“What?”
“You’re making a fool of yourself. Stop holding up the purse and mumbling.”
“I need a good shot, complete with commentary.” He grinned. “This is it. I’ll get my promotion, for sure.”
“Not before you get committed.” I motioned toward the dance floor. “Why don’t you stand up? Move around a little. Maybe you can get a better vantage point?”
“Good idea.” He bounced up from the seat. “Promotion, here I come.”
I watched him pick his way around the perimeter of the room. He hung back. He dipped behind an overgrown ficus. He planted himself behind a waiter holding a water pitcher. But no matter where he moved, he couldn’t seem to get a clear shot and so he kept moving, circling, until he stood on the opposite side of the room.
I saw the frustration play over his features as he tried to zoom in on his subject through the other dancers. It wasn’t working. He couldn’t get the shot.
Like hell.
Determination fired his eyes and he stiffened. He stuffed the purse under his arm, did a quick shift and fix on his boobs, and then took a wobbly step forward.
He inched his way out onto the dance floor, swaying and shimmying toward the center, the clutch firmly under his arm, the end aimed effectively at his target.
The song ended and a faster song took its place. Everyone on the dance floor picked up the tempo, including John. He started to shake. To wiggle. To bounce.
Now I don’t want to sound like a skeptic or anything because, obviously, if vamps exist (as well as a whole group of weres and Others), then anything’s possible. But I’ve never really believed in people who had premonitions or psychics or fortune tellers, or anyone else who claimed to predict the future.
Rather, I liked to think that the future depended, ultimately, on the choices one made, that there was no predestined path and that things could turn on a dime just like that. And, if so, then getting a glimpse of it ahead of time would be virtually impossible.
Right? Right.
At least that’s what I’d always thought.
Until I saw John do a twist and twirl. A sense of disaster swept over me. A frantic “Oh, shit” echoed through my head.
I braced myself and sure enough, he twirled again.
His body went left. His boobs went right.
And the whole evening went to hell via express delivery.
Twenty-two
Things happened really fast from that moment on, but to me it felt like a horror movie unfolding slowly, painfully. John, freaked that his breasts were now slipping and sliding across the dance floor in opposite directions, took a nosedive to catch one. His long red hair slapped at the air and then jumped ship, exposing a dark brown buzz cut.
A loud scream ripped through the ballroom. The music stopped. The producer went nuts. A dozen pairs of eyes swiveled between the dance floor and yours truly and—
I quickly shut my mouth and the screaming stopped. What can I say? We’re talking a buzz cut.
The fraud suspect jumped back. Her heel smashed down on insert number two and solution squirted all over the wood floor.
The woman next to her slipped, grappling for the brunette next to her as she landed on her ass. The brunette went down, clutching at the blonde next to her, who reached for the redhead next to her, and so on, until the only person still upright was Mr. Weather. Uh-oh.
I caught a quick glimpse of the bachelor’s shocked face as a woman tumbled into him and he tried to catch her.
Before I could think, I shot to my feet. I crossed the room and hit the dance floor in two seconds flat (they don’t call it preternatural speed for nothing). My hands filled with all that cool, smooth Gucci. I caught Mr. Weather just as he was about to tumble backward and disappear into a sea of French manicures and strappy stilettos.
“What the hell?” he mumbled as I steadied him on his feet and smoothed the rumpled lapel of his jacket. He blinked and shook his head, as if trying to understand that the blur he’d just seen had been yours truly.
“I had a couple of energy drinks before I came,” I blurted. “It’s a wonder what taurine can do.”
“Uh, yeah.” He shook his head again and blinked a few more times. “You’re really strong.”
“I take vitamins, too. You can’t have too much B14.”
“That’s not a vitamin. It’s a bingo number. I think you mean B12.”
“B12, B14—I take the entire B family. And the rest of the alphabet, too.” I made a show of flexing my arms and sent the silent message. I’m the most buff specimen of female perfection that you’ve ever seen and you’re appropriately wowed. You’re also anxious to get the hell out of here, find the nearest bathroom, and make sure none of these bitches messed up your hair during the collision.
“I really need to take a leak. Thanks again.”
“It was nothing. Just forget it.”
Yeah, right.
While I could make Mr. Weather forget if I wanted to, I couldn’t work my vamp magic on a room full of women. My gaze swept the surrounding faces. Most were too busy mourning ruined dresses or mussed hair to even notice me (yeah, baby). But there were a few who stared as if I’d just turned into a giant bobble head.
Or a vampire.
I ran my tongue over my teeth. Nope. No fangs. I smoothed my hands over my dress. No soft, pink bat fuzz.
My only slipup had been shooting across the room like a cannon in full view of everyone and, more important, the four video cameras currently recording everything on tape, all in the name of Gucci.
Mr. Weather walked toward the men’s room. The staff stylist followed him, flat iron in one hand and a bottle of Spritz It in the other.
I was just about to try to do some damage control with a nearby cameraman when two security guards, followed by several of the boat’s officers, stampeded past me. They headed straight for John, who was scrambling to his feet.
