I drew a deep breath—not that I needed it, but I’d been living in the human world and blending for so long that it was sort of a habit now—and focused my thoughts on getting the hell out of there, like, now.
Every nerve in my body seemed to come alive in that next instant. My arms tingled and my legs vibrated. A rush of heat started at my toes and worked its way up until I felt my cheeks flush.
I know, I know, it sorta, kinda, maybe sounded a little like an orgasm. But trust me, it didn’t feel like one. Except for the vibrating legs, that is. And the flushed cheeks. And, perhaps, the hot…not going there.
Then again, it had been so long since I’d actually had a mucho, fantastic O (over a hundred years ago with an actual partner), my memory might be a little rusty.
I sniffled again. Once. Twice. A third time (hey, we’re talking a hundred years).
I felt an overwhelming sense of crappiness wash over me. Nonexistent love life. Microscopic apartment. Newborn business barely breaking even. Sure, I had hot, happening hair (brown with enough high lights to make it look sunny-licious blond), but what was hair in the big scheme of things?
A police car rushed down a nearby street and jerked me out of my sudden funk. Panic bolted through me and I clamped my eyes shut and willed myself to change.
A loud flutter soon joined the frantic pounding of my heart. Suddenly, I felt weightless (yep, the change had its perks). I left the alley behind as fast as my tiny pink wings could carry me. (I know most bats are black, but black is so…black. As in dark and gloomy and so not my color.)
Even more testimony to the fact that I was totally freaked. No way would I risk discovery and annihilation of the entire born vamp race by morphing into a cute but totally conspicuous pink bat.
But I was free, and putting as much distance as possible between myself and the whole hamburger meat thing (yuck). And that’s all that mattered at the moment.
Pigeons weren’t the only ones who kicked ass when it came to homing instincts.
I reached my apartment, located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, in just under a minute, and landed in the small, and smelly, alley that ran behind my building.
A few tingling moments later, I hurried up the front steps of my building in my bare feet. While I could morph as well as the next vamp, when I was nervous (or wanted for murder) I tended to leave behind a thing or two. In this case, my shoes and a really fab toe ring I’d bought in SoHo.
I punched in the code and rushed inside the renovated duplex that housed mostly single, corporate types and a few seniors. There were only two married couples (the Griffiths on one and the Shanks up on three) and zero children, which meant that the noise level was moderate, consisting mostly of CNN, game shows, and the occasional “Your mother is driving me crazy!”
Tonight, Mac Griffith’s mother wasn’t just driving his wife loony, however. She was shoveling the dirt over and burying her alive, judging from the raised voices coming from the first apartment I passed as I hauled butt toward the elevator. Several frantic moments later, I reached my front door. The O’Reilly Factor drifted from the apartment directly across the hall from me and a rerun of Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire carried up from old Mrs. Janske’s just below. She was a widow who’d moved in last week, along with a zillion cats and at least three birds.
My nostrils flared as I unlocked the door to my apartment and I caught a whiff of…Make that a zillion cats, three birds, and an entire case of mothballs.
I made a mental note to stop by and introduce my self when I wasn’t being hunted for murder. While I don’t particularly like animals, I do have a weakness for a well-cared-for wardrobe.
To say my apartment was small would be paying it a compliment. It was more like minuscule compared to my parents’ elaborate Connecticut estate and Park Avenue penthouse.
All right, already. It was minuscule compared to most other apartments in Manhattan, or the free world, for that matter. While small, it did have separate living and dining rooms in addition to the kitchen, bath, and single bedroom. Five microscopic rooms, complete with heavy-duty window blinds, and they were all mine. Meaning I didn’t have to see my parents day in and day out.
Not that I don’t love my folks, mind you. But they’re my folks and, naturally, they make me C-R-A-Z-Y.
Or rather, they had. Until I’d moved out.
A single lamp burned from the one end table I’d managed to wedge next to my couch. I shut the door and rushed into the bedroom. I barely resisted the urge to fling myself on the king-size bed that took up most of my bedroom and bury myself beneath the covers and cry.
