Bite Somebody Else

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  Imogene handed the rowdy newborn back to her mother. “I’m not full of shit. I’m pragmatic.”

  Celia barked a laugh. “You are no such thing.”

  She waved her comment away. “Nicholas belongs in London. I belong here. I have a business to run, and I like being alone. I’m not the relationship type—never have been. Plus, you know, being who we are, Nicholas and I will just get annoyed with each other after a while. He’s all about responsibility and propriety, and I’m all, well, irresponsible and inappropriate.”

  “But that’s why you work. Paula Abdul said that opposites attract.”

  “That crazy bitch is your source?”

  “No. Well, look at Ian and me. I’m insecure and awkward. He’s comfortable everywhere and laid back. The only thing we really have in common is our love for nerd culture and sexual compatibility.”

  “Sex!” Vivian shouted.

  Celia winced and covered her daughter’s ears. “All I’m saying is that you and Nicholas might have differences, but your very obvious passion outweighs those differences. And I believe I recall a certain Maid of Honor speech about not wanting to marry yourself.”

  “Yeah, okay, but in that same speech, remember what I told you about how love should be easy? Nicholas and I have been a montage of fights and disagreements since we met.”

  Celia sighed. “Maybe it was easy for me and Ian, but maybe it’s not for everyone. Maybe you needed conflict. Heck, Imogene, you’re a walking conflict, so maybe together, you make the perfect storm. Maybe it’s not all supposed to be easy for you, but that’s what keeps you coming back.”

  Imogene grimaced. “This is really dissolving into something close to a therapy session. On that note, I take my leave.” She went for the bedroom door, but Celia’s voice made her pause.

  “Imogene? Maybe he’s your wish fulfilled. Your miracle?”

  She smiled back at her exhausted best pal. “I got you and Ian and Viv. I don’t need any more miracles.”

  When the goodbyes began, Imogene snuck outside to stand on the beach. A big, blue moon rose slowly over the ocean, reflecting a line of white light all the way to her half-submerged toes. It felt good to be outside, since the August heat had finally broken into tepid September. It felt good to be outside, because she didn’t do goodbyes, and she just knew Celia—and possibly Dr. Savage, possibly even Ian—were going to cry with Nicholas’s departure. One person she was sure would be happy to see him go was Dean, but even Dean had ended up warming to the guy, especially after hearing about Nicholas functioning with a harpoon in his chest, to which Dean had simply said, “Bad ass, man.”

  “People can change, you know.”

  “Shit fuck!” Imogene almost fell face-first into the ocean with Nicholas’s spooky, unannounced arrival. “I hate when you do that!”

  He stood a few feet behind her, surely not wanting to get his wingtips covered in salt. He cut a dark shadow in a black suit, and his eyes captured the moonlight. “Amora said I was still the same murderer I was centuries ago, but she was wrong. People can change.”

  “Yeah, well.” She put her hands in her shorts pockets. “I’m glad you’re not killing people anymore.”

  “People can change.”

  “You said that.” She nodded.

  The door to Ian and Celia’s house opened behind Nicholas, and they both turned to see Dr. Savage in her usual business attire.

  “I have to go,” he said.

  “I don’t do goodbyes, so…” She looked back over her shoulder at the calm, crisp sea.

  She didn’t jump when his hand touched her upper arm, but she didn’t turn to face him either. He pressed a kiss to the side of her forehead. “I’ll never forget you,” he whispered. “The one and only woman who broke my heart.” And, just like a British ninja, he was gone.

  When she got home, the house was dark and smelled like a fresh herb garden. She reached under the sink and found an ancient, crusty bottle of air freshener from when she’d first moved in and went around, spraying her house. She was so busy trying to erase any trace of Nicholas, she almost tripped over a paper-wrapped rectangle in her living room.

  She jumped back at first, thinking—with the events of late—it was probably a bomb. Then again, she armed the security system whenever she left the house, so bombers were unlikely. The only person who’d been in her house recently was…

  Nicholas.