The guards nabbed him just as he made it upright and hauled him off the dance floor. Meanwhile, a half dozen production assistants started peeling women off one another.
“But I didn’t do anything…” I heard John plead as security dragged him from the room. “Wait,” he struggled and wiggled and tried to dig in his feet, but he’d lost his shoes in the chaos and he couldn’t seem to get a grip on the carpet. “Don’t.” He tugged and pulled and cast a frantic glance my way. “I can’t leave my hair!”
The 26th Precinct of the New York City Police Department wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be. Of course, I wasn’t one of the poor saps being paraded by in handcuffs. No, I had it parked on a metal chair near the busy information desk.
“Nice hair,” the woman sitting next to me said.
My hands tightened on the red wig that lay in my lap. “Thanks.” I slid a glance at the woman and smiled.
Debbie Ray Lawrence. Twenty-five. Born and raised in Trenton. She’d been in the city for two years. Part-time college student. Full-time escort. No current relationship. Her last boyfriend had been a shitbag named Sonny. He’d wiped out her three-hundred-dollar savings and eaten the last Rice Krispies bar before leaving her for a stripper named Lou. He’d claimed that Debbie didn’t have enough experience for him, which had led to her current occupation. No man would ever leave her again for being a schmuck in bed. But while she now knew what she was doing, she wasn’t so sure she liked it. She’d still never had an orgasm and, to be honest, she didn’t really understand what the fuss was all about.
There was a ton more stuff—her fav color, food, congressional candidate—but I was tired and Debbie was extremely long-winded. I smiled and cut the connection.
“Amateur or professional?” she asked me.
“Definitely professional.”
“Yeah, I figured as much. You’ve got the look perfected.”
“I do?” I hadn’t been aware that matchmakers had an actual look. I glanced down. Fab shoes. Great dress. I did have it going on in a major way.
“So
how much do you charge?”
“For two or three?”
“I was thinking one.”
I shook my head. “I never just do one. It’s either two or more, otherwise it’s really not worth my time and effort. I mean, what are the odds of hitting pay dirt with just one?”
“That’s true, but two seems like an awful lot.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve done tons more. I did a full dozen just last month.”
“In one night?”
“Oh, no. That would be too tiring. I spaced them out over a few weeks.”
“Oh, okay. That makes much more sense. I’ve done that before.”
“You’re a matchmaker, too?”
“No, I have a pimp who sets up my dates. I just make sure the guy gets off. What about you? Do you have a pimp?”
I shook my head. “I’m not a hooker. I just hook up people.”
“So you’re a pimp?”
My thoughts went to Viola and the reproductive fest I’d been responsible for several months back. In the name of procreation, not pleasure. We’re talking survival of the species. “Sort of.”
She nodded. “Interested in taking on any new girls?”
“Only if you’re interested in giving up your current profession and finding the love of your life.”
“Love sucks most of the time. I’d rather have cold hard cash.”
“You and me both. So what are you doing here?”
“A friend of mine lost her purse and didn’t realize it. She tried to ditch a cab fare and the driver called the cops. He pressed charges and now she’s here. I’m her go to person: If she needs help, she goes to me. If I need help, I go to her. What about you?”
“A friend of mine lost his mind, and I’m here to make sure no one commits him.”
We chatted for a few minutes and I gave her a handful of Dead End Dating cards to pass out to her girlfriends (just in case they got tired of men paying them for sex and wanted to go back to giving it away for free) before Ash finally walked into the station. He was my only connection with the NYPD and so I’d called and asked for his help.
He had two men with him. Both shared his dark good looks and pitch-black eyes. The man on his right, however, wore his hair long and loose, while the man on his left had his hair buzzed to the scalp. All three had the same flame tattoos decorating their right arms. They were hot and hunky and…demons.
The thought registered as I noticed the way they drew the attention of every female in the busy room. Only vamps could mesmerize like that. Or weird cult leaders.
Since Ash was neither (he hadn’t once slipped me a pamphlet or asked me to drink a glass of Kool-Aid), he had to be a demon.
Specifically, an incubus.
I felt a lightbulb go on over my head. Duh. That was it. I should have known.
Rumor had it that my great, great, great, great grandmother’s lady’s maid had been seduced by one. One minute she’d been sleeping like a baby and the next she’d been rutting and bucking and begging some stud muffin for his seed (my mother’s words, not mine). Anyhow, the stud muffin had given it to her and then, poof! he’d disappeared. Half the castle had claimed an incubus. The other half had claimed a no-good stable boy by the name of Sean. But no one really knew for sure.
I’d never met a demon myself, let alone three, until now.
So far no one was bucking or rutting or begging, unless you count the con artist in the corner who was trying to talk one of the cops out of her badge, which meant there was a slight possibility (shocked gasp) that I could be wrong.
I made a mental note to Google demons the moment I got back to my computer and pushed to my feet just as Ash and his buds approached.
“Thanks for coming,” I told him.
“No problem. Me and the boys were headed to the Bronx on a case.” He motioned to the guy with long hair and said, “Mo, this is Lil. Lil, my brother, Mo.” He motioned to the buzz cut. “This is my other brother, Zee.”
