Accidentally Dead, Again

by Dakota Cassidy

  “I’m happy to concede. So is it me, or is it completely off the wall that we’re not doing any heavy breathing?”

  “It’s not you. It’s weird not to be out of breath.”

  “Or sweaty.”

  Phoebe smiled, no doubt, dreamily. Hah. No boob sweat. “I think I’m okay without the sweat. But I get your meaning.”

  “And no wet spot.”

  She giggled. “The crazy. It just keeps coming.”

  “Do you think every vampire before us has had this conversation when they first experienced sex as a vampire?”

  “Yes!” a voice yelped. “There are adults out here talking, kiddies. Now shut the fuck up and quit acting like this is some kind of amusement park and you two are the Tilt-A-Whirl!” Nina bellowed from the living room.

  They both muffled their laughter in each other’s necks. Sam whispered in her ear, “But woo and hoo. Vampire sex is the shiz, huh?”

  “No lie.”

  “However, we have a problem.”

  Phoebe frowned, giving him a drowsy pout. “Is this the regret portion of vampire sex is the shiz?”

  “Hell, no. I don’t regret a damn thing. But I will regret something.”

  “You mean tomorrow—like morning-after regret?”

  “No. That I’m finding it hard to keep my eyes open and you’ll be all bent out of shape that I didn’t appropriately utilize our afterglow.”

  “I don’t think I’ll have any right to complain.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I’m going to do a totally man thing and pass out in two, three, one …”

  As the deep, dark call of vampire sleep swept over them, they didn’t disentangle their bodies—entwined, still locked in the last vestiges of their lovemaking.

  Though now flaccid, Sam remained inside her, and her last thought was, she could do this every night with him.

  For eternity.

  “SO, vampire, where are we tonight?” Marty asked, threading her hands through her hair and plunking her poodle Muffin down on Sam’s couch. She’d come to share a babysitting shift with Archibald so Nina could catch her breath and on the off chance reinforcements were needed should trouble arise.

  Nina’s eyes were dull with defeat. “I don’t know, Marty. I sure as shit don’t know.”

  Marty held a hand up and frowned, her wedding ring gleaming in the lamplight. “Hold up. I didn’t hear an ounce of sarcasm in that statement. Who are you, and where’s the real Nina, poser?”

  “The real Nina’s experiencing what some might call a life struggle,” Wanda offered, sitting down next to them and dragging Muffin into her lap.

  Marty cocked her head, her blue eyes wide. “A life what? Nina? Our Nina? You mean she hasn’t beaten the struggle out of someone to find the answer yet?”

  Wanda shot Marty an admonishing look and shook her head from behind Nina to signal it wasn’t the time to razz their friend. “We’ve got trouble, pal. Not just a little, either.” Wanda went about explaining where Sam and Phoebe’s situation was now and the events of the night.

  Marty’s mouth fell open, but she instantly closed it. She put a hand on Nina’s knee and squeezed it. “We’ll figure it out, Nina. We always figure it out. I know it looks grim, but we’ve been to grim and back.”

  Nina grabbed for Marty’s hand and clung to it in a rare act of true fear. “I did this, Marty. I fucking well did this. Those people in there could die if I don’t do something to save them. Die. I mean, Jesus Christ.”

  Wanda stroked Muffin’s head, running her fingers along the top of the poodle’s lavender T-shirt that read, DOES THIS SHIRT MAKE MY BUTT LOOK CURLY? “It isn’t just you that has to do something, Nina. You’re not in this alone. We’re in this together.”

  Nina scoffed at them both. “The hell I’ll let you two ballerinas end up hurt because of me. You’re officially fucking sidelined. This is my stank to deal with.”

  “The. Hell. It’s like Wanda said, we always go in together, Nina. Period,” Marty reminded her with a stern tone. “That’s what OOPS is about. And Phoebe’s your sister. She’s family. We don’t abandon family. You didn’t abandon Casey when Wanda needed you and Casey’s life was at stake. So was Clay’s,” she said, referring to Wanda’s sister and Clay’s plight to untangle himself from a mate he’d never wanted to begin with.

