I had a rush of guilt, which I quickly traded in in favor of good, old-fashioned abject horror. We’re talking taffeta.
“Can we see a few more before she starts trying anything on?” I asked Jersey.
“Um, sure.” Shirley went back to the rack and I turned to Mandy.
“Just pick out the ones you like that you absolutely don’t think you can live without. We’ll decide on a few favorites and then you can try them on.”
“Oh, absolutely.” She nodded vigorously, looking like a premenstrual woman in a Godiva store. Not a good sign for someone who processes dead bodies for a living. But the wedding bug could bite even the most serious, levelheaded individual.
I’d seen it firsthand when one of my best friends, Nina Two of the infamous Ninas, had married a born vampire named Wilson just last year. Always sane and levelheaded, Nina had morphed into a raving lunatic weeks before the commitment ceremony. She’d gone on a binge to find the perfect blue napkins. That would be cerulean, not indigo or cornflower or any other shade out there. Personally, I would have gone with silver and called it a day. But not Nina. She’d been determined. Excited. Obsessed.
My gaze swiveled to Mandy and the crazed light in her eyes. Ditto. “Now remember,” I told her, “look at all the details of the dress, picture yourself in it. We’ll ex the losers and try on the keepers.”
“Got it,” she told me, giving another vigorous nod.
Shirley turned back to us and the fashion show continued.
“It’s great,” Mandy said when the woman held up prospect number two. “Definitely a keeper.”
Harriet Dupree nodded. “Positively lovely.”
Shirley added it to the first one to be tried on, and then held up number three.
“Oh. My. God. Gotta have it,” Mandy declared.
“Yep, that one’s really lovely.”
Enter number four.
“Have you ever seen so much beading? I adore beads. That’s definitely a keeper.”
“Yes, beads are truly lovely.”
“Oh, and tulle. I LOVE tulle. I need that one, too.”
“Yes, we must try that, as well.”
Mandy and her mother continued to salivate while I reached for another Jell-O shot.
It was going to be a long night.
Nine
Mandy tried on forty-eight dresses. No, really. In fact, she would have tried on forty-nine or even one hundred and forty-nine, but Shirley’s Back to the 1980s collection tipped the scales at forty-eight, so that’s where Mandy stopped. Needless to say, she hadn’t picked one in particular. They were all beautiful. Perfect.
Meanwhile, I had sucked down six Jell-O shots, which explained the blurry doorknob and the moving keyhole when I arrived home a good hour before daybreak.
I jabbed at the hole once, twice, three times before closing my eyes and giving myself a mental pep talk.
Easy. Take your time. You can do it. Just concentrate. And whatever you do, don’t throw up.
Yes, vampires could blow chunks like anyone else. Actually, we could do it better than everyone else because our metabolism is extremely delicate and if our bodies don’t like something, then step aside Old Faithful.
Alcohol, like other fluids, doesn’t bother us so much. But green apple Jell-O? And grape? And cherry? That seemed to be a different story entirely. I was dangerously close to tossing right then and there. That, or passing out if I didn’t get to sit down sometime before the New Year.
CNN blasted from my neighbor’s television and blared in my ears, making my head throb that much more. Reality check: The whole afterlife experience for vamps is magnified tenfold. When we’re hungry, we’re ravenous. When we’re sad (a rarity for most vamps with the exception of yours truly), we could cry enough to hydrate a From Fat to Fit camp. When we’re angry, we’re talking remember the Alamo. And when we have a massive headache from too many Jell-O shots? Move over Tylenol and pass the Vicodin.
I narrowed my eyes and stabbed at the keyhole again. Bingo. A few seconds later, I kicked off my shoes as I walked the few feet to my bedroom. I contemplated checking my cell messages (I’d turned off the phone while at Wedding Wonderland), but quickly decided against it. I’d barely managed to fit the key in my front door. Punching itty-bitty buttons on my Razor was out of the question. I had peeled off my clothes during the last few steps. I didn’t bother with lights (it’s not like I really needed them) and I didn’t bother with lingerie. I chanced a glance at the blinds to make sure they were tight and secure and then crawled into bed in my undies. I closed my eyes and begged the room to stop spinning long enough for me to conk out. A few seconds, and sleep would come like it always did. Thankfully. One. Two. Three—
“Lil?”