  He’d stopped by earlier to buy a couple bags of blood for the trip.

  Imogene knelt in front of the mystery object in her living room and tore a long, single strip of paper from the top corner. Revealed was a full moon and black sky. She pulled off another strip and another. Of course it was a painting—but she’d never posed for Nicholas, so what had he painted? With added fervor, she ripped the rest of the paper free from the canvas that still smelled of oils.

  She turned on the nearest lamp, sat back on her heels, and stared.

  It was a painting of her, sort of, but certainly not a nude. It was a painting of a woman on a beach, staring out into the surf, much as she had done earlier that very evening. The woman faced away from the artist, but it was obviously Imogene, what with the big poof of purple curls, the angular body, and even the big, black combat boots. The majority of the painting was the black, swirling sea, painted in a way even Van Gogh would have dug. Her body was painted in similar swirls, and she thought of that thing Nicholas said one night that seemed so long ago.

  Every inch of you compounds upon the other until you form this masterpiece of madness—every curve, every line of your body, a wild sketch of free will and passion.His prescient words described the painting perfectly.

  Imogene fell back onto her ass on the living room floor. She sighed and smiled. With her fingertips, she traced the tiny letters in the bottom corner of her painting: NCC. She fell asleep staring at herself.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Wow,” Ian said.

  “Yeah,” Imogene said.

  “Why is it in bed?”

  “It was his bed.” She took a sip of beer as they stared at the painting Nicholas had done, resting against the headboard in her guest bedroom.

  “Oh.” Ian drank a kale smoothie in a to-go cup. He never drank alcohol when he had Vivian in a baby carrier on his back. He’d biked over at Imogene’s request. Plus, Celia needed some time alone to rest. She was freaking exhausted, he’d said, but most mothers of newborns tended to be, especially when the newborn can talk and climb walls.

  “Aren’t your parents coming this weekend?”

  Ian kept staring at the painting. “Yeah.”

  “How’s that gonna go down?”

  “Well, she’s only ever bitten you.”

  “I’m honored?”

  Ian’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, and since we’re not quite ready to test our half-vampire baby’s sun endurance, we’re going to tell them the doctors think she has extreme photosensitivity, so it’s not safe for her to be outside during the day—might give her a rash.”

  Imogene nodded. “Good one.”

  “I should be able to keep ‘em distracted during the day. Ralph is going to help with my surfer training, now that no one’s in eminent danger of being kidnapped or murdered.”

  “Cool.”

  “Right.” His eyes never left the painting, even when Vivian started pulling on his curly, black hair.

  “So did I fuck up?” Imogene asked.

  Ian shrugged.

  “What kind of answer is that?”

  “Well.” He took a loud gulp of green smoothie. “I mean, honest? You both screwed up. He went back to London, and you didn’t stop him—but he didn’t stop himself either, so equal messing up, I guess. Right?”

  “Right. He could have stayed if he wanted.”

  Ian quirked an eyebrow at her.

  “What?”

  “You didn’t make it seem like he was welcome to stay.”

  “Hey, I’m not the Florida Tourist Association.”

  Ian smile
d. “No, you’re not, thank goodness.”

  “God, I’d be shit at hospitality, wouldn’t I?”

  He toed the edge of the bed, still smiling with Vivian tugging his hair.

  “What am I supposed to do, Ian?”

  He squeezed his daughter’s tiny hand before she tugged out a handful of his curls. “It’s not really my call.”

  “If you were me, what would you do?”

  “I’m not really into dudes.”

  She shoved him in the shoulder.

  “No one can tell you what to do, Imogene. Literally. In life or in love, you’re your own woman. You always have been. Seeking outside assistance isn’t really you.”

  “Yeah, well, neither is…” She chugged the rest of her beer and crushed the bottle in her fist. “Neither is…”

  “Love?” Ian said.

  “Yes. Fine. The fucking L word.” She threw her empty can on the guest bed.

  “At least Nicholas isn’t a ferret.”