  Nina threw Marty’s hand back at her. “Yeah? Well, usually, when we go in together, I didn’t create half the problem. We’ve got an equal interest in saving the client, and Casey’s shit was on Clay. He spilled demon blood on her. It had nothing to do with Grace Kelly here. This time, it’s on me. If I’d have chilled out like you warned me to, Princess Phoebe wouldn’t be here today.”

  Marty and Wanda both stared at each other. Simultaneously, they reached out to one another’s chins and, using their index fingers, pushed them upward.

  Marty nudged Nina’s knee. “Is that remorse I hear, Nina? Accountability? What the hell’s happened since I saw you two days ago?”

  “I saw a dead body, no, three now, and the kid has—or had—whatever, Alzheimer’s—early onset. So, yeah, my out-of-control temper saved her from dying from some crippling fucking disease, but it ain’t gonna save her from the shit that happened to that dude on the roof at Alice’s or what happened to Alice Goodwin. That shit’s on me. I knocked her into Sam because I felt threatened.”

  Marty’s look was of the unfathomable. “Hookay, shut the front door. You’re owning up to pushing Phoebe into Sam, not to mention, you’re owning up to feeling threatened? You are not Nina Blackman-Statleon. No effin’ way, imposter. Maybe she’s one of those manufactured in the likeness of Nina vampires, too. So stop the crazy train, I want off.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Marty. It is so me. I can feel like shit, too. So just let me, all right? Christ, you’re like one of those yippy terriers, always humping my leg. I did this because I didn’t want to believe my father loved anyone other than my mother. It made me want to crack her stupid Barbie head over my knee when she told me. But what she says is true, and what Wanda says is true, too.”

  “And that is?” Marty asked, her eyes full of concern.

  “That it’s not Phoebe’s fault my father did her mother and fell in love. My mom was gone. At least gone in the sense that she’d fucking abandoned me for some crack. I don’t know the exact timeline on the shit that went down between Phoebe’s mother and my father. I just know my dad did another chick. And that was all I could hear out of Foofie Barbie’s mouth.”

  “And you felt betrayed,” Wanda coaxed. “Maybe even a little jealous that you weren’t the only apple of his eye?”

  Nina let her chin fall to her chest. “I was hacked off at the idea my father had a whole other life. He was gone a lot when I was a kid. I guess some of that time was spent with Phoebe and her mother, and it pissed me off that it could have been spent with me and Lou.”

  Marty reached behind Nina and gave Wanda a poke with her finger. “Wanda, hold me up, friend. I’m winded. Admission of guilt from Nina is one thing, but displaying emotions of remorse and jealousy—out loud? I expect to hear the clop of hooves as one of the Four Horsemen lands right here in Sam’s living room.”

  That Nina didn’t respond to Marty’s wisecrack made her instantly pull her friend’s hand back into hers. “Nina, if it takes an army of us, I’ll find a way. We’ll find a way. I don’t know what the way is, but I’ll figure it out. We’ll all figure it out.”

  Nina slid down on the couch and let her head rest on Marty’s shoulder, pulling her hoodie around her face.

  Marty drew Nina to her chest, letting her chin fall to the top of Nina’s head, stroking her cheek while Wanda laid a gentle hand on her friend’s arm.

  Muffin climbed into Nina’s lap, pressing her head to her longtime, under-the-table scrap-feeding friend’s chin before settling in and curling her body into a tiny ball of fur.

  And they all sat that way—in silence, in fear, in thought—for a very long time.

>   CHAPTER

  12

  Phoebe woke with the usual start. One she was still getting used to. The one where your eyes flew open and you were instantly awake and aware of every single, minute detail. It was better than any shot of double espresso she’d ever had.

  She reached a hand out to lever herself off the bed and bumped into something—something hard and cool.

  Sam.

  Last night slammed into her memory in the way of carnal images and vivid Technicolor flashbacks. Phoebe sat for a moment, savoring the memory. Savoring Sam’s still sleeping body next to hers. She peeked at him from hooded eyes, taking in the thickly muscled lump next to her. The way his arm was flung up over his forehead. The strange, yet alluring lack of any rise and fall to his sexy chest.

  And then it sunk in.

  Best day ever!

  Best sex ever.