The deep voice pushed into my ears and my eyes popped open.
I bolted upright and my gaze made a beeline for the six foot plus of beefcake standing in the open bedroom doorway.
Ash Prince stared back at me, a half grin crooking his lips and cracking open the shadow of his face. His gaze glittered like twin beams of light in the darkness. He still wore the same jeans and button-up shirt that he’d worn earlier that evening, and the same sexy expression.
I nixed the last thought and focused on summoning my outrage. “What are you doing in here?”
“Waiting for you. Do you usually stumble in this late?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of a cellphone?”
“You didn’t answer yours.”
Oh, yeah.
He arched one dark brow. “Too busy getting sloshed?”
“I’m not sloshed.” I swallowed and tasted green apple and liquor. “I’m semisloshed. So what’s with the breaking and entering?”
“We lifted a set of prints that didn’t belong to Ty. I’ve put it through the database, but we can’t find a match. I need prints from you so that we can make sure they belong to a third party. If they’re yours, we can toss them. But if they’re not, then they might eventually lead us to Ty.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure. What do I do?”
“Nothing.” He held up the half-full bottle of O positive I’d opened yesterday evening. “I’ll just take this with me.”
“And what exactly are you going to do with the contents?” I asked him. “Toss or drink?”
He grinned. “I’m not really thirsty right now.”
“But if you were…AB negative or a Bud Lite?” When he just smiled, I added, “Give already. I know you’re not a vampire. So what exactly are you?”
“Late,” he announced, glancing at his watch. “It’s almost sunrise.”
“And you have to hurry because the sun might cause you to burst into flames? Or change into a were lizard and do a little basking?”
His grin widened. “I’ve got a breakfast date at a diner on Fifth.”
“Oh.”
“Nice try, though.”
“Thanks.”
“Call me.” He winked and then he turned. I listened to his footsteps as he headed toward the door. Metal creaked and clicked and then he was gone.
And I was half-naked.
The truth struck as I glanced down to see my favorite Egyptian cotton sheet bunched in my lap. My semi-impressive Cs stood at attention, clad in my favorite Swedish lace bra from La Perla. It was wispy and pink and practically see-through.
Now I totally understood the wink.
Call him? I had half a mind to call the rat fink, all right. And chew him a new one. At the same time, he had been grinning. As opposed to frowning. Which meant I still had it going on in the eye candy department.
Funny, but the knowledge didn’t make me feel half as euphoric as it should have. Because as fine as Ash was, he wasn’t Ty. I didn’t feel the same rush of heat from my head to my toes. No tingling nipples or stirring hunger.
Okay, so maybe my hunger stirred a little. But that was a pretty regular occurrence for me since I bottled it 24/7.
Bottom line, I didn’t have the same intense Do me now or I’ll spontaneousl
y combust reaction to ultra-hot Ash that I did to Ty. A fact that worried me as much as it pissed me off.
“Where are you?” I sent out the mental question as I collapsed back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “Are you hurt? Bleeding? Shacked up with a vamp named Juicy Lucy?”
I waited, listening, hoping, but the only thing I heard was the sound of a toaster dinging, followed by the weather update coming from next door.
Sunshine. Cool temperatures. Breezy.
The last thought stuck as I closed my eyes.
Instead of picturing myself doing a Marilyn on the streets of New York in my favorite white halter dress, I saw myself on a beach in Maui wearing the coolest Dior bikini with a gold mesh miniwrap. It was broad daylight and the sun was shining. The wind blew in off the water, lifting the edges of my wrap and tickling over my skin.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” Ty’s voice slid into my ears as he came up behind me. And then it was his fingers that lifted the edges of the silky, weblike material from around my waist and tickled over my belly button.