  She nodded. “True.”

  “You could, like, call him.”

  “International rates are really a bitch.” She kicked at the carpeting with the toe of her combat boot. “And why can’t he call me?”

  Ian nudged her shoulder with his elbow. “What are you, in high school?”

  “Ass.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders, which gave Vivian the perfect opportunity to pull on Imogene’s hair. The kid had a thing for hair pulling—or maybe she just liked curls.

  “Whatever you do,” he said, “do what makes you happy. Forget about fear and pride, because there’s no room for that shit in love. If you can’t let go of those two things, then…” He nodded toward the painting on the bed. “You’ll be alone on that beach forever.”

  She leaned into him. “You’re sort of smart for a hot guy.”

  He gave her a hug—which ended abruptly when Vivian tried to bite Imogene’s nose.

  Imogene threw six blood bags of varying quality—although she’d always be faithful to her B-negative—across the kitchen island to Wharf. He stood there, filling up the space like a grizzly bear, in his leather jacket and big boots. He looked like he hadn’t showered in a while, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary for the guy who’d stuck with Imogene longer than anybody else.

  “Half off this week,” she said.

  “Somebody’s feeling generous.” He unfolded a couple hundreds from his wallet and put them on the island, which he promptly circled. Wharf grabbed her by the waist and leaned down to kiss her, but she turned her head away.

  “Uh-uh,” she said.

  “What?” He stuck out his bottom lip. “But it’s been forever.”

  “I’m on a break.” She pushed him away with hands on his chest.

  “From what? Sex?”

  “Men. I’m on a men break.”

  He looked at her like she was giving up blood—which, there were similarities. “What’s going on with you?”

  She put on her sunglasses. “Are we finished?”

  “Shit.” He picked up the bags of blood. “Business, no pleasure.”

  Imogene closed and locked the door behind him before sitting at her kitchen counter and sulking. Over the past few days, she’d turned sulking into an art form. She sulked dramatically on the couch. She sulked wastefully in the shower. She sulked musically while listening to Queen. Finally, she sulked desperately while wrapped up in Nicholas’s old sheets in her guest bedroom.

  She thought about changing her name to “Sulk.”

  In the midst of kitchen sulking, however, she caught a familiar scent. She initially wrote it off as the lingering remnant of his fingers on her painting, which now hung in the living room above her never used fireplace. When she sniffed again, though, she realized the scent was much stronger, as if he stood next to her: basil and peppermint and black pepper.

  Imogene spun around, but no, Nicholas was not in her kitchen. She sniffed some more, even buried her face in the couch cushions to make sure it wasn’t just the fabric playing tricks. But no—it was the air. The very air smelled like Nicholas.

  “Where are you, motherfucker?” she muttered.

  She knew he hadn’t broken into her house—he would have set off the security system—which meant only one thing.

  He was outside.

  She hurried into the night, expecting to find him on her doorstep. She didn’t. She looked at her driveway and found only her Mustang. She looked into the nearby trees. Then, far off, she heard water splashing. In the dark, she made out the silhouette of someone swimming in the ocean, so she walked down the beach.

  Of course, his suit was in a careful pile on a piece of driftwood in the sand. Wouldn’t want to ruin another Spencer Hart. His discarded anchor-shaped cufflinks shined in the moonlight.

  Imogene kicked off nothing but her combat boots before walking, calmly, into the warm Gulf of Mexico. She stopped when the water was up to her waist and stared at him, paddling around on his back in nothing but his underwear.

  “What are you doing here?” she said. “This is my ocean.”

  He lifted his head, and even in the dark, she could see the way his auburn hair shined. “You can’t own the ocean.”

  “Well, the Gulf touches my country, not yours.”

  “Fine, have it your way.” He tread water ten feet in front of her.

  Imogene crossed her arms, her clothes quickly soaking up saltwater. “I like the painting.”

  “Me, too.” God, but how she’d missed that posh voice.

  “You can’t have it back.”

