“You once called me a horrible influence.”
“Well, you are, but that’s what aunts are for. I think. I never had one, but I always wanted one, and I think you’d be perfect.”
Imogene stared at the ceiling. “Four months ago, my biggest concern was if my hair looked weird.”
Celia smiled. “Your hair always looks weird.”
“Four months ago, you never would have had a comeback.”
“You only have yourself to blame.”
Imogene growled.
“What did you and Nicholas talk about anyway?”
Imogene leaned on the counter. “I really have no idea.”
“Huh?” Celia’s nose crinkled.
“We talked about a lot of things, I guess, but I felt like he was holding back—not saying real things. Do you know he’s three-hundred-and-fifty years old, give or take?”
“Give or take?”
“Well, once you get to be that old, I imagine it’s hard to do the math.”
Celia tapped her bottom lip. “Is there such a thing as vampire Alzheimer’s?”
“No.” Imogene chuckled. “I mean, I don’t think so. If anyone were going to have it, it’d be Nicholas, ancient asshole that he is, and he doesn’t seem forgetful. He’s more—”
“Dashing.”
“That is a good word choice.” She sucked down some more juice. “Dashing.”
Celia didn’t say anything, and when Imogene looked up at her, the girl was grinning like a goddamn fool.
“What’s that dumb face about?”
“You like him,” Celia said.
“I don’t like him. I’ll tolerate him for you, because for some stupid reason, I care about you and your beautiful husband.” She blew a raspberry. “If only I could render Nicholas mute.”
“Can you glamour vampires?”
“No.”
“Try it.” Celia turned to face her and stood straight.
“What? No.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe I don’t want to know. Plus, I don’t have to glamour you. With you, I just get my way.”
“You do not!”
“I’m not paying for this juice.”
“Fine.”
Imogene smirked.
“Damn it.” Celia smacked her own thigh.
Imogene sat next to Ian on the couch at his little beach shack while he drank a kale smoothie and screamed out Jeopardy! answers until she finally had to slap him. She made a new rule: “No screaming the answers until the question has been asked! Respect the Trebek.” Celia was at work, so they didn’t have to worry about annoying her with their constant screaming.
They were arguing the final Jeopardy! question: “A Christian hymn and Jewish holiday hymn are both titled this, also the name of a 2009 Tony-nominated musical.”
Imogene swore up and down it was Nunsense, but Ian insisted it was something called Rock of Ages. Before either of them could do a dance of victory, though, the side door swung open and Dean came stomping inside.
“She fucked him!” he shouted.
Ian looked at Imogene; Imogene looked at Ian.
“That posh British pretty boy!” He kicked an empty case of beer by the door then stomped on it a few times.
Ian pretended to not watch the television. “You caught them in the act?”
“What?” Dean spun on them, his short-sleeved plaid shirt askew. He was in khaki shorts and boat shoes and looked like he’d walked out of an Abercrombie and Finch photo shoot. “No! In 1892.”
Ian covertly elbowed her in the knee to let her know his Jeopardy! answer was correct. Meanwhile, Imogene lost interest in Dean.
“Ian!” he said.
“What? Oh, yeah, I’m sorry, man.”
“Sorry for what?” Imogene shrugged. “It was more than a hundred years ago. I barely remember people I slept with last week.”
“They called him ‘The Great Lover’ in Paris. I’m sure she remembers.”
Imogene lifted her eyebrows. “He was so good he had a nickname?”
“Yes,” Dean bellowed. “And now, he’s living in my house, and all this time, the nude portrait he painted of my girlfriend has been right in front of my face.” He shook his head, his rugged features all scrunched up like he might cry. “I’m going to kill him.”
“Whoa!” Ian and Imogene said at once, both standing. They’d seen Dean in action. He was a more than accomplished vampire hunter.
“You can’t kill our doctor,” Ian said.
“At least not until I’ve slept with him,” Imogene added, which made both men turn and stare at her. “What?”