Cry?
Vampires do not cry, at least not in public. Besides, I figured I had, at the most, five minutes (the average cab ride between my apartment and Dead End Dating headquarters) before the cops pushed their way into my apartment. I didn’t have time to shed any big ones. I needed to…to what?
I’d never been arrested for anything in my entire life. Except that little incident at Mardi Gras a few years back. But it wasn’t like I meant to flash my tooties at that cop. They’d just sort of fallen out when I’d climbed up onto Nina One’s shoulders to catch that handful of beads. And that’s all I’m saying about that.
I was now on the run for murder.
Who? When? Where? Fashionably dressed victim or one in desperate need of a personal shopper? I didn’t know. I just knew that the police were coming. For me. The sirens blared in the distance, growing closer with each passing second.
My survival instincts kicked in and I did what any wanted, fashion-conscious vampire would do: I rushed toward the closet to snag a new pair of shoes.
Okay. Maybe I snagged an outfit, too (my shirt and blue jean mini were totally rumpled and still smelled like the alley, and so didn’t match the lizard and suede Sergio Rossi boots that I pulled on), but I was fast.
I changed and managed to stuff half the contents of my closet, complete with cosmetics and this totally smoking rhinestone choker, into two suitcases before I heard the squeal of tires in front of my building. Car doors slammed. Footsteps thundered up the front walk.
I snatched my pillow from the bed and hauled my stuff toward the nearest window. Pulling up the blinds, I pushed at the glass, but it wouldn’t budge. Talk about a fire hazard. I was definitely subtracting ten percent from next month’s rent. Maybe even fifteen—
The thought shattered as the elevator door whooshed open on my floor. I gathered my preternatural strength and shoved. Wood creaked and splintered, and the whole frame sort of came apart in my perfectly manicured hands.
Maybe I’d just take off five percent.
Shoes slid and squeaked and stalled outside my apartment. The doorknob turned and the door shook just as I straddled the windowsill. I glanced down at the dark, empty alleyway below me and hesitated.
Like, I knew I was a badass vamp and all. But I was a spoiled, pampered, badass vamp, and I wasn’t really used to leaping into dark alleys while running for my life. Besides, we’re talking three-and-a-half-inch stiletto heels on the Rossis. Not exactly ideal for leaping tall buildings in a single bound.
“Do it.” A deep voice slid into my ears a split second before something big crashed into my apartment door. Wood cracked. The hinges gave.
I gathered my stuff, closed my eyes, and leapt.
I landed with a loud squish that echoed in my ears and filled me with as much dread as the “I see her!” that thundered overhead.
Almost.
Glancing toward the open alleyway, I turned and headed for the ten-foot fence at the opposite end. An other impressive leap later, I’d cleared the fence and shifted into getting the hell out of here mode.
A few frantic seconds and several blocks later, I shoved my stuff into the back of a cab and climbed in.
The driver spared me a glance in the rearview mirror. He was in his twenties, with long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. He wore a floral print shirt and a bored expression. “Where to?”
; I clutched my pillow tighter as if it were a life pre server. “Connecticut. And I’m in a really big hurry.”
He grinned and eyed the pillow. “Hot date?”
If only.
“Business meeting.” When he glanced at the pillow again and flashed me a knowing look, I frowned. “Could you just get us out of here?” Sirens wailed several streets over and my heart beat faster. “Like, now.”
My gaze collided with his in the mirror and I saw something spark in the brown depths of his eyes. Recognition. Attraction. Desire.
Bingo.
“No problem, lady,” he told me, suddenly eager to please. He shifted the car into drive and pulled out into traffic. “You just sit back and chill. They don’t call me Fast Freddie for nothing.”
I was willing to bet the reason they called him Fast Freddie had nothing to do with his driving. And I soon discovered, as we crawled over the Hudson, that I was right.
I concentrated on willing him faster. Mind control was another vamp plus, as long as it was used on the opposite sex.
Go, go, go!
His smile widened and he glanced more frequently into his rearview mirror, but otherwise, we didn’t so much as increase a single RPM.