Mmm…
I wasn’t sure if it was the endless string of wedding dresses, the stress my mother had just heaped on me, or the Jell-O shots (probably the shots), but one minute I was lost in a hot and heavy embrace and the next, I was standing barefoot, wearing a grass skirt and a pair of coconut shells, and saying I do while a group of half-naked islanders played an ancient Hawaiian love song.
What?
I mean, sure, I wouldn’t mind a wedding in Hawaii. But not barefoot (at the very least, I needed a pair of rhinestone Zsa Zsa flip-flops) and not looking like a hula girl. And—and this was the biggie—not to Ty.
Born. Made. It so wasn’t going to happen.
At least not the wedding part. But the fingers slipping under my wrap…That I hadn’t completely ruled out.
Let’s say I find him and he’s really sorry and desperate to make it up to me for saving his hide. What sort of person would I be if I turned him away? I can accept a token of appreciation as graciously as the next vamp.
Yeah, yeah, gracious and vamp don’t usually go together in the same sentence, but we’re fantasizing here.
He’d be appreciative. I’d be gracious (and fashionably dressed in the latest designer beachwear). Sex would be a given.
At least that’s what I told myself as I rewound my erotic thoughts to the post–I do phase and hit play.
Ty slid his arms around me and I leaned into him. We spent the next several minutes engaged in a very heated reunion until I conked out completely.
Ten
“You’re never going to guess what just happened.” Evie’s voice carried over the line later that afternoon when I finally managed to wake up and answer the blaring phone.
“Good or bad?” I mumbled, blinking away the last fuzzies of sleep.
“Think fabulous.”
“I won a free shopping trip to Donna Karan?”
“Better.”
“I won the lottery?”
“Even better.”
“My mom called to say she’s sorry for the guilt and manipulation and wants to buy me a Mercedes to make up for the pain and anguish she’s heaped on me for most of my life?”
“I said fabulous. Not miraculous. You got a call-back.”
“A what?” I asked as I forced my legs over the side of the bed. Something soft squished between my toes.
Killer.
“Manhattan’s Most Wanted,” Evie went on as I glanced down and wrinkled my nose. “You made the cut. You are now one of eighty applicants being considered for the new season that starts next week. They called about fifteen minutes ago. I would have called sooner, but the phone started to ring so I’m just now getting to you. You have to go down to the television station by six—that was the latest appointment I could get you—for more questions.”
I glanced at the clock. Five minutes shy of 5:00 P.M. I levitated a couple of inches and did a quick float to the bathroom, where I found Killer lounging on my favorite towel.
“You’re in big trouble, mister.”
Yeah, yeah, his gaze seemed to say, as if he knew I was already hooked on his sorry little black hide. I’m shaking in my fur.
“Are you there?” Evie asked as I eased down in front of the sink, turned on the water, and hiked my foot under the spray.
“I’m here, but you’re not,” I said to the oblivious cat. “Pack your bags, bozo, because you’re out of here.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“A stray I brought home.”
“Is he cute?”
“Not that kind of stray. A cat.”
“Oh, I love cats. I have two.”
“Do you want another?”
“Sorry. My building only allows two pets. Listen, they’re also going to do a five-minute interview tape, so be sure to wear something colorful.”
“What about smelly?”
Evie laughed. “You’re new to motherhood. Don’t worry. It’ll get easier. Just make sure you put fresh litter in the box every day and eventually the accidents will stop. There’s always an adjustment period.”
I hate you, I mouthed to the cat, who continued to smirk. I dried my foot on a hand towel and grabbed a handful of toilet paper.
“Aren’t you excited?” Evie asked as I padded back to the bed and scooped up my morning surprise.
“Thrilled. I’ve always wanted a great big pile of poop.”
“I’m not talking about that; I’m talking about MMW. Isn’t it just the greatest? To think you might actually get to meet Mark Williams in person.”