“Dean, it was a long time ago. I’m sure Rayna doesn’t think of him like that anymore.”
“Rain. He calls her Rain. I don’t even call her Rain. Son of a bitch!”
Ian winced.
“She said it was a fling. It meant nothing, but if it meant nothing, why are they still friends? I mean, how often have they been talking over the years? Has he ever swooped through Florida for a quickie?”
Imogene nodded. “If I fucked someone known as ‘The Great Lover,’ I’d definitely be looking for second helpings.”
Ian put his hand on her shoulder. “Imogene, you’re really not helping.”
She held her hands up, palms to Dean. “Maybe it was just a joke nickname, right? Think about Casanova. He’s known as the ultimate womanizer, but he only slept with, like, one hundred women. What kind of womanizer is that? Am I right?”
Ian looked like he was doing math in his head, and Imogene knew exactly what he was trying to figure out.
“Right, Dean?” she said.
“No, not right. I looked him up. He’s in the historical record, for Christ’s sake! He used different names of course, but he always looked the same in paintings. His list of conquests included queens, princesses. Wives! From my count, it’s possible he’s slept with more than five thousand women!”
Ian made a choking sound, but Imogene just stood there with her mouth wide open. “I need blood,” she muttered and wandered to the tiny kitchen.
She heard Ian: “But Rayna loves you now. Right?”
When she came back with a bag of B-negative, Dean stood in the living room with his hands on his hips. “Yes. I mean, yeah. I don’t know. They’ve been so damn friendly since he got here.”
“They are friends,” Ian said. “And he’s here to help us. I can’t let you barbeque the guy.”
Dean grabbed onto his short, dirty blond hair and tugged. “Fine, but the bastard isn’t staying under my roof.”
Imogene wanted to point out it was technically Dr. Savage’s roof, but again, she thought Ian might find that “not helpful.”
“I get it, man. He’ll stay with Imogene.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Ian turned to face her, which he knew weakened her resolve since she thought he was absolutely adorable. “I’d invite him to stay here, but we don’t have the space. You have that huge house with empty rooms. You won’t even know he’s there.”
She thought of the way Nicholas smelled when he’d eaten. “I’ll know he’s there. Plus, I run my business out of my home, Ian.”
“We’ll make him promise to stay out of your way.” He licked his top lip and smirked. Stupid, charming boy knew exactly what he was doing as he put his hands on her shoulders. “Please, Imogene. Staying with you, he’ll be even closer if Celia needs him, right? You want to make sure everything’s okay with the baby, right?”
“Cut the cute boy routine, would ya?” She pushed his hands away and turned to Dean. “Lord Nicky can stay at my house, but if he pisses me off, I’m kicking him out.”
“That won’t take long,” Dean said.
Two hours later, she stood in her kitchen with Nicholas, who showed up with a suitcase, a stack of books and journals, and a bag of suits on hangers. He didn’t smell like anything. His usually so carefully coifed red-brown hair stuck up in points, and he looked like a nineteen-year-old who’d been hitt
ing the bottle hard.
“When was the last time you ate?” she asked.
He sighed, long and slow. “Where should I put my things?”
“Upstairs.” She nodded toward the white-carpeted steps behind her but didn’t move to show him the way.
In response, he dropped all his belongings on her kitchen floor. Books and papers scattered in every direction. He ran his hand over his face before reaching into his suit pocket and pulling out cash. “May I—”
“This bag’s on me.” She opened her fridge and pulled out a bag of B-negative for herself, O-negative for Nicholas. She leaned on the island and slid the bag to him.
“Do you have a glass?” he asked.
“What kind of glass?”
“Anything. I don’t drink right from the bag.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course you don’t.” She found the silliest cup she could: one she’d stolen from Celia that said “Happy Gas” in huge orange letters. In a drawer, she’d been saving a special Mickey Mouse straw just in case. She passed both items to Nicholas.
