Wicked Game (11 page)

“Thanks.” Most guys would just stand back and watch me try to bend over in a miniskirt.

He stands and hands me the transparencies, then holds up the red envelope, the one containing a photo of my CD shelves. “I should be thanking you,” Shane says.

I shrug. “It’s pure alphabetical for now. Maybe later I’ll subgroup them by genre. I hear that’s fun.”

He sits on the table and rests a foot on a chair. “Look, it was nothing personal, what I said about your campaign.”

“You’re entitled to your integrity. It’ll enhance your mystique.” I start sorting the transparencies. “By the time you come to your senses and join us, the masses will be rabid for the broody, reclusive Vampire Shane.”

“It’s frightening the way your mind works. And yet I cannot look away.”

David walks up and hands Shane a three-page list of call letters and frequencies. “I thought you might protest, so I made a list of stations Skywave has bought in the last ten years.”

Shane’s eyes widen at the size of the list. He rubs his face as he scans the pages, probably alphabetizing the call letters in his head.

“Listen to their Webcasts,” David says. “Ciara can help you find them on the Internet.”

“I can do it myself.” Shane sounds less than certain. “But why?”

I gesture to the list. “So you can hear what this station could become. Let’s say Skywave hires you to do a nighttime show. Which they probably won’t because it’s cheaper just to pipe in someone else’s show from, say, Cincinnati, add a local weather report, and pretend it’s a hometown broadcast. But if they do hire you, you’ll have to play whatever they tell you. You’ll be a human jukebox.”

“This isn’t about me,” Shane says. “It’s about the music.”

“Exactly.” David taps the papers. “Listen for a week, then tell me if those stations are about the music.” He pats Shane’s shoulder, then heads over to talk to Regina.

Shane rubs his eyes, which, I just realized, are looking kind of sunken. “You want to get a drink?” he asks me.

“Not really.”

“Of alcohol, I mean. In public.”

Seems safe, at least in the physical jeopardy realm. “One condition. You answer all my vampire questions. Honestly.”

“Didn’t David give you the field manual?”

“It’s written in bureaucratese. Besides, I get the feeling most of it is propaganda.”

He considers the ceiling for a moment. “I’ll answer
general questions, but reserve the right to protect my personal privacy.”

“Deal. Meet me at the Pig in half an hour.”

When all the vampires are gone, David comes over to help me clean up. “Four out of five. Not bad.”

“Four out of six. Don’t forget Monroe.” I take a last admiring look at the T-shirt before folding it. “Monroe does exist, right? He’s not just a recording?”

“Of course he exists. But he won’t talk to you.”

“Why not?”

“Think about it. In his day in Mississippi a black man could be lynched for having a conversation with a white woman that wasn’t bookended by ‘Yes, ma’am.’”

“But that was then.” I switch off the projector’s fan. “I’m not saying racism is dead, but—”

“It’s still ‘then’ in his mind, Ciara. He’s old. Fossilized.”

“And he can’t change?”

“None of them can.”

I look at the chair where Shane sat a minute ago.

“Including him,” David says.

“I refuse to believe that.” I stuff the transparencies in the folder. “You saw the looks in their eyes just now. They want to do more than survive, they want to have fun. Does a fossil crave fun?”

He shakes his head. “Remember, they’re not human.”

“I’m not only remembering it.” I grab my bag and head out the door. “I’m milking it for all it’s worth.”

The Smoking Pig is nearly deserted, which makes the music seem louder than usual. Shane is already waiting at the bar, chatting with Lori.

“Ciara, look who’s here.” Lori grins as if she personally dug him up for me.

“It’s just a business meeting.” I point to the brown ale he’s drinking. “Give me one of those.”

“Our very own microbrew.” Lori reaches for a pint glass. “One of my boss’s basement experiments, but I swear it’s safe. This batch didn’t explode hardly at all.”

I climb onto the bar stool. “Hey, Lori—Shane and I have a secret.”

“Cool! What is it?”

Shane turns to me. “You’re kidding, right?”

I pat his arm, which feels cold through his shirtsleeve. “Don’t worry, everyone’ll find out in a couple weeks. But Lori should get the best-friend scoop.”

“Scoop on what?” Her brows pop up as she fills my glass at the tap.

“Shane, along with all the other DJs at WMMP, is a vampire.”

