Part 2 (2/2)

The message timed out and my mom's tirade ended. I sent up a silent Thank you to the CEV (Chief Executive Vampire) of Upstairs, Inc., for sparing me more misery.

I checked the phone number on the second message-so much for mercy-and hit the DELETE key before moving on to the texts.

The first was from Nina Two about five minutes before I'd discovered the b.l.o.o.d.y couch. Knock em dead 2nite.

My chest tightened and I blinked frantically. If only she knew.

I pulled up the second message, which had come through thirty seconds later.

OMG.

What can I say? Good news travels fast with my BFFs.

Number three? Miss u. Want to lick u all ovr.

Uh, yeah. She'd obviously mistaken me for Wilson, her significant other. At least I was hoping as much. While some BVs b.u.t.tered their bread on both sides, I'd never been one of them. I'd take Brad over Ang any day.

My hands flew over the keypad. No lickng 2-night. How bout shopping 2-mrow?

I hit SEND and stashed my phone just as the cab pulled up in front of my place.

The renovated duplex that housed my apartment wasn't anywhere close to the plush high-rise near Central Park that my parents kept for those last-minute city trips. No marbled foyer. No private elevator. No blood-slave/doorman named Maurice. Not even a porch light. Rather, my building had three concrete steps leading to a very narrow stoop and a single glow-in-the-dark door buzzer. I handed the driver a ten, a DED card and a mental You're desperately lonely and should call for a date ASAP. What can I say? She was female and, therefore, unsusceptible to my BV charm, but I gave it a shot anyway. s.e.xual preference was such a gray area these days and I hated to miss a prime advertising op.

”Thanks,” she murmured. Her gaze caught and held mine in the rearview mirror. Sure enough, I saw an image of the two of us playing a game of strip poker.

I was winning, of course.

I smiled and added a persuasive Call me before I climbed out of the cab and headed for the front door.

Entering the building, I power-walked five flights of stairs and headed down the long hallway that led to mi casa. Across the hall, my neighbor-an accountant who loved Thai food and cheap perfume-was just hitting the SNOOZE b.u.t.ton. I slid my key into the lock and let myself in.

The apartment was just the way I'd left it-cat hair clinging to the rug, a pile of dirty clothes in one corner and a stack of shoe boxes I'd been meaning to organize in the other (FYI-in addition to being allergic to stakes and sunlight, I had a strong aversion to vacuums and cleaning products).

I made a few kissy-kiss sounds guaranteed to bring the average, loyal, devoted pet running to the door to greet his master.

Needless to say, Killer kept his fat, furry a.s.s planted on my couch.

”What? No love?”

I'm weak from lack of food. He blinked. I can barely lift my head.

”I fed you before I left.”

I'm even hallucinating, he went on. I took a p.i.s.s in the litter box and I swear the wet spot is the spitting image of Garfield. eBay, here I come.

”You're not auctioning off your pee and you're not weak from lack of nutrition. I fed you Kitty Cuisine lamb and vegetables before I left.”

Is that what I yacked up all over your shoes?

”You didn't.”

He blinked. A wave of dread rolled through me even before I turned and spied the surprise near the sofa. I contemplated tossing him from the nearest window, but that totally went against the whole born vamp creed of keeping a low profile. The last thing I needed was to wind up getting cuffed on the Animal Planet equivalent of COPS.

I glared at him. ”You're cleaning it up.”

In your dreams, sistah. He rested his head on his paws and closed his eyes. I don't do manual labor, and I don't eat lamb and vegetables. I already told you, I like the sardines. The imported ones that you brought home last week.

”Last week was a special occasion.” I'd been celebrating my first full week of coupledom with Ty. He'd gotten stuck working a case and I'd ended up celebrating on my own. An imported bottle of AB-for me and Italian sardines for Killer. ”Those things are expensive.”

Yeah, well, so are designer shoes.

Maybe I could use a pair of pantyhose and disguise my face before I threw him out the window. I contemplated the idea as I went in search of rubber gloves and some antibacterial wipes.

I ended up with an old pair of gardening mittens left by the previous tenants and a few hand towels. I spent the next fifteen minutes cleaning up the mess and envisioning a street full of splattered feline. Talk about an upbeat way to end my otherwise depressing night.

At the same time, I kept picturing the b.l.o.o.d.y couch, which made me nauseous, which kept me from smearing Killer 's sorry hide all over the pavement.

”You're lucky I had a stressful night.”

And you're lucky I didn't yack into your handbag so it could match the shoes. He purred. What can I say? I'm just a softy at heart.

”I should spike your food.”

You wouldn't.

I gave him an evil grin. ”Oh, wouldn't I?”

Confession time-as much as I despise Killer at times, I've gotten used to having him around. Which is the only reason I didn't pour a bottle of Windex into his food bowl. Well, that and the fact that I didn't actually have a bottle of Windex-see the above reference to cleaning products.

Instead, I dished out the last can of sardines and then headed for the shower. My head hurt and my chest felt tight. I desperately needed to wash away the past few hours.

The water poured over me, blending in with the moisture that rolled down my face. When the hot water ran out, I toweled off and pulled on a worn red T-s.h.i.+rt that read Santa, I can explain and a pair of fuzzy white socks. Not the typical s.e.x dominatrix ensemble one would expect from an all-powerful vampere, but I was going for warm and comfy rather than b.i.t.c.hy and b.a.l.l.sy.

I flipped the deadbolt on the front door, checked my cell phone for any messages from Ty-did I mention that he was still stuck on said case and I hadn't seen him in four days, five hours, and fifty-seven minutes?

Not that I was counting. Or feeling sorry for myself because my new boyfriend had pledged his devotion on Monday, only to disappear on Tuesday.

A sigh worked its way up my throat as I closed the heavy-duty blinds on my trio of windows. Climbing into bed, I burrowed under the covers and pulled the goose down over my head.

I closed my eyes, conjured my favorite fantasy and tried to forget that poor Esther might be in serious trouble.

And that it was all my fault.

It was the hottest fantasy I'd ever had.

And trust me, at five hundred (and holding) I've had more than my share.

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