  It was like tripping over a pair of brand-new Louboutins on the sidewalk, mint, in package, totally in her size, while on her way out of Tiffany’s after being declared the hundredth shopper and scoring a shopping spree.

  Boom, baby.

  Sam’s hand snaked out to grab her wrist and pull her to him, making her gasp in surprise. She fell on his chest with a chuckle and smiled up at him. There was no awkward morning-after vibe between them—at least not on her part. It was like they’d always done this.

  “I’ve decided you shouldn’t be our decoy,” he whispered against the top of her head, tightening his grip on her waist and molding her body to his.

  Phoebe stiffened. “You’ve got a better candidate in mind?”

  She felt the shake of his head and the clench of his jaw. “No. I just gave it some thought, and I’ve decided we can find another way. Whatever, whomever is doing this is insane. A sick bastard psychopath. I don’t want to risk you getting hurt or someone finding out you’re not the old Phoebe with Alzheimer’s.”

  “Wow.”

  “What?”

  “I must be a helluva lay.”

  Sam’s finger traced her jaw with a lazy swirl. “Such a lady.”

  Her chuckle was morning-husky. “Always.”

  “And you’ve drawn this conclusion from?”

  “The fact that we only just had our first tryst last night and already you’re pulling the caveman overprotective act.”

  Sam scoffed in her ear. “I’d hardly call me a caveman because I don’t want you deader than you already are. I wouldn’t want any of you to end up hurt because we did something foolish.”

  She pulled away from him, rising on an elbow and smiling down at him with a raised eyebrow. “So you’re saying I’m not a good lay?”

  His eyes narrowed. Clearly, he was losing his sense of humor. “I did not say that at all. What I said was, sending you into the middle of this is too dangerous—or have we forgotten that woman at your apartment or the guy last night on Alice Goodwin’s roof?”

  “You mean your one-night stand? Oh, nay, Mr. McLean. I haven’t forgotten,” she teased, tucking the sheet around her.

  “And have you forgotten my one-night stands tend to end up in ashes?”

  “Am I now classified under one-night stands?”

  Sam’s eyes, deep as always, took on that warning hint to them. “You know what I mean, Phoebe. Stop deflecting and listen to me.”

  “Who’s deflecting? You do whatever you have to do to come to grips with the fact that not only are you behaving like I’m now your property, but that I’m going to do this whether you want me to or not. As for me. I have a late-afternoon doctor’s appointment to make—and I’ve got a date with some spray tan. You know, so I don’t look like a vampire? So while you worry, I’ll go make sure Marty picked up what we need.”

  He gripped her arm, his urgency was less understated now, and the charm Sam usually spewed an order with was strained. “I said no. It’s too dangerous. If anything’s going to happen to anyone, it should be me. I started this—so whatever they’re testing, torturing people with, I should be the sacrifice. Period.”

  “Sam?”

  He smiled—wide and endearing. “Yes, cupcake?”

  “You’re an entomologist. You’re about as helpful here as this personal stylist is. You study bugs. You’re not exactly qualified to do some undercover sting. Our skill sets are pretty much on par with each other’s. You play with squicky bugs, and I play with clothes. Hardly a covert couple of operators. But if I don’t go in, who will? I’m the only viable candidate we have, and BTW, I’m not all that much like Alice anymore. She went in a human. I’m going in a vampire. So let’s leave this episode of Twenty-four and be realistic, Jack Bauer. If I can find out who’s in charge of fixing my eternity, you can bet I’m down with some spying.”

  Now he shook his head. Like he could tell her what to do. “No, Phoebe. You’re not going anywhere. I’m not kidding.”

  Phoebe rolled under his arm in a swift move she’d learned in a self-defense class and hopped off the bed, glaring down at him. “Sam? Me, neither. So do you wanna do some naked vampire v vampire here—or are you going to stop being ridiculous and let me get ready?”

  His mouth formed a thin line. “We’re going to have our first fight. Right here. Right now.” Sam tapped the empty space she’d left when she jumped off the bed.

  She wiggled her fingers at him over her shoulder while she sauntered her nakedness toward the door. “Perfect. But prepare your battlefield, amateur. Because I was on the debate team my senior year. You do not want to mess with this mouth.”

