Bite Somebody Else

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  “Me?” Imogene feigned shock. “Pig-headed?”

  Ian laughed and choked on salt water.

  “All right, so I’m fucking pig-headed. He had no right to say what he said about my sex life, which he knows absolutely nothing about.”

  “I told him a little about it,” Ian said.

  “Ian!” She smacked him in the side of the head.

  “Ow.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Ian floated on his back. “Well, he was interviewing me for my health history, and he just wanted to make sure we had a good support system. Of course, I mentioned you, because you’re our best friend, but he said he didn’t think you seemed very supportive. I told him how you murdered a bad vampire to keep me safe, and he wanted to know more about that.”

  “Figured Dr. Savage would have filled him in.”

  “I think she did, a bit at least, or at least about Skipper.”

  Skipper was Celia’s maker, better known to them as “Danny,” and he was dead as expired roast beast.

  “So then he wanted to know more about you, so I just told him you’re very independent and you don’t date, but guys like you a lot.” Ian smiled and winked one of his big, light blue eyes.

  “And that makes me a slut?”

  Ian shrugged. “It shouldn’t.”

  Of course, Imogene knew Ian’s innocent ramblings had nothing to do with Nicholas calling her out over fancy dinner the night before. More likely he thought she was a slut because she, one, threw herself at him in the middle of a blood deal and, two, sucked on his neck without asking permission—but it wasn’t her fault the guy smelled like fresh Italian food mixed with Christmas candy canes. Or that he looked like an innocent choirboy just begging to be debauched.

  “Whatever,” she said. “I don’t give a shit what some British lord thinks.”

  “I just need you to be civil,” Celia begged. “I need you with me through this. I can’t have you avoiding my house just because Nicholas might be there.”

  “Fine. I’ll ignore him. And I’ll be there for you because I’m just that great of a person.” She did a quick forward flip into a cresting wave.

  “He met Freddie Mercury,” Ian announced.

  “WHAT?”

  “Yeah.” He giggled. “He’ll have to tell you the story.”

  “You tell me the story.”

  “It’s his story.”

  Imogene crossed her arms in front of her and glared.

  “Don’t glamour my husband, Imogene.”

  “He met Freddie? Our Freddie?” She gestured to herself and then to Ian.

  “I’m not gonna lie,” Ian said. “I might have poked him in the shoulder secretly after he told me that—like by touching Nicholas I had some kind of connection to Freddie.”

  Imogene nodded. “Totally.”

  “See, now you have to talk to him!” Celia crooned.

  “No, I don’t. I don’t even want to hear the stupid story.”

  “Liar.”

  “Shut up, Merk.” She gave a kick and floated up onto her back. Soon, the three of them rested peacefully on the water’s surface, tickled by warm tides and the occasional toe-biting fish, until Ian broke the silence.

  “Why don’t you ever have a boyfriend, Imogene? Is it because of Mule?”

  “Mule?” Celia sat up in the sea just as Imogene water-tackled Ian and shoved his head underwater.

  He came up sputtering, spitting, and silent with a look on his face that begged apology.

  “Who’s Mule?”

  “I have no idea,” Imogene said.

  “Must have been thinking of a conversation with someone else.” Ian bit his bottom lip, and Imogene realized she’d never heard him lie to Celia before. Made her feel kind of bad, forcing the guy to lie to his wife, but they’d agreed to never talk about Mule—not since that night when Celia was at work and they both got way too high and she told him about the only guy who’d ever broken her into a million tiny pieces of angst. “You should try dating someone,” he said, changing the subject.

  “Like who? Lord Nicky?”

  “I don’t know,” Celia said. “Anyone. Just to try it out.”

  “I’m not good at monogamy. Just ask Wharf.”

  “You guys still knocking boots?” Ian asked.

  Imogene twirled through the waves. “Sometimes. He’s a really good lay. Plus, a couple of my other clients, but—shit, I am a slut.”