She gives a little laugh and flicks her glance between us. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s our new marketing campaign. You know how each of them has a radio show based on a certain time period? The idea is, each of them actually lived in that time. That’s how they know the music so well.”

Lori sets my beer in front of me. “Cool idea.”

“It gets better. Have you ever heard of the 27 Club?”

“Isn’t that the weird thing where all these famous singers died when they were twenty-seven? Like Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin?”

“And Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain—”

“Robert Johnson, the Stones’ Brian Jones, Al Wilson
from Canned Heat,” Shane adds, his voice low and reluctant. “Pigpen of the Grateful Dead, Badfinger’s Pete Ham, Wallace Yohn from Chase, Uriah Heep’s Gary Thain, Helmut Koellen of Triumverat, Jimmy McCulloch from Wings, the Minutemen’s Dennes Boon, Mia Zapata of the Gits, and Hole’s Kristin Pfaff.”

“Wow.” Lori seems impressed and a little disturbed at his knowledge. She steps away and picks up a rag to wipe the sink. “So what about it?” she asks me.

“Get this: each of these DJs died and became a vampire when they were twenty-seven.”

“Huh.” She looks at Shane. “So how old are you supposed to be?”

He tries to smile. “I’m thirty-nine.”

“It was my idea.” I execute a pitch-perfect hair flip. “We even have T-shirts.”

“That’s brilliant. People will love that.” She gasps and whaps the rag against the bar. “We should have a kickoff party here at the Pig. We’ll dress up all Gothy and serve blood-red beer. It’ll be like Halloween in June!”

I gesture to her and look at Shane. “Can you tell why she’s my best friend?”

She high-fives me across the bar, then heads for the phone near the cash register. “I’ll call Stuart and see if he’ll go for it. It is his bar, after all.”

When she’s out of earshot, I turn back to Shane. “See? Everyone will think it’s a gimmick.”

He pushes his pint glass slowly against mine, gliding it toward the edge of the bar. “This is one of those moments when I ask myself why I like you.”

I catch my glass just before it topples. “Do you have an answer for yourself?”

“Still looking, with hope.” He slides off the stool and heads for the cozy corner table.

I join him with a basket of popcorn, which I place on the table between us. “You all live in the basement of the studio, right? Past the ‘Keep Out’ door?”

He nods. “That door leads to our underground apartment. It has a bedroom for each of us, plus a living room and a kitchen. Not exactly a Park Avenue penthouse, but it’s free. Not to mention safe.”

“Safe from what?”

“Fire, for one thing. Probably a comet impact. Definitely a nuclear blast.” He tugs on the white threads fraying his sleeve. “But the sun is what we worry about most. That’s why the station’s front door is always locked and the windows boarded up.”

“Curtains wouldn’t be enough?”

“Even a little daylight bleeding in around the edges can hurt. So we use civil twilight times instead of sunrise and sunset.”

I read about that in the primer, but my head is a jumble of facts. “Civil twilight is what again?”

“It’s when the sun is six degrees below the horizon. Basically, when humans need artificial light to see. The extra half hour makes a big difference.”

“What happens if you get caught in daylight?”

He thumbs the rim of his glass as he considers. “You ever get a splinter jammed under your fingernail?”

I wince. “Ow, yeah.”

“It’s nothing like that.”

I give him the appreciative
ha-ha
that he was seeking, but refuse to change the subject. “Don’t vague out on me. What happens when you’re touched by sunlight?”

“The same thing that happens when we’re touched by fire.”

His gaze unfocuses suddenly, and he wipes his hand over his forehead.

I have to prompt him. “What happens?”

He jerks his attention back to me. “We burn.”

“But everyone burns in fire.”

He shakes his head. “Humans burn like wood, vampires burn like paper. We can heal from brief contact with sunlight or fire, and we can survive more of it as we get older. You wouldn’t believe how many fingertips Regina and Jim have had to regrow because of their smoking habits.”

“Yikes.” I grab a handful of popcorn, which I notice Shane hasn’t touched. “Do you eat?”

“If I have to, to fit in. But solid food’s pretty bland when you’re dead. Everything tastes British.” He holds up his beer. “Liquids are good, though, if the flavor is intense, like a rich ale or a dry wine or strong coffee, and the drugs in them still affect us, just not as much as they do humans.”

