Bite Somebody Else

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  She pulled to a sudden halt in front of Necto, giving Nicholas a quick glance at what awaited, and then pulled behind the building to her usual parking spot, wedged between a banged-up BMW and rusted Buick. It took all sorts. She didn’t open the door—just hopped out and walked to the back of the car, pulling her shirt down to show off her cleavage, and even tying it in a knot at the bottom, revealing her taut, pale abdomen.

  “Imogene. Where are we?”

  “Necto.” She looked up at Nicholas, who stood before her. “We gotta muss you up.”

  “Sorry?”

  She reached up and tugged at his tie, pulling silk slowly free of its knot. She threw the tie in the back of her car and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his black shirt. “Hmm. Something…” She stood on her tiptoes, put her hands in his hair, and moved them as if her fingers were having a fight. When she was finished, she stepped back and smirked. “Perfect. You look like you just had sex.”

  He lowered his light brows. “That’s a good thing?”

  “It is when you’re showing up with me.” She winked and dragged him behind her toward the crowded entrance. They didn’t have to wait in line, of course. She waved at the bouncer as they passed through the doors.

  Once inside, Nicholas grabbed her around the waist and stuck his nose in her hair.

  “What are you…” She reflexively nuzzled against the side of his face.

  “This place smells like sweat and rotten beer. I need a breath of fresh air.”

  Imogene moaned as he pulled back. She shook her head like a cartoon character, swearing little floating hearts danced around her skull. Then, she took his hand and moved through the crowd toward the bar.

  The bartender skidded to a halt when he saw her. “Rum punch?”

  “Make it two.”

  “You know I usually drink vodka.”

  They both stood with their elbows on the bar.

  “Tonight, you’re drinking a rum punch because I said so.” She stuck her tongue out at him, and he surprised her by leaning forward and giving it a suck. “Fight with Dr. Savage get you all horned up, Lord Nicholas?”

  “No, you get me all…”

  She Butthead snorted at his aversion to her word of choice.

  “Although I do run a bit hot after an argument,” he said.

  “You look a bit hot after an argument, too.” She brushed her hair out of her face to get a look at his profile, which was worthy of being carved into marble. Over the club mix—some techno shit she hated, she said, “But seriously, that got, like, heated.”

  “Yes. Apparently, Rain had been holding onto some old grudges.”

  “Truth. Was the Moulin Rouge girl really a whore?”

  His right eye twitched. “Of course she was a whore. It was the Moulin Rouge. Although I would never call her that.”

  “Could she can-can?”

  “Obviously.”

  Imogene smiled. The bartender slid two tall, pink drinks across the bar and didn’t pause to wait for payment, considering Imogene never paid for a damn thing at Necto.

  “Somehow I doubt this will be as good as at Café L’Europe,” Nicholas said.

  “Just drink it.”

  He took a sip, swallowed, and lifted his eyebrows. “Hmm. It’ll do.”

  “It’s beachy, bitch.” She tossed her straw on the floor and took a lengthy guzzle before leaning her back against the bar and checking the dance scene. She saw some of her regulars—guys who could almost keep up with her moves. She didn’t see Paul, thank God, considering last time they’d slept together, he’d used the dreaded “boyfriend” word. He hadn’t made contact with her since. She was disappointed to lose a regular human blood source, but it wasn’t worth the attachment.

  Nicholas nudged her with his elbow. “Is that supposed to be dancing?”

  She followed the direction of his gaze and saw a white boy attempting to “drop it like it’s hot.” She said, “No, that’s an idiot.”

  “Right.” Nicholas nodded. “You come here often, then?”

  “It’s the only worthwhile dance club in this stinking city. Sure, there are the idiots.” She pointed to the man in question who now appeared to be doing the sprinkler. “But there are some really good dancers here, too.”

  “Like you.”

  “Like me.”

  “Which is why you don’t pay for drinks.”

  She lifted her glass in homage to the deejay, who nodded her way. “Precisely. No need to glamour these guys when I’ve got a magic ass.”

  Nicholas gave that magic ass a smack.

