Dead and Dateless

by Kimberly Raye

  I know, right? Needless to say, I’d yet to find a woman who didn’t want to smack the cheapskate in the first five minutes, much less one willing to sit through an entire date with him.

  I pictured a cheap sunglasses version of Ty wearing a Speedo, but since he was ultra-hot, the skimpy bathing suit didn’t have the desired effect. Add forty pounds and back hair. Yep, I wanted to smack him, all right.

  I flipped open Ty’s laptop and double-clicked on a word processing program. I spent the next ten minutes keying a list of possible meet markets for Viola’s twenty-seven alpha males. When I finished, I made a few more notes on some pre-existing clients, including Esther Crutch, an old maid made vampire desperately looking for love. Or at the very least, companionship. Surely Ty knew some other made vamps like himself? I made a note to pick his brain for possibilities when he came home and then spent the next half hour Internet surfing.

  Unfortunately, I’d left my purse back at the office which meant no credit cards, which meant no shop ping, which meant no W-A-Y. I was bored out of my mind in a matter of minutes.

  I stretched out on the couch, determined to kill a few hours with a nap. Easy, right? I mean, the couch was totally nonsexual and in no way connected to Ty’s half-naked, sleeping body. Except, of course, for the fact that he’d slept on it the night before while I’d been in his bed. And he’d definitely been half-naked with just his worn jeans and sexy grin. I sat up. I so wasn’t going to be able to do this.

  I walked toward the windows and stared out at the surrounding view. It was early in the evening—barely seven o’clock—and cars zipped up and down the street. People walked here and there, some coming home from work, others heading out. In the apartment building across the way, I caught a glimpse of a man and woman cooking dinner. Another man sat Indian-style in the middle of his floor, his palms upturned, his face a passive mask of yoga contentment.

  I’d just tuned in to a twenty-something female with a cell phone in one hand and a giant slice of pizza in the other when the sensation hit me. My arms prickled and awareness zipped up my spine. My gaze swiveled to the street below. A group of women headed for the corner. A businessman walked the opposite way, a newspaper under one arm. A taxi idled at the curb several feet away while a woman held a small boy with one hand and dug in her purse with the other.

  There were no suspicious-looking characters dressed in black. No sharpshooters staring at me from the opposite rooftop. Nothing looked frightening or out of the ordinary.

  Yet, I felt it. Fear and an insistent niggle that something wasn’t quite right.

  That, or paranoia.

  I decided on number two, shook away the strange sensation, and turned my mind back to the matter at hand: finding something—anything—to do. I paced from one end of the apartment to the other. I turned on the stereo and Fuel blasted from the speakers. I tried dancing, but heavy metal rock ballads didn’t lend themselves to bumping and grinding, so I ended up lip-synching.

  Before I gave in to the impulse to clean (I know—I needed out in the worst way), I headed for the bed room area. Two a.m. was a long way away and I just couldn’t make it. After rummaging in Ty’s drawers, I walked toward the bathroom, my arms full.

  A few minutes later, I eyed my reflection. (The whole thing about vamps not having a reflection? So not true. Thankfully. I mean, can you imagine an eternity of not being able to apply a decent coat of lip gloss?)

  But I digress.

  I eyed myself from various angles. Where rest and relaxation hadn’t been enticement enough to stay in, this was.

  Since going out in my usual, fashionable glory was completely out of the question, I’d done my best to come up with an effective disguise. Ty was more the cowboy type—nix any baseball caps lying around—and I wasn’t in a hurry to draw unnecessary attention to myself. Therefore, I’d bypassed the black Stetson and gone for a red and black Harley handkerchief I’d found in his top drawer. I’d tied my hair up into a ponytail, wrapped the handkerchief around my head in my best biker chick imitation, and donned a spare pair of his sunglasses. I’d slipped on one of his black T-shirts that swallowed me up and fell to mid-thigh. A pair of old sweats covered my bottom half. The only thing that hinted at my fantabulous taste was my shoes (I couldn’t very well wear Ty’s size twelves). I had on my black Nine West ankle boots I’d scooped up back at my apartment. Not ultra-expensive, mind you, but they’d been handy and they did go with everything.

