrug and wonder about, not the cosmos, fate, or divine intervention, but the paperwork? Whether CIA clearance would be necessary to hire someone for a date. If there might be an extensive background check, and how her law firm might react if called upon for a reference.
Then again, which was worse, renting a date, with all that entailed, or showing up at this particular wedding solo?
No contest. She might be doing something way out of character, and out of line, but it was born of the direst need. It was the utmost necessity. It was the life or death of her soul.
Following Cynthia up the staircase, Veronica wiped the light sheen off her forehead with the back of her fingers, afraid of what she was about to do, but no longer weighing the consequences.
A last glance at the basement showed the tip of one polished coffin in a pearly light, though the hallway ahead was dark. Walking on, Veronica thought again about Cynthia’s insinuations about these men resting, about them supposedly rising after dark, the caskets, the weird curfews, and the strange acronym engraved on the brass plaque that had caught her eye.
V.A.M.P. Inc.
Climbing upward, swallowing her anxiety, her guilt, and somewhat bo
lstered by hope — now that she was out of the basement — Veronica laughed out loud . . .
. . . to keep from shrieking.
Chapter three
She hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten. She was feeling cursed, and would have kicked herself, had her foot been able to reach her backside in the tight skirt she had on.
Veronica had a bad case of Buyer's Remorse.
Her date would arrive any minute now, and she was torn about whether to wait for him in her apartment, or outside on the curb.
Pacing helped when pondering this, but in three and a half inch slingback heels, the process was dangerous. At the very least an art form. And she didn’t have time to think about things like comfort and safety, or the Stepford Wives-ish men who had come up with the term stiletto.
If she let him come to her apartment, a polite person would ask him inside. He’d see the mostly empty rooms and wonder what the heck she was thinking for going with “spare.”
Then again, the guy was supposed to rest within the confines of a coffin. Who was he to comment on her place?
So what if his eight-by-ten glossy made her hot in unmentionable places.
“So what if you’re handsome to the point of heart failure?” Veronica muttered.
Throwing a glance over her shoulder at her bedroom doorway, she sighed. “Curb. Meet him at the curb.”
Nervously, she shimmied into her little silk jacket and headed for the door. Three steps into her building’s hallway she hesitated. There was another thing spiky shoes like these were used for, and another type of person who wore them while waiting curbside for men. What those women were called started with a w, and wasn't followed by the letters o-m-e-n.
Rushing back to her apartment, leaning against the door once she was inside, Veronica murmured the all-time, most used rhetorical question. “What have I done?”
She knew enough about physiology to know that her heart couldn’t really be in her throat, and also that a person couldn’t actually die of shame. Helpful remembrances, but still — she had rented a date.
A supposedly dead date.
Plastered to the door like well-dressed road kill, she considered her options, which only took a second, because she didn’t really have any. Rented, meant having to return her date after one usage. Escort was the politically correct term used by the agency, where she had signed a contract, if not in blood, it might as well have been. Since she specialized in contracts, it was a sure bet she couldn’t wiggle out of this one. Besides, they’d taken her credit card number.
Veronica and the Vampire Page 2