Dread washed over me, along with a rush of fear that I was losing my touch with the opposite sex. (A hundred years, remember?) Sure, I’d shared a major hot kiss with vampilicious Ty and it had seemed like I still had it going on. But we’re talking a kiss. One measly kiss that hadn’t even led to a second kiss, much less wild, hot, frantic sex. Much less the satisfaction that I was totally and undeniably irresistible.
I fought against the sudden tears that burned the backs of my eyes.
I was a born vampire.
Powerful. Smart. Superior. Invincible. Attractive. Even if I did have major gunk on my boots.
I was not going to break down in the back of a New York cab, in front of a totally clueless and only minimally cute driver.
Of course, once I reached Connecticut, and solitude, I fully intended to let loose with the water works and wallow in some major self-pity.
That is, if the cops didn’t catch me first.
“Are you a parking ticket, because you have fine written all over you,” the cabbie said as we rolled to a stop on the well-manicured road that connected a handful of pricey estates, my parents’ among them.
It was the cabbie’s thirtieth cheesy pickup line in as many minutes—the torture had started after we’d left the city and hit I-95 headed toward Connecticut.
The first and classic “Do you have a Band-Aid? ’Cause I scraped my knees when I fell for you” had snapped me out of self-pity mode and started me rethinking my nonviolence stance.
“Come on,” he went on. “Talk to me.”
“I really don’t feel like talking. Here,” I told him, motioning to the side of the road. “Just drop mehere.”
“But the house is way up there.” He motioned to the massive white colonial that sat in the far distance. “There’s no reason to wear yourself out walking.” He grinned and winked. “You should save your strength. We could go out. Maybe get something to drink. Or a lube job.”
“Excuse me?”
“With all those curves you’ve got, I need to make sure my brakes are in working order.”
Pu-lease.
While the go, go, go hadn’t worked, the old vamp magnetism was, unfortunately, alive and well.
Thankfully. In my rush to escape, I’d left my purse back at the office, along with my bank card and my Visa. Not that I could have used either without alerting the police to my whereabouts.
I know, I know. I was turning out to be sort of good at this whole on-the-run criminal business (I had my clothes and I was free). What can I say? I had a brain to go with my ultra fab body. I also had a receptionist/ personal assistant who never missed CSI, and who never failed to give me the lowdown after each episode.
For now I was broke and destined to stay that way unless I stumbled over a stash of cash hidden in my folks’ azalea bushes.
So not happening. My dad, like all other born vampires, was extremely careful and frugal (that’s cheap to you and me), and so the only thing hidden in the bushes was a bear trap he’d bought last week to put a damper on Viola’s next NUNS meeting.
“I know milk does a body good, but baby, how much have you been drinking?”
I drew a deep breath, forced myself not to smack the smiling cabbie and turned on the charm. “That’s a good one.”
“I’ve got more.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Now pull over.” Now.
The minute the thought registered, his hands tightened on the wheel and he eased onto the side of the road. The cab rolled to a stop.
“Thanks so much for the ride.” I reached for the doorknob as he twisted around in the seat and eye balled me.
“My pleasure. That’ll be eighty-five dollars and—”
“And thanks for forgetting all about me.”
“What…” His voice faded as I caught and held his gaze.
You will forget me. As soon as I climb out of this cab, you’ll forget I even exist. You’ll think you drove all the way out here to get some fresh air and sightsee. End of story. No megalicious hot babe clutching a pillow in your backseat. No trying to pick her up. No enormous unpaid fare on your meter. Nada.
He blinked and the desire in his gaze faded into confusion.
As I scrambled out of the backseat, my gaze hooked on the worn paperback sitting on his dash. Love Smart. Guilt niggled at me and I heard myself say “Got a pen?”
He blinked, still dazed and confused, and retrieved a pencil from his glove box.
I grabbed an old receipt off his seat, scribbled the name and number for Dead End Dating and handed it to him. “Call Evie Dalton and she’ll help you find that perfect someone.”
