Your Coffin or Mine? (9 page)

“Y
ou’re never going to guess what just happened.” Evie’s voice carried over the line later that afternoon when I finally managed to wake up and answer the blaring phone.

“Good or bad?” I mumbled, blinking away the last fuzzies of sleep.

“Think fabulous.”

“I won a free shopping trip to Donna Karan?”

“Better.”

“I won the lottery?”

“Even better.”

“My mom called to say she’s sorry for the guilt and manipulation and wants to buy me a Mercedes to make up for the pain and anguish she’s heaped on me for most of my life?”

“I said fabulous. Not miraculous. You got a call-back.”

“A what?” I asked as I forced my legs over the side of the bed. Something soft squished between my toes.

Killer.

“
Manhattan’s Most Wanted,
” Evie went on as I glanced down and wrinkled my nose. “You made the cut. You are now one of eighty applicants being considered for the new season that starts next week. They called about fifteen minutes ago. I would have called sooner, but the phone started to ring so I’m just now getting to you. You have to go down to the television station by six—that was the latest appointment I could get you—for more questions.”

I glanced at the clock. Five minutes shy of 5:00
P.M.
I levitated a couple of inches and did a quick float to the bathroom, where I found Killer lounging on my favorite towel.

“You’re in big trouble, mister.”

Yeah, yeah,
his gaze seemed to say, as if he knew I was already hooked on his sorry little black hide.
I’m shaking in my fur.

“Are you there?” Evie asked as I eased down in front of the sink, turned on the water, and hiked my foot under the spray.

“I’m here, but you’re not,” I said to the oblivious cat. “Pack your bags, bozo, because you’re out of here.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“A stray I brought home.”

“Is he cute?”

“Not that kind of stray. A cat.”

“Oh, I love cats. I have two.”

“Do you want another?”

“Sorry. My building only allows two pets. Listen, they’re also going to do a five-minute interview tape, so be sure to wear something colorful.”

“What about smelly?”

Evie laughed. “You’re new to motherhood. Don’t worry. It’ll get easier. Just make sure you put fresh litter in the box every day and eventually the accidents will stop. There’s always an adjustment period.”

I hate you,
I mouthed to the cat, who continued to smirk. I dried my foot on a hand towel and grabbed a handful of toilet paper.

“Aren’t you excited?” Evie asked as I padded back to the bed and scooped up my morning surprise.

“Thrilled. I’ve always wanted a great big pile of poop.”

“I’m not talking about that; I’m talking about
MMW.
Isn’t it just the greatest? To think you might actually get to meet Mark Williams in person.”

“Mark who?” I deposited the cleanup in the toilet and flushed.

“Williams. That cute weather guy. I just heard that he was picked by
People
magazine as one of their fifty hottest New Yorkers,” Evie told me as I walked into the kitchen and grabbed an unopened bottle from the fridge. My gaze snagged on the milk and I contemplated payback for Killer.

Starvation.

Mutilation.

Painful death.

Unfortunately, I got the heebie-jeebies from all three, so I ended up pouring a saucer of milk for the cat and nuking a glass of O positive for myself.

“Since when does
People
pick fifty hot New Yorkers?” I leaned against the kitchen cabinet and sipped my breakfast while Killer lapped up the milk.

“They’re doing it for every state. Sort of a tribute to local celebrities. The Big Apple issue comes out next week and will coincide with the first episode of the new
MMW.
I hope you make it.”

“Uh, yeah, me, too.”
Not.

But while I had no intention of making the actual show, I wouldn’t have minded another go with the rest of the women who’d made the cut. I’d done my best to circulate last night, but with Ty on my mind, I’d only introduced myself to maybe half. If I went back, I could meet the rest and even branch out to the
MMW
staff, from the single, twentysomething receptionist with the dark roots to the divorced camera guy with the foot fetish. Talk about some needy candidates.

Never fear, people. Lil is here.

“So are you coming to the office or are you going straight over to the station?”

“I’ll swing by and check in first. How are things going?”

“Well, the reason I couldn’t call you right away is because the second I hung up with the
MMW
producer, I had three phone calls from women who didn’t make the cut. They want us to hook them up. I set up their appointments for tomorrow.”

Great.

“And your mother called.”

Not so great.

“She said she’d like you to bring at least one prospect with you on Sunday for the get-together.”

I.e., the
hunt.

Forget backyard barbecues and homemade ice cream. Being eccentric as well as anal, my father refused to let go of tradition. He felt it his parental duty to see that his children were able to stalk and subdue, in addition to plopping down a twenty at the local deli for the bottled blood type of the week. That, and he liked to show off his latest golf swing.

So we met each week at my parents’ Connecticut estate to watch his Tiger Woods impersonation and ravage the more than hundred acres in the name of sustenance. Since this was the twenty-first century and born vamps liked to keep a low profile, we hunted each other—the
it
person—instead of plundering nearby malls and sinking our teeth into unsuspecting shoppers. The pot of gold? Extra vacation days from Moe’s.

Since my brothers were all gainfully employed in the family business, they lived for the hunt and the extra days off. Max had flown off to Spain for an entire two weeks with his extra days. Rob had cashed in his to buy another Porsche. And Jack had used his to go scuba diving in the Amazon with a set of twin bimbos named Lolly and Dolly.

I, on the other hand, had my own fantabulous business far away from the printing and copying mecca. Therefore, I didn’t enjoy the hunt in any way, shape, or form.

Still, I dragged myself to Connecticut every week. I was already the ungrateful, irresponsible daughter who refused to settle down and propagate the species with one of my mother’s numerous fix ups. I was not going to be the ungrateful, irresponsible daughter who pissed away four hundred years of tradition
and
refused to settled down and propagate the species with one of my mother’s numerous fix ups.