  Ian laughed, but Celia looked embarrassed, even in the black of night.

  “Maybe you should get yourself a human,” he said. “There’s something to be said for mixing sex and blood, huh, babe?” He wrapped his wife carefully in his arms, and she practically purred.

  “Too much baggage. If I dated a human, it’d have to be long-term because I’d have to explain the whole undead thing. No humans.”

  Celia nuzzled against her husband. “Then another vampire. One who’s been around. One with experience who’s smart and wears nice suits and—”

  “Merk. Shut up about Lord Nicky, okay? It’s not happening. Cold fish.”

  Celia rolled her eyes. “He wasn’t very ‘cold fish’ when you danced at our wedding.”

  If Imogene believed in blushing, she would have.

  They never met at The Columbia. It was way too posh for the likes of Imogene and Celia, so she was surprised when Celia suggested they meet there for drinks. Whenever Imogene made her way to St. Arthur’s Circle on Admiral Key, she usually opted for cheap frozen beverages at The Daiquiri Deck, where they served drinks with names like “Call a Cab” and “Blotto.”

  She roared her Mustang down the main drag, past nude statues and a big fountain in the middle. She found parking a half block from the restaurant and walked the rest of the way, raising more than a few eyebrows in her bright red shorts and Ziggy Stardust tee. One man even turned and gawked, which earned him a slap from his wife. Imogene Butthead chuckled and pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head.

  Seeing as how it was peak tourist season in Florida, it was no surprise the restaurant was crowded. She dodged people to try and spot Celia’s bright red hair but thought maybe she’d beat her friend to The Columbia, which never happened since Imogene was always late. She didn’t see Celia on the patio, but she hid behind a waiter in a crisp, white shirt when she spotted the back of a familiar head.

  Nicholas.

  He sat at an outdoor table set for two with a sketchbook in his hand—the same one he’d been carrying around the wedding. She suspected the “painter” of Dr. Savage’s nude was Nicholas, which was why Dean had been all in a huff the other night.

  When the waiter—her shield—moved on to another table, Imogene ducked behind a potted palm and watched Nicholas drawing. She got a quick glimpse of what he sketched and said, “Huh?”

  It was quite obviously a small drawing of her. Well, her hair at least, with the beginnings of her prominent cheekbones. She stood up straight, hands on her hips, until a waiter asked, loudly, “Ma’am, can I help you?”

  Nicholas glanced over his shoulder, recognized her, slammed the sketchbook shut, and shoved it into the back pocket of his navy blue trousers.

  Cover now blown, she walked up to his table. “Hey.”

  He stood and ran a hand through his short, auburn hair. “Miss… Imogene.” His dark suit coat was draped over the back of the chair. He wore a light blue striped dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, and a navy blue vest. In the gentle glow of St. Arthur’s street lamps, his multi-colored eyes shined a shade of sea green. It took every damn bit of her resolve to not lean forward and sniff him, because even from two feet away, that toe-curling smell was back: basil and peppermint with a dash of pepper.

  She pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes. “Uh, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m meeting Ian.”

  “Here?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m supposed to be meeting Celia.” She crossed her arms and sighed.

  Nicholas seemed to
understand the same time she did. His forehead crinkled.

  “They set us up,” she said.

  “Indeed.” He looked down at his shiny brown shoes. “I owe you an apology.”

  She pursed her lips.

  “It was very rude of me to speak as I did the other night. You’re right, I am a cold fish. I am now, at least, and I—”

  “You’re not a cold fish.” She chewed on one of her fingernails. “You painted that nude of Dr. Savage. You must be kind of kinky.”

  He snorted and lifted his upper lip in a half smile. Then, he looked down at the candlelit table. “Since you’re here, might as well have a drink. Join me?”

  She wanted to ask why he was drawing a picture of her in his sketchbook, but instead, she said, “Fuck it,” and sat.

  “You’re very fond of that word.”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” She smirked.