  He kicked up onto his back and stared at the stars. “That’s not why I came.”

  “Then why did you?”

  “Real estate.” He did a bit of a backstroke. “I was thinking of buying some beach front property.”

  “It ain’t cheap.” Her toes sank in the wet sand.

  “I’ve got some money put away.”

  “Yeah, so I hear. What about London?”

  “It’s quite dreary, isn’t it? The Thames doesn’t really compare to the ocean.”

  She nodded. “Isn’t it full of shit and stuff?”

  “Shit and stuff. Yes, pretty much.” He went back to treading water, eyeing her, although she couldn’t tell how gold or green his eyes were in the dark. She wanted to see him up close, in the light. She wanted to be sure he was really there. “I’m really here,” he said.

  “What are you, a mind reader?”

  “No.” He spit out a mouthful of salt water. “But if you showed up on my porch in London, I’d probably think I was dreaming.” He came closer until he could stand, just a few feet away from her—so close that she could see the saltwater droplets run down his chest. “I’m not staying in London, Imogene. I’m staying here.”

  “What about the labia stadium?”

  He smiled, and the sight was so fucking beautiful, Imogene feared blindness. “Dario will be in charge. We took care of business, but I’ve cut all ties with the organization.”

  “So you’ll just be a beach bum now?”

  “Thought I might get a job at The Drift Inn. Think they’ll have me?”

  “You’re too good-looking to work at The Drift Inn.”

  “Don’t tell that to Angry Santa.”

  “Our secret.”

  “I won’t be your boyfriend, Imogene. I know that’s not what you need. I won’t be your husband, because you’ve made it clear you don’t want one of those. I suppose I can deal with just being your fuck buddy, if it means I get to be close to you.” He laughed. “Hell, you can make me squawk like a chicken all night, as long as I can be close to you.”

  She glanced back at her huge house. “I have an extra bedroom, if you can pay some rent. I’m not looking for a freeloader.”

  “I can probably manage.”

  She nodded. It took every bit of willpower she had not to tap dance in the ocean. When she looked up at Nicholas, though, her heart sank. He wore a frown and a wrinkle between his eyes.

  �
�What?” She splashed water at him.

  “I’ve actually changed my mind.” He walked past her and sloshed his way up the sandy beach.

  Imogene moved faster than a cheetah on cocaine and knocked him on his ass in the sand. “What is that supposed to mean?” she shouted down at him.

  He held his hands up as if about to be shot. “I just meant…” He reached toward his perfectly folded suit and into his coat pocket. Even at midnight, Imogene could see the purple diamond ring in his fingers, practically the size of Cuba. “I just meant, despite all your contestations, maybe you do want a husband. If it’s me.” He rolled up from where she’d shoved him and knelt.

  “Shit,” she said.

  “Imogene No-Last-Name. Will you be my wife?”

  “I have a last name,” she murmured.

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, but you’re gonna laugh.”

  He shook his head. “I won’t.”

  “You will.”

  “Won’t.”

  “Pufpaff,” she said. “My name is Imogene Pufpaff.”

  To his credit, he lasted three seconds before dissolving into full, body-shaking laughs. She laughed with him, tackling him to the ground until they were a tangle of damp, sand-covered limbs.

  “Well, it won’t be my last name for long, fucker.” She grabbed the ring from his hand and put it on her finger.

  Nicholas pulled her to him until her head rested against his chest.

  “Wait, when I marry you, does that mean I’m going to be, like, a Lady?”

  He kissed her cheek. “God, I hope not. I prefer you rather untamed.”

  “Lady Imogene,” she said in her best British voice.

  “Of Admiral Key,” he added, tugging her ever closer until she practically sprawled across his wet chest.

  She kissed him, and he kissed back with tongue and a very gratifying moan. “You aren’t supposed to exist,” she said and bit his nipple.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I never bought into happily ever after.”

  “Me neither,” he agreed.

  She sat up and ran her thumb across his cheekbone and licked saltwater from his face until he squirmed and laughed again.