“So what’s the deal with vampires and garlic?”

“Our sense of smell is really acute, so any food that gets into people’s breath and pores can drive us nuts. You can’t get blood without going through sweat.” He sips his beer. “I don’t mind garlic too much. Asparagus, though ...” He makes a yuck face.

“What about blood from banks? No sweat there, so how does that taste?”

“Stale, like three-day-old pizza. It’s also not as healthy. But that’s just for when we’re lazy or desperate.”

I munch another handful of popcorn and ponder last resorts. “Do you ever bite men?”

“Sure.”

“Is that after—I mean, when you bit me, we were . ..”

He looks away like he’s scrambling for a nonanswer.

“You promised you’d be honest.”

He takes another long sip of beer, then wipes his mouth. “Blood tastes better during an orgasm. Theirs, not mine.”

“Oh.” My neck warms. I pull my hair forward to cover it. “And the guys you drink, do you—”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On the circumstances. On the guy. Some, I can barely stand to put my mouth on their necks, much less—” He draws his glass across the table like he’s outlining a battlefield. “All things equal, I prefer women. But we can’t afford to be picky. A totally straight or totally gay vampire will end up a totally undernourished vampire.”

“How long can you go without drinking?”

He sinks back in his chair, looking like he has a headache with my name on it. “Old ones can go weeks. Brand-new vampires need it at least twice a night.”

“What about you?”

He doesn’t answer, just rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, grimacing.

“You don’t look so hot tonight,” I tell him, then realize it sounds like an insult. “I mean, you look—” Hot as ever. “—like you don’t feel well.”

“I’m just thirsty.”

“Okay, I’ll get the next round.” I raise my hand to signal Lori.

Shane grabs my wrist and pulls it back to the table. “No, I mean I’m
thirsty
”

“Oh.” I yank my hand out of his grip. “In that case, I’m not getting the next round.”

He opens his cell phone. “Sorry, I need to leave.”

A Lois Lane-size curiosity (and possible stupidity) surges within me. “Can I come with you?”

He looks up at me from the phone. “You don’t want to do that.”

“Afraid I’ll be jealous?”

“No, I hope you’ll be jealous. But you could also be repulsed.”

“I’ll take my chances in the name of research. And we’ll drive separately, so if I freak out, I can go home.”

“There’s one a few blocks away.” He presses a button, then puts the phone to his ear. “One who likes to be watched.”

A kinky thrill courses through me, along with a vague fear—or maybe it’s a kinky fear and a vague thrill. Please let this donor be a guy.

“Hey, it’s me,” he says into the phone. “Can I come over? Yeah, now, if you’re sure you have enough.” His cryptic words remind me of a drug deal.

“I’m bringing someone,” he tells the phone person. “No, never.” Shane smiles. “Well, I don’t think she’d like that word. Red is good, yeah. See you in a few.” He folds up the phone.

“What word wouldn’t I like?”

He downs the rest of his beer in one gulp, then slides his glass to clink against mine. “Virgin.”

“Don’t say anything,” Shane tells me on the short walk to our destination. “If you need to leave, do it quietly.”

“Are you going to—”

“Please, Ciara, no more questions.” He rubs a knuckle over the corner of his mouth. “I feel self-conscious as it is.”

We turn up the walkway of a brick town house. The porch light illuminates a yard with cheery, tasteful landscaping.

He opens the screen door and knocks softly on the wooden one, even though a doorbell sits to the right.

“Why not just ring—”

“Shh.” He wipes his hands against the sides of his jeans. “Not a word, unless she speaks to you.”

She. Damn it. I’m about to back out of the deal when the door opens. A pretty brunette in her thirties stands there in a very red dress. Its tiny straps show plenty of skin, and its hem swishes just above her knees. I would look so cute in that thing. She wears no jewelry or shoes.

“Shane,” she whispers. “It’s good to see you.”

By the way he’s looking at her dress, I can tell the feeling is mutual. She sends me such a genuine smile that I can’t help but return it.

She beckons us into her tidy kitchen, which is dark except for a light above the sparkling white stove. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

Um, isn’t that why we’re here?

Then I realize she’s talking to me, not Shane. “Thanks, uh, ice water?”

She gets me my drink, then signals us to follow her. At the edge of the dining room, she says, “I just had the carpets shampooed, so take off your shoes and walk on the papers.”