  The waiter arrived and took their orders: rum punch for Imogene and a vodka martini, straight up, for Nicholas. He watched the tourists of St. Arthur’s.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Nineteen.” He smiled.

  “Your maturity level might be.”

  He leaned one elbow on the tabletop, which gave her a nice waft of his scent. “How old do you think?”

  She scrunched her face up. “Dr. Savage said centuries.” She shrugged one shoulder. “And you’re all proper and shit like a Jane Austen book.”

  “You read Jane Austen?”

  “No, but Celia made me watch a movie one time.”

  He nodded. “She does love her movies.”

  “So how old?”

  The waiter interrupted them with their drinks. Imogene took a quick little sip. Her taste buds said this was going to be a bit more expensive than her usual fare at Drift Inn.

  “Three-hundred-and-fifty, give or take.”

  She choked on her rum punch. “Jesus Christ!”

  “Never met him. I’m not that old.”

  “But you’ve seen some shit!”

  “Mm. Eloquently put.” He lifted his pinkie and took a humble sip of vodka.

  “What year was it?”

  “Sixteen-sixty-six. July. London.” He slouched down in his seat, which actually did make him look about nineteen. He crossed one leg over the other, and Imogene realized she really liked watching him move, which reminded her…

  “You’ve had tons of time to perfect your tango.”

  “I have, yes.” He smiled at her again, which sent little lightning bolts hurtling toward her lower body. “But you’re no slouch, Imogene. An accomplished dancer yourself.”

  “You bet.” She returned his smile. “How do you know Dr. Savage?”

  “She said over dinner. We met in Paris.” He looked out over the circle and hid behind his martini glass.

  “You humped her brains out.”

  “Imogene!” His eyes shot back to her face.

  She cackled. “What? You did, didn’t you?”

  “My God, you have no propriety at all.”

  “You’re just noticing that now?” She lifted her eyebrows. “You painted that nude picture of her. Do you paint every woman you sleep with?”

  “Enough about me.” He gestured to her shirt. “You like David Bowie?”

  “Don’t tell me you met him, too.”

  Nicholas sighed. “Never had the pleasure. Although ‘Space Oddity’ is one of my favorites.”

  “It’s everyone’s favorite.”

  “You’re an eighties child.”

  “Damn straight, although Ian has shown me there was music made after 1989. I don’t like all his hippie shit, but some of it’s okay. Have you ever heard Phish?”

  “The sea creature?”

  She shook her head.

  “Yes, I’ve heard Phish,” he said. “Of course.”

  “A reminder then.” She smirked and pulled her phone from the back of her tight shorts, complete with earbuds. “Put one of these in your head.” She tossed an earbud his way.

  They had to lean close to each have an earbud while Imogene scrolled through her extensive library until settling on Phish’s “Free.” Unconsciously, she bobbed her head to the music. Nicholas looked like he was trying to solve world hunger.

  She laughed. “Relax, Nicky. It’s just hippie music.”

  “No, it’s…” He shook his head a little. “It’s been a long time. It’s fantastic.”

  “I know, right?” She popped the earbud out of his head and tossed her phone to the side of the table.

  “Music is amazing. It’s changed so much, but it’s never lost the power to transport me somewhere else entirely.”

  “Yeah, where did Phish just take you?”

  He tilted his head and studied her. “I don’t think I know you well enough to say.”

  Imogene leaned both elbows on the table. “Oooo, this sounds interesting.”

  “I’m not telling you.”

  “Come on, Nicky, fess up.”

  “Don’t call me that.” He tried to sound tough, but the upward tilt of his lips said otherwise.

  “Fine. Lord Nicholas.” She tapped her black fingernails on the tabletop. “Come on, tell me. Come onnnnn…”

  “No.”

  “I’ll do something really embarrassing if you don’t.”

  He looked at her like she had spiders dripping from her eyeballs. “God, I believe you.”

  “You should. I can be very embarrassing. Just ask Celia.” She winked. “Where did Phish take you?”