“Mark who?” I deposited the cleanup in the toilet and flushed.
“Williams. That cute weather guy. I just heard that he was picked by People magazine as one of their fifty hottest New Yorkers,” Evie told me as I walked into the kitchen and grabbed an unopened bottle from the fridge. My gaze snagged on the milk and I contemplated payback for Killer.
Starvation.
Mutilation.
Painful death.
Unfortunately, I got the heebie-jeebies from all three, so I ended up pouring a saucer of milk for the cat and nuking a glass of O positive for myself.
“Since when does People pick fifty hot New Yorkers?” I leaned against the kitchen cabinet and sipped my breakfast while Killer lapped up the milk.
“They’re doing it for every state. Sort of a tribute to local celebrities. The Big Apple issue comes out next week and will coincide with the first episode of the new MMW. I hope you make it.”
“Uh, yeah, me, too.” Not.
But while I had no intention of making the actual show, I wouldn’t have minded another go with the rest of the women who’d made the cut. I’d done my best to circulate last night, but with Ty on my mind, I’d only introduced myself to maybe half. If I went back, I could meet the rest and even branch out to the MMW staff, from the single, twentysomething receptionist with the dark roots to the divorced camera guy with the foot fetish. Talk about some needy candidates.
Never fear, people. Lil is here.
“So are you coming to the office or are you going straight over to the station?”
“I’ll swing by and check in first. How are things going?”
“Well, the reason I couldn’t call you right away is because the second I hung up with the MMW producer, I had three phone calls from women who didn’t make the cut. They want us to hook them up. I set up their appointments for tomorrow.”
Great.
“And your mother called.”
Not so great.
“She said she’d like you to bring at least one prospect with you on Sunday for the get-together.”
I.e., the hunt.
Forget backyard barbecues and homemade ice cream. Being eccentric as well as anal, my father refused to let go of tradition. He felt it his parental duty to see that his children were able to stalk and subdue, in addition to plopping down a twenty at the local deli for the bottled blood type of the week. That, and he liked to s
how off his latest golf swing.
So we met each week at my parents’ Connecticut estate to watch his Tiger Woods impersonation and ravage the more than hundred acres in the name of sustenance. Since this was the twenty-first century and born vamps liked to keep a low profile, we hunted each other—the it person—instead of plundering nearby malls and sinking our teeth into unsuspecting shoppers. The pot of gold? Extra vacation days from Moe’s.
Since my brothers were all gainfully employed in the family business, they lived for the hunt and the extra days off. Max had flown off to Spain for an entire two weeks with his extra days. Rob had cashed in his to buy another Porsche. And Jack had used his to go scuba diving in the Amazon with a set of twin bimbos named Lolly and Dolly.
I, on the other hand, had my own fantabulous business far away from the printing and copying mecca. Therefore, I didn’t enjoy the hunt in any way, shape, or form.
Still, I dragged myself to Connecticut every week. I was already the ungrateful, irresponsible daughter who refused to settle down and propagate the species with one of my mother’s numerous fix ups. I was not going to be the ungrateful, irresponsible daughter who pissed away four hundred years of tradition and refused to settled down and propagate the species with one of my mother’s numerous fix ups.
“Fill me in.” Evie’s voice pushed into my thoughts. “Since when did we start matchmaking for your mother?”
“Since last night.”
“Is it another one of her friends?”
“No, nobody from the country club.” Aka the Connecticut Huntress Club, an organization of born female vampires who met to interact and sip Bloody Marys (literally) and match up their unmatched children.
“Thank heavens. Those were the pickiest women I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”
If she only knew. But I wasn’t ready to declare my vampness to Evie just yet (if ever) for fear she’d freak and quit. She did a great job. Even more, she could spot a designer knockoff at fifty paces. And so I kept my fangs to myself and let her believe my mother and her friends were merely pompous aristocrats rather than pompous bloodsucking aristocrats.
“So who is it?” she wanted to know. “Who are we doing this time?”
Your Coffin or Mine? Page 6