Bad Blood: A VamPR Nightmare (Pisces Paranormal PR Agency Book 1)

by Bee Murray

  My sensitive ears picked up the pounding of the heartbeats in the house, and they called to me with a seductive tempo that would take a man of great self-control to refuse.

  I had never been a man of great self-control, and my monster had no time for remorse. I’ve denied his existence for too long.

  * * *

  All day long, I prowled through the estate. My unsuspecting staff never stood a chance.

  Not really.

  I hunted them for sport. My thirst drove me into a fever, but the thrill of the capture and hunt drove me into a delirious state.

  They never knew the danger they were in. Only Georgia and Patricia knew what I really was. Each victim tasted better than the last.

  Their blood sang to me and, one after the other, I tracked them through the house by their heartbeats and pounced.

  When I drained them of their life-force, I dragged them to my private quarters and lined them up like cords of firewood. My housekeeper Liliana lay next to Georgia. Those two had always gotten on well. My personal chef, Alejandro, with his food-stained apron was on the other side of my personal trainer, Dan.

  Eight staff members lived and worked at my estate, and I killed them all.

  The bloodlust faded by the time I got to my executive assistant, Patricia. Efficient, devoted Patricia. She didn’t beg like the others. She was resigned to her fate. Maybe her lack of fight was why I got sloppy towards the end. I didn’t double-check to make sure she was completely gone when I put her in with the others.

  The ding of the text alert tipped me off, but it was too late.

  She used her dying moments to send a text to my label, Cainin Records. Not her family, or her friends, or her cat sitter—my label.

  “Vinnie is a vampire. Household staff dead. Call in the entire team. Get Pisces for PR before it’s too late.”

  She died surrounded by the bodies of her colleagues with her phone in her hand. A small smile on her face.

  That’s what finally got through to me.

  Someone far more deserving of life than I used their dying moments to help me, a monster. There’s nothing about me that should inspire this kind of loyalty.

  The least I could do, the absolute very least, was get my monster under control. For Patricia. And Georgia. Liliana, Dan, Alejandro, Sue, Ella, and Harris. They didn’t need to die.

  I sighed heavily as the sounds of vehicles coming up the drive alerted me to my visitors. Judging from the noise, there were at least three trucks. My people were the best money could buy and I was a cash-cow for my label.

  Little things like cleaning up a massacre of an entire household-worth of staff wasn’t outside their job duties. They might fear me, but they would fix this with the utmost discretion.

  The darkness swirled inside me, unhappy to be locked away with my monster once again.

  I don’t want to be a monster.

  If I could, I would take it all back in a heartbeat. I would redo the last five years or, at the very least, just die in that hotel room. But there was no more normal for me, not anymore. If the people who claim to adore me really knew the truth, they would abandon me. That’s what people do to vampires. They fear you, abandon you, and treat you like the monster you are.

  Vinnie Quake, international popstar, billionaire, global chart-topping narcissistic asshole, is a vampire... And soon enough the entire world would know. Things would never be normal again.

  2

  TUESDAY

  In this world, there are a few things that I’ve learned I can count on. One, making friends with a bartender equals better drinks. Two, if left to my own devices, I will 1000% choose the absolute worst man in the room. Three, they never use a current photo on the apps.

  As if to prove my point, I glanced furtively at my date while I sipped some more of my mediocre Chardonnay.

  Zach Edmunds.

  38.

  Divorced. No kids. One dog.

  Real Estate owned: one condo.

  Job: Wealth Manager.

  Credit score: fair/medium.

  When we matched on the app, he told me he worked in finance and was very active, loved to paddle board and spent a lot of time pursuing personal wellness. I discreetly pulled his photo up on my phone and glanced at it under the bar.

  Technically, the photo was of him. Just a version of him from about ten years ago. The ruddy, windswept cheeks, sculpted biceps and thick brown hair from his picture showed someone with a zest for life. It’s why I agreed to meet. But the reality was… disheartening, even by the app standards. He had a receding hairline, an overly inflated sense of self, and the flushed red complexion of someone who spends more time in bars than outside. This man may work in finance, but… he was no outdoor wellness warrior. He’s soft, pale and brash; a keyboard warrior.

  His expensive accessories impressed but the scuffed, worn down shoes showed he probably lived outside his means. Like every other man I’ve been out with in my precious little free time these days, he’s an utter disappointment. In some ways, the knowledge is comforting. I set the bar low and the men I’ve found have never, ever exceeded it. Not anymore. Not since… him.

  I banished the thoughts of my ex from my mind and refocused on the task at hand. Zach didn’t require my participation in this conversation to have a good time. That much was obvious. He, like the ones before him, mainly saw me as a prop for an ego or a notch on his bedpost. In a different life, that would outrage me, but tonight it suited me just fine. I settled deeper into my stool and tried to see if I could tolerate him long enough to get what I needed. If men were this callous about sex, why shouldn’t I be?