“Fill me in.” Evie’s voice pushed into my thoughts. “Since when did we start matchmaking for your mother?”

“Since last night.”

“Is it another one of her friends?”

“No, nobody from the country club.” Aka the Connecticut Huntress Club, an organization of born female vampires who met to interact and sip Bloody Marys (literally) and match up their unmatched children.

“Thank heavens. Those were the pickiest women I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”

If she only knew. But I wasn’t ready to declare my vampness to Evie just yet (if ever) for fear she’d freak and quit. She did a great job. Even more, she could spot a designer knockoff at fifty paces. And so I kept my fangs to myself and let her believe my mother and her friends were merely pompous aristocrats rather than pompous bloodsucking aristocrats.

“So who is it?” she wanted to know. “Who are we doing this time?”

“My brother Jack.”

“But isn’t he already getting married?”

“That’s why she wants me to match him up. She’s totally against the wedding.”

“And you’re going to do it?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you do. Just tell her no. Tell her that what she’s asking of you is too much and you can’t do it.”

“You know, you’re right.”

“Of course, I am. Just bite the bullet and tell her. The fear of the unknown is much worse than the actual confrontation.”

“I’m glad you said that. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

“No problem. That’s what I’m here for—to help in any way I can. If you need someone to match up the biggest loser in the Bronx, I’m your girl. If you need someone to schmooze the landlord, consider it done.”

“How about if I need someone to call and break the news to my mother?”

“Is Jack a leg man or does he prefer a nice ass?”

“I thought so. Wuss.”

“What can I say? I have my own crazy mother to deal with.”

“Any other messages?”

“Two bill collectors and my cousin. He said something about you promising him a date?”

“Not with me. We’re going to match him up.”

“
My
cousin? Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

“He can’t be that bad.”

“All I’m saying is that if you have a rabbit’s foot, I’d definitely pull it out for this one.”

“He seemed nice in a pierced, tattooed, reject sort of way.”

“He also tried to French kiss me last Christmas under the mistletoe.”

I shrugged. “He’s desperate. You’re an attractive woman. Things happen.”

“He tried to French Fergie last Christmas under the mistletoe.”

“Another cousin?”

“My great-great-uncle’s elderly girlfriend.”

“He’s desperate. She was once an attractive woman. Things happen.”

“When she didn’t go for it, he tried to French her great Dane, Oodles.”

“Sounds like I might need more than just the rabbit’s foot.”

“Exactly.”

“That was a joke.”

“If you say so.”

“Anything else?” I rushed on, eager to kill the sudden visual, otherwise I would never look at Thumper in quite the same way. “Any calls from the opposite sex?”

“A guy named John called. Said you had his number.”

“Anyone else?”

“No, Ty didn’t call.”

“I didn’t say anything about Ty.”

“You didn’t have to. Look, I know you like him. It’s obvious. Why don’t you stop waiting and just call him?”

“It’s not that easy. I’ll see you in an hour,” I told her and quickly hung up.

I eyed Killer, who’d crept out of the bathroom to stare up at me with bright green eyes. “Do it again,” I warned him, “and we’ll forget all about the rabbit and go for a cat.”

I smiled evilly and he actually stepped back. I wasn’t much when it came to hands-on annihilation, but I could bluff with the best of them.

  Eleven

I
showered and changed and left Killer with my downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Janske, who owned two dozen cats and three birds. I promised her a case of air freshener (too many mothballs + too many pets = one stinky apartment) and she promised to call if he misbehaved or missed me (her words not mine). I headed off to work with minimal guilt.

The second I stepped out onto the front stoop, I knew Gwen the private investigator/schoolteacher/ depraved divorcée was on the prowl again.

Click, click.

The sound ticked away in my head as I headed around the corner and up the block.

Click, click, click.

I made a mental note not to do anything vampy—no shape-shifting or sinking my fangs into the cute guy who worked the newsstand. I was just going to act normal. That, and give her several decent pics to take back to her mother. Proof that I was just like every other New Yorker headed off to the daily grind.

I paused every few minutes to give her a good shot.

Me checking my watch.

Me buying the latest issue of
Vogue.

Me vamping the newsstand guy because I forgot to go to the ATM to get money to pay for the
Vogue
—oh, shit.

Me prying the guy’s hands off my ankles and getting the hell out of there before he tried to tackle me and declare his undying love.

Me on the next block checking my shoe for fingerprints and not looking the least bit winded.

Me retouching my lipstick.

Me flipping my hair.

Me flipping off a cab driver who hit a pothole and sprayed water on my shoes. (We’re talking new Delman cotton wedges—I’d decided to go for the feminine, floral look. So
now,
especially with my embroidered Lulu Guiness clutch, a daisy quartz necklace, and a chiffon Moschino dress.)

Me fighting down a raging vamp temper as I watched the yellow blur disappear up the street. I came this close to hauling A after him and curing him of his discourteous driving once and for all.

I had a feeling that flaying a hardworking citizen would be frowned upon by the city council, so I walked into Dead End Dating instead.

Evie had already left and Word was hard at work on the docking station in my office. Since I couldn’t look at him and not think about poor Thumper, I quickly stocked up on business cards and answered all life and death e-mail. Nina One, aka Nina Lancaster—daughter of hotelier and ancient vampire Victor Lancaster, who owned, among others, the Waldorf Astoria, where she played hostess to feed her designer clothes addiction—wanted my opinion on her latest accessory acquisition. Meanwhile, the other half of the Ninas, Nina Two—of sanitary products fame—wanted my opinion on a birthday present for her commitment mate.