  Except for sweat pants.

  No way was I setting foot outside Ty’s place dressed like this.

  I toed off the boots, padded back to the couch, and finished watching Pimp My Ride. By the time the third episode of Date My Mom (don’t ask) came on, I’d pulled on the boots and was back to eyeing my reflection.

  Okay, it was sort of retro looking. Especially if I knotted the T-shirt at the waist and rolled the sweatpants to midcalf and added a few bracelets…There. Not too bad. It’s not like I was going out cruising for a man. Not my own, that is. Besides, I still had the underlying vamp magnetism to outweigh the semi-lameness of my outfit and tip the scales in my favor.

  My decision made, I took one last look in the mirror and killed the television. I left Ty a quick note and let myself out of his apartment. I had places to go and people to see and the night was still young.

  First on my list of must do? Pay a visit to Dead End Dating.

  I know. Dangerous with a capital D. But I’d left my purse (complete with my favorite bronzer and blush duo) and business cards during the arrest and so I really had no choice. Besides, I was going to be extremely careful. I would be in and out before anyone was the wiser.

  At least that’s what I was telling myself.

  Via taxi, Ty’s place was approximately ten minutes from Dead End Dating. Via cute, pink, furry bat, it took two and a half, which included dodging a drive-by courtesy of two high-flying pigeons.

  I landed in the narrow alley that ran behind the building that housed Dead End Dating, an interior decorating company, a small CPA firm, and a mom-and-pop health food store. My body vibrated and hummed and quickly the frantic beat of wings faded into the steady pound of my own heart. I glanced down and stared at the tips of my Nine West boots. Present and accounted for. Whew. See, sometimes all the trappings didn’t always make the transition. Then again, I’d gotten quite a bit of practice perfecting my technique in the last forty-eight hours.

  The air was sharp with the scent of empty vitamin containers and whole wheat. Add a box of old toner cartridges (wasn’t recycling a tax write-off?) and the one breath I’d been foolish enough to take had me wrinkling my nose.

  I eyed a small ledge that protruded at the top of the building and my body lifted. I floated the three stories up and retrieved the spare key I’d hidden beneath the loose edge of one of the bricks.

  A few minutes later, I unlocked the back door and twisted the handle. It didn’t budge. I was just about to up the vamp muscle when I felt it again—that same awareness zipping up and down my spine, making the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. My senses immediately tuned in to my surroundings—the distant sound of traffic, the hum of a nearby air conditioner, the faint sound of voices coming from inside the vitamin store at the far end (they were doing nightly inventory). Normal. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing except the way my stomach clenched and unclenched.

  Not out of fear, mind you.

  Nope, this was more like full-blown panic on account of the fact I’m not in any hurry to have to pull another Houdini and knee a bunch of cops.

  I glanced from one end of the alley to the other. My gaze sliced through the darkness. A trash Dumpster towered at one end. A cat tiptoed through the shadows a few feet away. The animal’s head swiveled and her gaze caught mine. Recognition sparked and she shrank back, giving a slight hiss.

  Okay, so this is, like, why I don’t have a cat. Vamps aren’t really cat people. Sure, we’ll adopt the occasional stray, but for the most part we’re a bunch o
f dog lovers. When we morph, it’s usually a Doberman or an Alaskan husky or, my father’s particular favorite, an intimidating jackal. (My pops was mucho impressed with The Omen. I know. Creepy or what?) Anyhow, animals can sense our otherworldliness. The cat took one look at me and made a quick getaway. Unfortunately, the strange sensation of being watched stayed with me.

  Because there was an entire team of black-clad S.W.A.T. officers staked out on the surrounding building tops, all watching moi, a hardened, wanted criminal? Was there a roomful waiting on the other side of the door to slap on some cuffs and haul me off to the pokey? Then again, maybe I was being a total drama queen. Possibly the only thing on the other side of the door was a handful of my closest friends waiting to scream “Happy Birthday!”