  Sam sat up on the bed, the muscles of his chest and arms flexing with tension. “Bring it.”

  Brushing her mussed hair from her eyes, she asked, “Are you daring me again? Haven’t you learned anything after last night?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Consider yourself dared.”

  She planted her hands on her hips, her expression purposely cocky. “Ohhh. You know what this reminds me of, don’t you?”

  “Some guy named Alejandro who has a Catholic priest for a father and twin brothers born in sin who’ve been cryogenically frozen in the Arctic circle?” he mocked.

  She wrinkled her nose. “They weren’t cryogenically frozen, silly. I can’t believe you remember me telling you all of that at Nina’s.”

  Sam’s already razor-sharp cheeks sucked inward. “I remember everything you say, Phoebe.”

  She flapped her hands at him, heedless that she was naked. “No, funny man. That’s not what this reminds me of. This”—she jabbed her finger in the air—“reminds me of the time Skye Summers from the Willful and the Beautiful had to sacrifice the love of her life, Dante St. Croix, and marry an obsessed Colombian drug lord to keep Dante from being shot. Dante was a total brooding, angsty stupidhead, who just couldn’t admit he loved Skye because she was rich and he was a chicken farmer’s son. So you know, the usual ‘I love you, I hate you’ nonsense ensued. For months. Months, I tell you. So many months I wanted to choke Dante with his ridiculous pride while he tried to get his degree from an online Internet college so he could get a fabulous job and impress Skye who really didn’t care about how poor he was anyway. If he’d just told her what he was doing every night instead of letting her think he was with that utter whore, Penelope Winslow, everything would have been just fine. But noooo—it went on for a millennia. Of course, there’d be nothing to watch if they’d resolved it too quickly. But that’s neither here nor there.”

  “What is here or there, Phoebe?” Sam asked, clenching his fists in his lap.

  “What?”

  “The point. What’s the point here?”

  “Right. Anyway, the Colombian drug lord obsessed with Skye was sick with jealousy about her love for Dante. So he kidnapped Dante. Oh, it was brutal to watch. The hostage situation went on for days and days while Skye’s brother and police chief captain, Felix Caulfield, tried to negotiate both their safe returns. Then there was this huge rescue attempt, which totally failed. It was one of those scenes like right out of a horror movie, where you’r
e screaming, ‘Don’t go down in the basement, dummy!’ What a botched job that was—everyone ended up dead and Felix was left in a coma. Oh. It was so ugly. Anyway, Dante told Skye he’d rather die than let her marry that swine Carlo Gonzales.”

  “And how, in your pretty little head, does this situation even remotely resemble Colombian drug lords, sacrificial marriages, and shootings?”

  “Well, first there’s your pride. I think your pride is a little wounded because I’m the one doing the saving. You’re not used to disruption in your quiet life, but if there is one, you like to believe you should be the one to handle it. And then there’s what Dante said to Skye when she told him she was going to go through with it to save his life.”

  “Pray tell, what did Dante say, Phoebe?” he asked, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

  “Exactly the same thing you did.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, his lips flirting with an amused smile. “Which was?”

  “The word no. Well, it was more than no. It was a sort of don’t-you-dare kind of thing.”

  “So let me guess: Against his express wishes, Skye married Carlo to keep Dante alive and, in the process, managed to spite him, too?”

  “You bet your undead ass she did.” Phoebe strolled out of the room to the tune of Sam’s growl.

  She was a vampire. It was more ammunition than poor Alice Goodwin had been equipped with when she’d gone into this clinical trial.

  And she had teleportation on her side. If something went wrong, she’d just zap herself out.

  She sent a silent prayer up that if she did have to zap herself out—she wouldn’t land in like Botswana. Or God forbid, The Cheesecake Factory.

  Fuck. That would be a real slap in her blueberry-cheesecake-lovin’ kisser.

  “HAVE I said I don’t like this?” Sam ground out as they gathered one street over from Dr. Hornstein’s.

  Phoebe pulled her arm from Sam’s with a hard yank and tucked her hair back up under her red beret, straightening it and her large black purse, which held the forms they needed to get her into the clinical trial. “I only have so many fingers and toes. I’ve lost track of the number of times you’ve said you don’t like this, Sam.”