  “Imogene!”

  Imogene frowned at the sound of a high-pitched female voice.

  “Imogene! Oh my God, it’s so good to see you!” Vixen parted the crowd and gave her a hug that almost spilled her drink.

  “Uh, yeah.” Imogene slithered out of her grasp. “What are you wearing?”

  “Sequins!” She held her hands out like a girl on The Price is Right. Granted the sequins were glued onto a flesh tone body suit, but Vixen might as well have been naked, covered in glitter. She squeaked when she noticed Nicholas. “Oh, no!” She looked like she wanted to run, but her six-inch sequined heels prevented rapid movement.

  Imogene grabbed her arm. “He’s fine. He’s not going to tell Dr. Savage that you’re whoring it up in Lazaret. Right?”

  Nicholas seemed too busy studying Vixen’s “sequins” to respond.

  “Right?” Imogene planted her bony elbow right in his rib.

  He gasped. “Right.” Then choked.

  “Phew.” Vixen flashed her big pearly whites. “Wow, you look, like, really hot, Lord Nicholas. And you smell delic—” As soon as Vixen took a step forward, Imogene put a hand on her sternum and held her back.

  “Don’t. Even. Think. About. It.”

  Vixen blinked and frowned.

  Distraction was probably the best tactic. “Hey, remember that hot guy I was here with last time? Paul?”

  “Oooo, the blond beefcake?” She flipped her golden hair.

  “Yeah. Well, if you see him here again, he’s yours. I’m done with him. He was getting too clingy. Glamour him all you want. He’s pretty dumb, so it’ll be easy, even for you.”

  Again, Vixen looked like she was about to give Imogene a hug, which Imogene stopped with a finger in her face.

  Despite the rebuked embrace, Vixen grinned. “That’s so nice of you.” She turned to Nicholas. “Isn’t Imogene so nice?”

  Nicholas coughed on a chuckle.

  “You are. So nice. And I promise I haven’t been killing anyone. Promise.”

  Imogene nodded. “We know.”

  Vixen sighed. “Can I get you another rum punch?”

  “Remember, I drink for free.”

  “Well, I could ask for one for you.”

  Vixen seemed so needy to please that Imogene nodded, and Vixen squeezed up to the bar next to her. Nicholas had such expressive eyes, Imogene and he enjoyed a momentary silent conversation:

  Do you have a fan?

  Shut up.

  A girl crush?

  Shut the fuck up, Nicholas.

  Vixen soon swung back around with two additional rum punches and handed one to Imogene and Nicholas. “It was totally awesome to see you both, but I have a boy here tonight with a giraffe neck.”

  She ran off then, a glimmer of glittery flesh, soon swallowed by the crowd of drunks and wannabe dancers. Imogene and Nicholas resumed a cool lean against the bar.

  “I assume a giraffe neck is a good thing?” he asked over the music, which was moving slowly away from techno and more into eighties, which meant the deejay expected Imogene to enter the floor at any second.

  “I have no idea,” she said. “So this is a dance club.”

  “Yes.”

  “People dance here.”

  “I thought they might.”

  “I doubt you know much modern dance,” she said. “It’s not like I can picture you in Hammer pants.”

  He looked at her s
ideways. “What do you think I did during the eighties, live in a coffin?”

  She shrugged.

  “I mean, you’re right.” He took a patient sip of punch. “I only won six breakdance competitions.”

  Imogene froze. “I think I just peed a little.”

  “Only six,” he repeated, but she could see the side of his mouth turning up just enough to let her know she was being challenged.

  “Oh. Hell, no. You will not out-dance me at my fucking club.”

  He stretched his neck from one side to the other. “I’m probably a little rusty. You might beat me.”

  Imogene slammed her rum punch down on the bar and spun away from him. She shoved past people to get to the deejay and jumped onto the front of his booth, hanging there like a vampire bat. “I’m battling,” she said.

  The deejay, a forty-something bald guy covered in tattoos, stared at her, eyes wide. The music came to a sudden, jerking halt. “Who would battle you?”