  My over-panicked brain voted for numbers one and two, my ego cast its ballot for three. Reason nixed them all because (a) I would have seen the S.W.A.T. members with my ultra-vamp vision, in addition to hearing and smelling them, (b) same goes for anybody inside DED, and (c) my birthday was months away.

  I shook away the sensation and twisted the knob again. Hinges creaked and whined. Wood groaned. I made a mental note to pick up a can of WD-40 just as soon as things returned to normal. Closing the door behind me, I stood completely still and let my senses tune in to the darkness. Thank the Big Vamp Upstairs for night vision, otherwise I would have been forced to turn on a light, which would have been the kiss of death. While I felt certain the police didn’t expect me to return (in their eyes that would be ultra stupid), they would still be keeping an eye on the place (think Columbo staked out in an old Chevy, munching a sandwich out front, rather than The Unit) for lack of any other leads.

  I’d hoped to find everything exactly where I’d left it, but no such luck. The police had taken my computer and iPod, as well as my cell phone and file cabinet. I retrieved a batch of business cards from the spare box in my bottom drawer and paused to take a few swigs of the imported blood, which looked like just another bottle of fine red wine, in a nearby fridge. Cold, I know, but I was running on empty since I’d declined to drink at Ty’s place for fear of losing control and giving in to my inner slut.

  I took a last, long drink before recorking the bottle and putting it back in its place. Then I stuffed the DED cards into an empty envelope and walked into the outer office. Evie’s computer was missing, as well, along with the small terminal we’d set up in interview room A, aka the storage closet. The only thing the police hadn’t confiscated were the telephones and answering machine. Yeah! A message book sat next to Evie’s phone and I glanced at the latest entry from that afternoon.

  Rachel Sanchez. The were-Chihuahua. I smiled, tore off the message, and stuffed it into the envelope.

  I opened Evie’s bottom drawer in search of the one shining ray of hope amid so much gloominess. See, last month Evie had been totally stressed over her dad coming to visit, which meant she hadn’t gotten her usual eight hours, which meant she’d needed an extra pick-me-up midday, which meant she’d headed to Starbucks during our peak hour and had been in such a hurry that she’d forgotten to get a lid for her cup.

  Long story short, she’d dribbled mocha latte on the computer keyboard while trying to answer a new call and key in the latest client. Talk about multitasking. Anyhow, the system had blanked out and we’d had to call a repairman. He’d been able to retrieve some of our data, but not all. After he’d quieted me down (I’d sort of whimpered), he’d suggested backing up to a data pin in the future.

  All right, already. So I’d bawled like a baby. My professional life had been on that computer. Talk about a low moment.

  I’d picked myself up, as usual, and taken the guy’s advice. Now we were a totally hip, totally conscientious matchmaking firm that backed up religiously.

  My hand dove between a box of tampons and a can of hairspray and started to search. I unearthed a spare lip gloss, a bottle of clear nail polish (was there anything that stuff couldn’t fix?), a chocolate-dipped spoon, two packs of Equal, a data pin, a mini curling iron—yes!

  I planted a big one on the small contraption and stuffed it into the envelope along with the rest of my goodies. Closing the drawer, my gaze snagged on the message light flashing on Evie’s telephone.

  No touching, I told myself. First off, I didn’t want to leave a fingerprint because if the cops fingerprinted they would know I’d been here.

  Then again, they’d probably already fingerprinted and even if they hadn’t, this was my place. My fingerprints were everywhere. And, I was pretty sure that leaving a fingerprint wasn’t like getting offed and having the contents of your stomach examined for time of death. It was a fingerprint, for heaven’s sake. There was no way to tell what time or date it had been left. Or was there?

  I was sort of figuring this stuff out as I went along and my curiosity quickly voted N-O.

  I turned the volume button down all the way so as not to alert Columbo that there was anyone inside and pressed the play button. My vamp hearing tuned in to the nonexistent sound and the words echoed through my head.

  “You’ve reached Dead End Dating, where finding love is as easy as applying for a modest, but well worth it, home equity loan.”

  It wasn’t the greatest slogan, but I was still working on it.