  While he blathered on about something relating to Seattle’s wild real estate market and peppered in disparaging comments about the houseless population and liberal snowflakes the bartender set a glass of whiskey in front of me and winked. I nodded at him gratefully. I had scanned him up and down when I first got here. He reminded me of a young Orlando Bloom, and I appreciated the hell out of that look. Unfortunately for me, that golden wedding ring he wore gleamed like a freakin’ beacon in the low light of the bar. Taken. I took a sip of my whiskey and raised my glass to him slightly and he nodded his head. Whoever snagged that one is a lucky beeyotch. They really do take all the good ones.

  The addition of whiskey made Zach only slightly more tolerable to my overall mood, but the conversation was growing tiresome and increasingly problematic.

  When my best friend, Adrienne, told me to get back out there, I doubted this was what she had in mind.

  My whiskey glass was almost empty, and he still hadn’t bothered to ask me a single question about myself. Truly insufferable. Happy Hour was almost over and the noise of the bar was picking up. The rest of the after-work crowd would be here soon and I seriously considered cutting my losses and finding some nice hipster dude to hook up with instead. I was so frustrated I could scream.

  I didn’t want forever with anyone.

  Hell, I didn’t even want the entire night.

  I would take one blissful half an hour if that was available. Just… something, anything, to get me out of this impossible dry spell I’d found myself in.

  Going home alone, again, was not an option.

  I glanced around the bar again, hoping to spot an acceptable alternative to my current date but no one stood out. Maybe it’s the bar. It’s way more pretentious than my usual stomping grounds. Everyone in here wanted to see and be seen. I didn’t. I’m a behind the scenes kinda gal. Fame didn’t interest me. Solving problems did.

  Zach could solve my problem.

  If I could get him to stop talking, he could serve as a means to an end.

  Decision made, I drained the rest of my whiskey glass and placed my hand on his knee, a movement which so thoroughly interrupted his current rant that I struggled not to laugh. God, men are so easy.

  “Zach—can I be honest with you?”

  I leaned forward a little more, allowing my hand to slip on the stool and giving him an eyeful of
my cleavage as I lowered my voice to a sexier, huskier tone.

  His hand covered mine and he zeroed in on my cleavage. Hook… Line….

  “Of course, babe,” he murmured as he licked his lips.

  Ew. Babe? Gross.

  “I don’t give a flying fuck in space about the real estate market. I don’t care about your opinion on literally anything. I don’t. Your thoughts, opinions and mediocre knowledge base is irrelevant to me and some of your views are, frankly, offensive. I would honestly like you better if I never spoke to you again.”

  He sputtered his outrage but I kept going, and arched my back so that he regained focus on my tits. Good boy.

  “But here’s the thing, Zach… I’ve been in a sexual dry spell for a while and I have some needs that I’m almost 60% sure you can take care of. I’m going to get up from this stool and I’m going to walk out that door. If you’re interested in exploring my needs for one night, and let me stress this, one night only, you can follow me. Otherwise… enjoy your evening.”

  I straightened up and stifled another laugh at his dumbfounded expression… and the visible arousal in his pants. I threw a $50 bill on the bar, waved to the bartender, and waltzed out the door, my hips swaying side to side as I went.

  I counted softly under my breath as I stood at the taxi stand, and was unsurprised when it only took until the count of four for the breathy, excited broker to appear at my side. Snicker.

  So predictable. Some men like to posture that they’re the Ultimate Alpha, but whenever I let my dominant side out, they come crawling. Turnabout is fair play. If men can talk to women this way, I might as well return the favor.

  I tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow, and waved down a cab. My intention was to take Zach home to break my dry spell in the most unimpressive way possible. The key was to set my expectations low enough—that way I wouldn’t be disappointed. I had learned that the hard way and I’d never forget it.

  * * *

  ***

  * * *

  Unfortunately, I was overzealous in my estimation of how low I have set the bar. I didn't actually believe that such a thing was possible, but good old Zachary was much worse than I had originally thought.

  Not only was he unable and unwilling to accept direction, he insisted on giving me a running commentary on the situation, drank half a bottle of the whiskey I’d been saving for my birthday, and then attempted to mansplain women’s pleasure to me. Complete with a rant about the ‘myth’ of the multiple orgasm.

  I didn’t even get my stockings off before I explained, as nicely as I could, that we—regrettably—weren’t compatible and then I threw him out of my condo on his ass.

  At the rate I was going, I’d be better off dating myself. Men in this city were severely overrated if Zach represented the cream of the crop.

  Ugh.

  I laid in bed, stared at the ceiling, and watched the oscillating ceiling fan go round and round.

  I’d spent the better part of the last five years grieving my last relationship. Five years of feeling the betrayal daily. Five years of being afraid to let myself be vulnerable, and I still couldn’t break my celibacy streak no matter who, or what, I tried.

  A small jolt of pain twanged in my heart when I allowed myself to think of him.

  We all have one.

  That one ex you spend an eternity trying - and failing - to get over.

  It was hard to be happy with ‘Mr. Safe & Boring’ when your heart craved the explosive passion you used to have. Adrienne likes to tell me I’ll find someone better. But she’s an eternal optimist, and I just can’t bring myself to that level of… cheer.

  But I wouldn’t find anyone better.

  Not really.