  “You know what I like,” she said, jumping from the stage. In the silence, everyone turned to face the deejay—and Imogene—little whispers floating over the crowd, because no one, no one, challenged Imogene to a battle.

  A couple of her dancer buds pushed people back, making space, as Nicholas, like Gary Cooper at high noon, walked to the edge of the circle. He took off his suit coat and tossed it to a skinny brunette who hugged the expensive material to her chest like Nicholas was still inside.

  The deejay rolled into a classic club beat as Imogene and Nicholas stood nose to nose. “You’re going to lose,” she whispered.

  “I’d make a bet,” he said. “But I don’t want you to spend the rest of your immortal life owing me sexual favors.” He tilted his head. “Or maybe I do.”

  She shoved him in the chest, forcibly requesting space.

  Imogene started easily enough—one had to build up in a battle—so she went for a touch of robot, mixed with a five second windmill, which earned her enthusiastic applause. Nicholas, always so dapper, untucked his fancy button down as he stepped into the circle’s center. The bastard copied her robot but improved upon it, followed by a hand hop into a fucking flare, legs flying with perfect gymnastic skill.

  Imogene cackled when he stood and got right in her face. “Shit,” she muttered through the laughter, but there was no time to wallow in the brilliance of her fuck buddy. Nope, she dove right in with a spinning, one-handed handstand into a backflip, followed, of course, by a touch of voguing. The cheers were deafening, and when she looked at Nicholas, she found him bent over, laughing.

  In an effort to outdo her spinning handstand, Nicholas did a rapid set of elbow spins, body completely upside down, which gave the entire female audience a very, very nice view of the glorious core that made up Nicholas’s pale stomach. He just had to end the cycle by popping up onto his feet and doing the famed Michael Jackson spin and splits, which was too much for Imogene’s libido.

  Instead of continuing the battle, she ran right at him and leaped into his arms, legs around his waist. She kissed him with more tongue than an anteater, which earned more applause than their battle itself. She pulled away, both of them laughing, and leaned her head against his.

  “You’re amazing.”

  He brushed hair from her face. “Only when I’m with you.”

  They didn’t go home. They didn’t even have sex. Instead, they ended up parked in a lot right off the harbor, staring back at the light of Lazaret and up into the navy blue, starry sky. They lay side-by-side on the hood of Imogene’s car, smoking a joint. She turned and watched Nicholas suck a puff into his lungs, deliciously disheveled after their dancing and impromptu make out session. They had agreed to call the dance off a draw.

  “You must have had so much ass in the eighties,” she said.

  “Mm.” His nose wrinkled. “I guess. I wasn’t very fond of the fashion, so I suppose I found women less attractive during that decade.”

  She leaned up on her elbow. “What the hell was wrong with the fashion?”

  “All the bright colors. The acid-washed jeans.” He shook his head. “I didn’t see the allure.”

  “Snob.”

  He chuckled and handed the joint back.

  “So what era of fashion was your favorite then?”

  “All of them. Except the eighties. I could even deal with grunge, because I liked the torn jeans look and all the long, wild hair.” He reached out and touched her curls.

  Imogene rested back with her head on the windshield and stared at the stars. “Do you miss women in corsets and big skirts?”

  “Definitely. Something quite kinky about being embraced by all that satin and lace.”

  She ran her fingertips over his open palm and up the soft skin of his wrist. “I just realized why you hate being called Nicky.”

  He sighed.

  “Amora calls you Nicky.”

  “Always has.” He reached for the joint in her hand.

  “Was she your first?”

  He snorted, and a cloud of smoke surrounded them. “Yes. Imagine losing your virginity to that.”

  “She is really hot. Must have been like Dorothy going to Oz.”

  He lifted his head to look at her. “Am I supposed to be Dorothy?”

  “Yeah, dude. All of a sudden, you’re in this world of bright colors and rubies and midgets.”

  “Although there was never a midget involved, I suppose I understand your metaphor.” He took a drag. “Who was your first?”