“Hey,” said Mo.
“What’s up?” asked Zee.
I smiled and felt my stomach quiver beneath their scrutiny. I had a sudden vision of the three of us, naked and panting and…oh, boy.
My smile died and the three Prince brothers grinned.
Forget Google. They most definitely were demons—that, or I was really sexually frustrated and susceptible to anything in pants. While this had been the case before Ty (we’re talking one hundred years without a serious relationship), it wasn’t the case now. I’d had really great sex (albeit for only one night) and satisfied my urges for at least a good six months.
Which meant I was staring at three demons of sexual delight.
“I called the desk sergeant about your friend on the way over here,” Ash told me.
“Friend?” I forced aside the lewd and lascivious images and struggled for a coherent thought. “Oh, yeah, my friend. John. Did you find out anything? They didn’t arrest him, did they? I mean, I know he murdered his dress when he dove onto the floor, but that isn’t against the law, is it?”
“They didn’t arrest him, but the show’s producers aren’t very happy. They want to press charges for female impersonation.”
“But that isn’t against the law.”
“Exactly, which is why nothing’s going to come of it. But management did file a restraining order. Schumacker won’t be allowed to set foot inside any of the network buildings ever again and he won’t be allowed within fifty feet of Mr. Weather, or any of the female contestants.”
“What about his fraud case?”
“It turned out to be legitimate, but during the ruckus, she slipped and now she’s in the emergency room about to undergo a laminectomy on her lower back.”
“Oh, no.”
“That’s why John’s still in the interrogation room, even though everyone’s told him he’s free to go. He says his life is over and he would rather stay here than go home and eat SpaghtettiOs until he kicks the bucket.” He leveled a stare at me. “You have to get him out of here. He’s driving everybody nuts.”
I thought of poor John sitting back there, feeling like his life was over. I could sympathize. Ty had been kidnapped by a psycho, my preternatural fall from grace had been caught on videotape and I still hadn’t figured out an answer for the wedding dress situation. I was definitely feeling pretty icky myself. The urge to go home and plunge face-first into the kitty litter was pretty strong.
But while I didn’t have a shoulder to cry on (not unless you count the three sets standing in front of me, but I so wasn’t going there), John did. He wasn’t alone in the world, even though he might feel like it at the moment.
I pulled out my phone.
“You calling for backup?” Ash asked. I nodded and he added, “A couple of gonzo guerrillas to drag him out?”
I smiled. “I’ve got a better idea.”
I’d never actually met Rosie, the adjuster from John’s agency, but I knew her the moment she walked in.
The clues? She was dressed in rumpled jeans, an oversized sleep T, and house slippers, as if someone (guilty) had gotten her out of bed in the middle of the night. Her eyes were filled with worry.
Oh, and she had Ask Me About Life Insurance emblazoned across the front of her shirt.
“Rosie?” I met her near the information desk. “I’m Lil. I’m the one who called you.”
“Where is he? Is he all right? Can I see him?”
If I’d had any hope that Rosie would be as interested in John as he was in her, one look into her blue eyes was enough to convince me that my instincts had been dead wrong.
Rosie didn’t like John.
She loved him. Hopelessly. Desperately.
Awww.
“He’s in the interrogation room, but he’s fine,” I assured her.
“No one’s beating his face into the table or shoving pencils up his nose to get him to spill his guts?”
“Not yet, but if he doesn’t vacate the premises soon, they’re likely to start.” I explained th
e situation and how low he was feeling.
“That’s terrible,” she told me. “Just terrible.”
“I know. That’s why I called you.” Time to start laying the groundwork. “I thought if anyone could make him feel better, it would be you. He talks about you all the time.”
“He does? What does he say?”
“That you’re a really good friend.” Her face fell and I rushed on, “And that he really likes you.”
“He said that?”
“Well, not in so many words, but I know that’s what he was thinking.”
“How do you know?”
Because I’m a lean, mean, mind reading machine. “Just a lucky guess, but I know I’m right. He really does like you; he just doesn’t realize how much. Yet.”
“We’ve worked together for six years. Six years of lunches and softball. Six years of Friday night beer and pizza. He knows my life story and I know his. If he doesn’t know how much he likes me by now, he never will.”
“Men are slow. Extremely slow.” She seemed to think and her face perked up. “They’re also creatures of habit. He’s used to you being his buddy. The key is to spice things up and show him you’re more than just the beer and pizza girl.”
“You mean I should order spaghetti instead of pepperoni?”
“I mean you should jump his bones the next time you see him. In addition to being slow, men are clueless. Unless it’s written right in front of them, even tattooed on their foreheads, they won’t get it. You have to go in there and tell him what you really want from him. Outright. In plain English.”
“Really?”
“That or you could strip naked and show him, but since there are cops watching I’d save that part for when you get him home. Right now, though, you should definitely tell him how you feel. Confess. And flirt. Can you flirt?”
“I can wink and whistle. And I can even turn my eyelids inside out.”
“Winking is good. I’d nix the whistling and the eyelids. You want him to want to have sex with you, not have you exorcised.”
Your Coffin or Mine? Page 14