Just call me sucker.
Not that I actually felt for the guy. Or knew what it was like to sit home all by my lonesome and wonder if there was someone—anyone—out there waiting for me (I’m talking opposite sex, not creditors). A girl had to protect her livelihood and I needed all the clients I could get. ’Nuff said.
He stared at the number as if I’d handed him a Visa Gold card with unlimited spending and I smiled. And then I frowned because, hey, bad ass vamps didn’t get all mushy just because they’d made someone’s day. Especially desperate badass vamps, which is exactly what I was at the moment.
Forget the undying gratitude and the fact that I’ve just made your year, and scram.
I willed the thought as I climbed out, and then hustled down the road. I chanced one glance behind me to make sure he’d driven off—yeah, baby—and then I really hauled butt. My boots were literally smoking by the time I sprinted across the carefully manicured lawn that surrounded my family’s three-story house.
A soft, yellow light illuminated the front door and I had a sudden vision of myself curled up in my bed on the third floor. My parents still expected me to fail and so they’d yet to turn my space into another guest room. I took a few steps up the front walk before I caught myself.
My parents’ place would most likely be high on the list of my possible whereabouts. While I knew they would believe my innocence and have no qualms helping me hide, I wasn’t about to put them in a position where they would have to lie. Even more, I wasn’t about to put myself in a position where I would have to listen to yet another of my mother’s endless lectures on why I should give up the matchmaking biz, settle down with a suitable eternity mate, and squeeze out a couple of baby vamps.
I know, right?
Anyhow, I needed to think, which I couldn’t do while defending my career and/or social life and/or choice of outfit. I needed to figure out how I was going to get out of this mess. I needed to…plan.
This might come as a shock seeing as how I’m such a successful businesswoman, but I’ve never been much for planning. I’m more of the fun-loving, spontaneous type.
Translation: irresponsible.
At least as far as my folks are concerned.
While the very thought of coming up with a cold, hard, step-by-step actually makes me a little nauseated (which is saying a lot on account of the fact that an iron constitution goes with the whole born vamp persona), I knew it was going to take as much to get me through the next few hours, or days, or weeks—or however long it took to find out what the hell was going on and clear my name.
And that’s what I had to do. While I didn’t know any specifics about the murder, I was firmly convinced (an arrest warrant and a police chase will do that to you) that the authorities felt certain I had killed someone. I had to prove them wrong.
With my BlackBerry back at the office in my purse, I was going to have to rely on my gray matter to keep things straight.
Number one: Find a safe place to sleep and regroup.
My feet ached and my arms felt like cement (we’re talking two suitcases and a jam-packed cosmetics bag) as I rounded the house and headed for the back veranda. I’d just passed a potted palm when my heel snapped in two and I stumbled. My ankle twisted and I screamed and limped toward a nearby chaise loungue. Sinking onto the edge, I set my suitcases down and examined my ankle.
Okay, so I looked at the heel of my Rossi first, but with just a few zzzs my ankle would be back to normal. My boot wouldn’t be so lucky.
I eased off the expensive leather and wiggled my toes. The pain slowed to a dull thud and my other senses (which had been completely focused on the loss of my cherished acquisition) tuned in to my surroundings. My nostrils flared and I caught the faint but familiar scent of cherries jubilee.
See, it’s like this. Each born vamp emits a scent that is uniquely his or her own. It’s distinguishable only to other born vamps and it’s always warm and sugary sweet. Thankfully, I was sitting downwind and so my folks couldn’t smell moi. At least I didn’t think so.
We (born vamps) are also gifted with a special talent unique to each of us. Some vamps can mind link. Others have super extraordinary mind control abilities (think earth, wind, and fire—the elements, not the R & B group) that supersede the given dose of vamp whammy we all are dealt. My great uncle Martine could actually predict the near future. He’d made a fortune casino-hopping in Vegas and Atlantic City. As for me, I had a fantabulous nose for sniffing out designer pieces at department store prices. Hence my ultra fab Rossis.
Dead and Dateless Page 2