  “Eddie Smith. Toledo, Ohio. 1979. I was sixteen; Eddie was eighteen, I think. We stole one of his dad’s Hustler magazines.” She sniggered. “As if that was, like, a guidebook or something. We were high out of our minds, and I just remember we were in his parents’ bed and they had a mirror on the ceiling.” She took the joint back from Nicholas. “I was on the bottom at first, but I couldn’t stop staring at his hairy back in the mirror.” She laughed, and Nicholas tittered like a schoolgirl. “So then I flipped us over, right, so I was on top. I don’t know what Eddie was thinking—maybe he was trying to smack my ass—but he missed and jacked himself in the nuts. I have never heard a guy scream like that in my life.” She shook her head.

  She glanced at Nicholas, who was red in the face from laughing so hard. “What a bloody idiot,” he wheezed.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you were always The Great Lover. You must have been awkward at first.”

  “Awkward?” He shook his head. “I was terrified. Imagine this woman coming to your bed—this gorgeous woman—and you’ve never done anything but hold a girl’s hand your entire life. I was human still and so sick, I thought I was dreaming. I was mortified when she laid me bare.” His eyes glowed in the starlight. “Then, of course, I literally thought I was dying. My first orgasm felt a lot like death.”

  She put her hand down the front of his black shirt and ran her thumb over his collarbone. “La petite mort.”

  “There was nothing petite about it. More like le massif mort.”

  Imogene smiled and laid her head on his chest. “Maybe all women are just succubi. Demons who suck the life out of you one orgasm at a time.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “You’re welcome to it.”

  “How many woman have loved you?”

  His fingers held to the back of her neck and ran circles against her scalp. “How do you know when someone loves you?”

  She shrugged against him.

  “Then how can I answer that question?”

  “You’ve painted twenty-two women, which means you loved all of them.”

  “Yes, but I knew I loved them. I didn’t know if they loved me. Women are intelligent creatures who sometimes value self-preservation above vulnerability. Admitting love would have made many of my past paramours vulnerable, and some of them were powerful women who would never present themselves in a state of weakness. I have loved twenty-two women in my long life, yes, but I have no idea how many women loved me back.”

  “Probably in your best interest,” s
he said. “You don’t have to know how many hearts you’ve broken.”

  “That’s very true,” he whispered.

  Imogene cuddled closer, wrapping one leg around his. “You wanna go home?”

  “Probably. Before I fall asleep here and end up a pile of charred ash.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  After Nicholas showered, but before they could leave to visit Amora at the Chantelle in Lazaret, Imogene rubbed her body all over him until he finally gave in to his basic instincts (her favorite instincts) and humped her on the kitchen island.

  As he did his best to put his delicious dark green suit back together, he panted, “What was that about?”

  Imogene pulled her t-shirt back on. “I want you to smell like me when you see her.”

  He buckled his trousers. “Smell like—oh, right. Nicely played.”

  She drove them into the city to the ritziest, gaudiest hotel in all of Lazaret and tossed her keys to the valet. “One scratch on the Mustang, and I’ll peel your face off.”

  She sneered and walked into the lobby, Nicholas at her side. With her red-rimmed sunglasses, Imogene shielded her eyes from the roaring chandelier that hung heavy like a huge sack of grapes from the ceiling. Staff walked around in black tuxedo coats. Looking down at the marble floor was like looking into a mirror, and everything was tinted red and gold.

  “A little kitschy in here, isn’t it?” she said.

  “You should have seen Venice in its prime.” He tugged at the white collar of his shirt and ran his hands down the front of his vest.

  “You’re nervous,” she said.

  “Am not.”

  “Are, too.”

  He glared at her. “Act like an adult for the next ten minutes, please.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him and grabbed his ass, hard, which made him yelp.

  He took hold of her hand, winding their fingers together. “Let me do the talking.”

  “I’m not very good at keeping my mouth shut.”

  “Try,” he said through clenched teeth as they made their way to the gilt golden elevator.

  Of course Amora would have a suite on the top floor. Imogene assumed she’d glamoured the management. Nicholas stopped outside the door and took a deep breath, but before he could knock, the door opened.