  And if I was being truly honest? I wasn't sure I wanted to find something better.

  The only downside was that rage had replaced passion in my heart. Pain and hurt lived where love used to. I’d closed myself off and turned that heartache into jet fuel. Really, getting over my ex would mean I would have to deal with that shitstorm once and for all. And I just was not ready.

  Fuck.

  The memories crowded my mind and I dragged my hand through my hair in frustration. I desperately wished that I could zap his presence from my brain. Temporary amnesia would be a blessing. I could live with rage, but the memories of his sweetness, the way he used to hold me—those were the ones I had to watch out for.

  With a groan, I dragged myself off the mattress and pulled a robe over my shoulders. I stretched, cracked my back, and threw my hair into a messy bun. Once again, sleep would be in short supply tonight.

  I sat down at my desk and turned on my laptop. The best way to distract myself out of a problematic vault of memories was always the same. Take a deep dive into someone else’s problems. That’s what I do best. I can fix almost anything… except myself.

  An email marked URGENT & CONFIDENTIAL flashed on the screen as my laptop loaded and I frowned at it. Getting a work notice around midnight was certainly not unheard of, but something truly urgent would normally have been preceded by a phone call.

  I scanned the email and my eyebrows raised through to my hairline and a tingle went through my body. Someone fucked up really terrible.

  The idea of digging into whatever horrific mess one of our clients created excited me twice as much as anything Zach could have come up with. I saw two other names next to mine in the email header and realized that Carlyn, my boss, had sent it out to the three most senior Client Relationship Managers. A fierce sense of competitiveness and possessiveness flooded me and I reached for my phone and punched the speed dial for my boss.

  My colleagues Frankie and Daiya were good at keeping clients happy and spinning stories. We actually got along great. But this kind of mess wasn’t their cup of tea. They didn’t have the hunger for it or the… flexible ethics... required to deal with the darker, messier side of it.

  I did.

  This case had my name written all over it from the very first word.

  Carlyn answered on the first ring and jumped into the logistics without so much as a greeting. She’s efficient like that. It’s why we get along so well.

  “Tuesday. You called first, the case is yours.”

  I pumped my fist in the air with victory.

  “Be advised: the situation is time-sensitive, involves rumored criminal activity, and will require a… creative approach. You’ll need to debrief the client team within the hour. This is a Level 10 situation. Rules of engagement will be forwarded to you.”

  I shivered in excitement. Too often, we got called in to massage public opinion about a politician's mistress or help spin rehab stories for the rich and famous. This one was different. I could feel it.

  I moved around my room with practiced efficiency, throwing changes of clothing, notebooks, and my spare battery packs into my tote bag.

  By the time I hung up with Carlyn, I was dressed and moving out the door.

  The cool night air and gentle breeze brushed against my skin. It was a full moon and I bounced from one foot to the other as I waited for the Lyft. My excitement for this assignment grew with each moment.

  Some people had an innate desire to help people. Those people made wonderful teachers, social workers, doctors, and parents.

  I had a desire to win, no matter the stakes.

  Each case I took was a game with high stakes for my client and for our agency. My adversaries were whatever problem these rich assholes got themselves into. I didn’t need to agree with their choices or even like them, but by God, I would win for them.

  When I had landed at Pisces PR Agency a few years ago, I had thought I would just be spinning political bullshit for a few years to gain experience.

  But Carlyn took a chance on me and showed me a whole new world was out there. One filled with things outside my wildest dreams and problems no one else would touch.

  After six months, I was a regular on the emergency fixer team. By a year, I was leading my own. And now? Now I wa
s the one they called in when it’s bad enough to cause an international incident.

  This job was the dream I never knew I had, and I was damn good at it.

  * * *

  ***

  * * *

  What was it about people who did bad things and abandoned office buildings on the outskirts of town? They couldn’t be more cliched if they tried.

  When the Lyft dropped me off at 11:48 p.m., I smiled to myself. Show time.

  A man in a well-tailored suit waited for me just inside the door. He was barrel-chested and built like a Mack truck, dwarfing the ficus plant he stood next to. There was an aura about him that screamed “do not fuck with me” and I immediately liked him and nicknamed him Truck.

  “Name?”

  I smiled at him and pulled out my card. “Tuesday Matson, Client Relationship Manager for Pisces PR Agency.”

  He grunted and pulled out his phone to take a picture of my card.

  “Follow me, Ms. Matson. The client is waiting for you. When we get inside, I have to search you.”

  I nodded quickly and followed him through the double doors. Another man in a suit, somehow bigger and burlier than Truck, waited beyond. In my mind, he immediately became Tank. Tank and Truck. Perfect.

  Tank and Truck searched me quickly and efficiently. These were not rent-a-cops with a careless attitude and a badge from eBay, they were professionals with a lifetime of experience working in security and protection.

  “She’s clear.” Tank called out and Truck nodded and dug a small badge and lanyard out of one of his cargo pockets.

  “Ms. Matson, you must wear this at all times while moving about the building.”

  I examined the badge as they escorted me into an elevator, hoping it would give me a clue who the client was, but there was nothing written on either side. Just a QR code and some numbers.