  “Our offices are closed, but if you’ll leave a name and number, someone will contact you on the next business day.” Beeeeeep.

  “I’m calling for Lil. This is Ayala Jacqueline Devanti.”

  Aka my one and only Dead End Dating failure.

  Okay, so she wasn’t my only one, but the f-word was such an ugly term that I reserved it for only the most disastrous of experiences. In a nutshell, Ayala was the daughter of one of my mother’s friends and the perfect female vampire. She was ultra hot. Educated. Her orgasm quotient rivaled even mine (baker’s dozen, or it had been the last time I’d actually had sex, say, about a hundred years ago) and she desperately wanted to settle down and contribute to the vampire race.

  I know, she should have been an easy match, right? I’d thought so, too, which was why, before I’d paired her up with a real candidate and added her to the Wall of Fame, I’d hooked her up with Wilson Harvey. See, Wilson had had the hots for my best friend, Nina Two (brunette, conservative, did the financials for her father’s female sanitary products plant in Jersey) but he hadn’t wanted to admit it. Nina had been slow on the uptake as well. So I’d paired them each up with primo potential mates and sent them to the annual midnight soirée sponsored by my mother’s huntress club. They’d each been insanely jealous of the other (am I good or what?) and had come to their senses (hello Wall of Fame), but not before Ayala’s werewolf lover had shown up and staked me in the shoulder.

  Ouch.

  He’d been aiming for Wilson, of course, but I hadn’t been able to stand idly by and let some crazy wolf off my best friend’s eternity mate. Not to mention, Wilson had yet to pay his hook-up fee and I wasn’t eating that.

  Anyhow, in the short time since getting staked, I’d introduced Ayala to several potential eternity mates, expecting each one to be It. Surprisingly, she hadn’t clicked with any of them. She didn’t like brunettes. She didn’t like blonds. She didn’t like doctors. She didn’t like lawyers. She didn’t like condescending men who only cared how many times she could scream their name during one sexual encounter.

  At least none who fell into the born vamp category.

  I’d broached the subject with her a few times and suggested she let me fix her up with, I don’t know, maybe another werewolf? I mean, she had listed Wolf as her all-time favorite movie. And her number one song? Big surprise. “Werewolves of London.”

  Forget the writing on the wall. She had it tattooed on her forehead. But, alas, she wasn’t ready to come out of the closet. She wanted to settle down and make babies, and she was looking to me to make it happen.

  Always up for a challenge—and a free shopping spree (her father was well-connected with Barney’s)—I was still searching for Ayala’s
perfect someone.

  “Friday was a total disaster. He wore a navy suit and I absolutely abhor navy. Did I mention that on my profile?”

  Uh, no.

  “It made him look even more washed out,” the message continued. “Even after we had dinner, he still looked as dead as ever. But I’m not crying over a spilled martini. There’s always next week, right? Provided, of course, you have someone. You do have someone else lined up, don’t you?”

  No.

  “But of course you do,” she went on. “You’re the expert.”

  The line clicked and the second message played.

  “Lilliana? This is your mother.”

  As if I didn’t know.

  “Things are chaos right now. Pure chaos.”

  And it was all my fault.

  “I’m at my wit’s end.” My mother’s voice actually faltered and my guilt gave way to a rush of warmth. Awww, Mom. “Both your father and I are. We haven’t a clue where we went wrong.”

  You didn’t do anything. It’s my fault. I’m the one who opened the dating service. I’m the one who’s on the run.

  “We’ve failed as role models. And mentors. And parents.”

  No, no, no! You’re both good role models. Great mentors. Kick-ass parents.

  Okay, so maybe kick-ass was pushing it a bit, but they’d been good. The best a pair of ancient, snotty, aristocratic vamps could be, I supposed.

  “That’s the only explanation for what is happening right now. It’s our fault. We must have done something horribly wrong to have our handsome son fall victim to the wiles of a mere human.”

  The only thing horribly wrong they’d done had been when they’d forced me to go on the family vacation to Rome rather than letting me fly off to Paris with The Ninas—wait a second. Handsome son? Mere human?