  “To the first time I made love.”

  “Oh.” Imogene’s legs tingled. “How old were you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  She bit her lip to stop herself from biting his. “Huh.”

  “I think I might have just embarrassed you.”

  “Impossible.” She leaned back when he leaned forward.

  “I don’t think so,” he whispered.

  Nope, this man-boy in front of her was not a cold fish. She’d caught a glimpse of passion when they’d danced together. Since then, he’d shut down—and that’s when she realized what it was: a switch he could turn off or on. Turned off, Nicholas was just a good-looking, polite British vampire. Turned on, he was a coiled spring of sensuality with golden, glowing eyes and fangs.

  “I thought you weren’t interested in me,” she said.

  He blinked, and she saw it: the switch turned off. His jaw tightened, and a wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows. “You’re very interesting, Imogene. It’s just not a good idea, you and me.”

  “I think that might be true.”

  She jumped when the waiter came back to ask if they wanted another round. They said “no” in unison, and Imogene flew to her feet, tossing a crumpled twenty on the table.

  “Well, this was…” She turned in a circle as though looking for something lost. “I don’t know what this was. I gotta go.”

  “Right.”

  “Oh, you met Freddie Mercury?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was he like?”

  Nicholas considered her question. “Persuasive,” he said.

  She chuckled. “Well. See ya.” She clomped off in her combat boots before he could say anything else.

  Chapter Five

  Imogene went to visit Celia at work. She shoved through the door at Happy Gas on Admiral Key, met by the familiar noise of the forever-broken bell that signified a new customer. It was a pathetic sound, really, like someone squeezing a cat. Celia stood behind the counter reading some stupid book with a smiling baby on the cover. She looked up at the sound of the dying cat bell and froze when she saw Imogene.

  Imogene wandered to the back coolers and grabbed a strawberry-banana juice can—not that she needed it. She kept a full supply of all rum punch ingredients at her beach house, but old habits die hard. She clunked the can down on the counter.

  “You set me up.”

  Celia closed her book and pinched her lips together. “I did.”


  Imogene flipped her sunglasses up onto her head. “Bitch.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “You didn’t just turn around and walk, did you?”

  “No. I’m very polite.” She bugged her eyes out of her head and tried not to breathe deeply. Happy Gas smelled like burning hotdogs, probably because the owner, Omar, kept hotdogs under a revolving sun lamp until they looked like already smoked cigars.

  Celia snorted.

  “He made me sit and have a drink with him.”

  “And? Did you just, like, stare at each other?”

  “We exchanged words.”

  “Cool.” Celia rubbed her big belly.

  “Are you trying to push me into a romance with this person?”

  “No,” she whimpered. “I just want you to get along with him. I can’t be stressing about you two fighting with the baby listening. It’s supposed to be really bad for the fetus if the mother is stressed. I need to be relaxed.” She took a long, slow breath and closed her eyes.

  Imogene sniffed and stared at Celia’s protrusion.

  “Why do you always stare at my belly like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you think a claw is going to pop out through my belly button.”

  Imogene shrugged. “I don’t know. A claw might pop outta your belly button. There’s an alien being in your…” She shuddered.

  “It’s not an alien. It’s my child. It’s Ian’s child.”

  “It’s not about you and Ian. I just find pregnancy to be very off-putting. I mean, it’s like there’s this huge tapeworm stealing your nutrients and growing and pulsating.”

  Celia rubbed her stomach again. “I don’t think babies pulsate.”

  “They do in my imagination, and that’s really all I have to go on.” She cracked open her as yet unpaid-for bottle of juice.

  Celia stomped one foot. “I want you to be excited about the baby, Imogene. You’re going to be her godmother!”

  Imogene choked and held up her hand. “One, how do you know it’s a girl? Two, why would you do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know if it’s a girl. It’s just what Ian says. Plus, I want you to be her godmother because you’ll be like her cool aunt.”