He half-filled the cup and took a sip from the bright red straw, shaped like huge ears, before slouching on top of a barstool.
Imogene snickered.
He lowered his light brows.
“The Great Lover?” she said.
He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Oh, bugger.”
She snickered some more.
“It was a long time ago,” he said.
“No shit. Good thing you can’t catch syphilis. You’d look weird without a nose.”
Nicholas shook his head. “I can’t believe that man of hers looked me up. I don’t even know how he found all that information, all those records. Sure, there were paintings, but not that many. I never used my real name.”
“Dean’s a hunter, Nicky. It’s what he does.”
He closed his eyes. “Please, Imogene, don’t call me that.”
“What’s the matter? Bring back bad memories?”
“Yes,” he hissed and almost spilled his cup of blood when his hand hit her island. The whole damn thing shook.
She didn’t say anything.
“I shouldn’t have come here.”
“Celia needs you.”
He cracked his neck on both sides, tossed the Mickey Mouse straw on the counter, and finished his cup of blood in one long gulp. “I don’t know anything about that baby. I don’t know what’s going to come out of her. I don’t even know when it’s going to come out. I’m bloody worthless.”
“She doesn’t think so.”
“What do you think?”
“Man, if your just being here calms her down, then it’s good you’re here.” She shrugged one shoulder. “And I think you’re kind of a hot mess. That’s always amusing.”
“How am I a hot mess?”
“Gee, I don’t know. You just got kicked out of your ex-girlfriend’s house by her vampire-hunting boyfriend. Now you’re stuck living with a woman you’ve been trying to avoid since you got here.”
He looked at her with his spooky golden-green eyes just as his scent started filling her kitchen. Then, he laughed, which made Imogene almost choke on her blood. The sound was so giddy, joyful, and unfamiliar coming from this man’s mouth. He wiped at the sides of his eyes, and some of the tension left his shoulders.
“Will you please show me to my room?” he asked. “I could really use some time alone to research.”
She helped him carry a few of his things upstairs: just a couple books that smelled like dust and dirt. The guest room was right next to hers and overlooked the ocean—not that there was much to see at night. The blackout blinds would automatically descend in a few hours to protect him from the sun.
Imogene watched Nicholas check out the room. It was pretty much like the rest of the house: modern and minimal. The only room that had personality was hers, covered in posters of some of her icons like Bowie and Joan Jett. She had a small stereo in there, too, for mood music, and a wonderful king-sized bed.
Nicholas’s room had a similar sleeping area, as yet unused. The sheets hadn’t been changed since she’d moved in. He must have noticed her eyes lingering on the white pillows, because he abruptly announced, “I acknowledge we both find each other to be aesthetically pleasing—but we will not undergo sexual relations in any capacity.”
She took a step backwards. “Who said I found you athletically pleasing or whatever the fuck?”
He gestured to his eyes. “You get kind of glazed over when talking to me.”
“Maybe I’m just bored.”
He put his hands on his slim hips. “I was once a great lover. I know how a woman looks when she’s…” He turned toward his suitcase.
“Why did you draw a picture of me in your sketchbook?”
He froze. “I draw pictures of a lot of things.”
“You think I’m pretty.”
“Imogene, everyone thinks you’re pretty.”
“But you think I’m pretty.”
His head drooped. “If I say ‘yes,’ will you leave the room?”
“Yes.”
“Then, yes.” He picked up his bag of suits and moved to hang them in the closet.
She smirked but didn’t let him see. “Fine. I have clients coming over. I will not be disturbed. Oh, and the blackout blinds go down at six a.m. in case you were worried about going up in flames.”
“Good to know.”
“And I sleep until nine. Don’t wake me up.”
“Noted.”
She left the room but not before admiring the view when he bent over to pick up his books.
Chapter Six
Imogene woke that night to an unfamiliar squeak, like someone had stepped on a cat, only more masculine-ish. She sat up to find her bed vacant. Wharf had been her last sale of the morning, and after sex, he’d had to stay due to the impending dawn. Usually, she would have kicked him out to sleep in the guest bedroom—she liked her space—but, well, Nicholas was…
Oh, shit, Nicholas.
She wrapped a sheet around her skin and hurried for her bedroom door. In the hallway, she found Wharf and Nicholas, staring at each other. Wharf looked his usual sex-mussed, threatening caveman self. Nicholas was in a robe, pajamas, and slippers, all stylish and matched.
No one actually dresses like that outside of magazines.
Wharf ran his hands through his sexed up brown hair and smiled a huge, fangy grin. “Sorry, little guy. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Nicholas seemed to grow five inches at that comment. His light eyes crinkled around the edges, and he, too, revealed a pair of white fangs, way bigger than Wharf’s, which actually made Imogene’s huge fuck buddy take a step back.
“Okay, that’s enough.” She stepped between them. “What are you, fucking roosters? Parading around with your fangs out.” She pointed at Nicholas first. “Put those away.”
He gave her a look.
“Now, Nicholas.”
He sniffed, and with the inhale went the fangs, like his nose was connected to his teeth. “Who’s this monstrosity?”
Wharf took a step forward. “Monstr—”
Imogene shoved him in the chest. “Go home.”
“Imogene, who is this guy?”
She glared up at Wharf. “My husband. Does it matter?”
Wharf, a dull bulb, rubbed his massive hand over his equally massive chest. “You don’t have a hus—”
“No, shit. I’m fucking with you. Just get out of my house.”
He gave her a kiss on the forehead when he passed and then lumbered down the steps like she’d just forcibly removed his dick and balls.
She rubbed the damp spot on her head. “I hate when he does that.”
“Is that your boyfriend?”
“No.” She held to her sheet. “I don’t have boyfriends.” Compared to Nicholas’s super style, she was underdressed—and smelled like sex.
“Then what is he?”
“He’s my fuck buddy. Oh, and he’s my ma
ker.”
Nicholas gestured down the steps. “That Neanderthal is your maker?”
“Yeah. So?” The sheet slipped off one of her shoulders. She didn’t pull it back up.
“Nothing. I just don’t know many vampires who still have a relationship with their makers.”
She leaned against the wall and studied him, head to toe. “Lemme guess. Yours was some baron who wanted to use you for his deviant gay sex games.”
He choked on what she assumed was his own spit.
She chortled.
“No. My maker was a woman.”
“And you guys aren’t pen pals?”
“Certainly not.” He walked past her and down the steps. She followed, dragging the sheet behind her.
“Who was she?”
“Why do you always ask me so many questions?” He startled when the blackout blinds rose automatically, revealing a moonlit sea.
She settled on a barstool. “Jumpy?”
He poured a glass of water. “I just woke up and ran into a man the size of Sasquatch in your hallway, reeking of sexual intercourse, only to find you wrapped in a sheet. Now, you want to know about my maker, whom I do not want to talk about, so yes, perhaps not the most peaceful way to start the evening.”
She curled a piece of her hair between her fingertips. “We need to get you drunk.”
“I don’t drink to excess.”
“Well, we do. I’m getting you drunk tonight.”
“Imogene, I’m not here on vacation. I have things to do. I have to get in touch with the Stadium Lamia to let them know how things are progressing. I have about three dozen ancient texts to still pore over in a desperate effort to make sure this baby is born without incident.”
She jumped off the stool and rounded the bar with vampire speed. “You’re going out tonight with me and Ian.”
He backed away from her, but it wasn’t much use, standing behind the island, because she just trapped him in the corner. She let the sheet drop a little more.
He looked at the ceiling. “I’m not.”
She dropped the sheet until it revealed the tops of her breasts. “You are.”
“I’m not.”
The sheet fell around her waist, and he definitely caught a glimpse of her boobs before again focusing on the corner above her head. He held up his hands as if to push her away but didn’t.
Bite Somebody Else Page 6