Nice Girls Don't Date Dead Men
Page 4

If I was the best maid, then Dick could be considered Zeb’s man of honor. Dick secured his spot in the wedding party after spending several bonding-filled weeks on Zeb’s couch after his trailer blew up. Gabriel might have been promoted above groomsman had he been in town more often lately … and not made fun of Zeb’s extensive GI Joe collection.
Whether it’s because he genuinely enjoys my company or enjoys irritating Gabriel, Dick and I had spent a lot of time together since I was turned. He became a regular visitor at River Oaks. In fact, he stayed on my couch for a few days after he wore out his welcome at Zeb’s. Using his secret vampire wiles, Gabriel anonymously set Dick up at a nearby apartment because of Dick’s tendency to make comments such as the following.
“Ah, the lovely Jane. I’ve always said you were a dirty girl,” he said, swiping at the dust on my cheek. Dick could be considered attractive if you considered laughing sea-green eyes, razor-sharp cheekbones, and full pouting lips permanently twisted into a mocking, yet somehow seductive smirk attractive. Combine that with the constant barrage of sassy banter, and you got a “You’ll regret me in the morning” charisma that had almost every female who crossed his path melting into little puddles of giggly goo at his feet. I was a rare exception and, as Dick often reminded me, his only strictly platonic friend who also happened to have breasts.
I had a soft spot for Dick Cheney. Technically, it was my fault that his trailer had been torched by Missy in an attempt to frame me for his murder. And in between the disturbing innuendos, there was normally a nugget of likability.
Buried deep, deep down.
“Wow, you are truly master of the single entendre.” I rolled my eyes. “Do your lines work on anybody, ever?”
“I just wanted to check on you, Stretch,” he said, patting my head, a gesture that he knew I hated. “Haven’t seen you in a few days. I worry when I’m not called to save your cute little hind end at least once a week.”
“I don’t have a cute little hind end,” I groused.
“I know, it’s more medium to large, but I was trying to be kind,” he replied, dodging the Pocket Guide to Poltergeist Activity I chucked at him. “Keep that up, and I’ll go outside, take that rusty bucket you call a car, and drive it into a quarry. It would be a mercy killing.”
I squealed. “She’s here?”
I ran outside to find my old Ford station wagon, Big Bertha, parked in front of the store. Dick had used some of his not-quite-legal connections to barter for spare parts and repairs that I could not afford on a part-time shopgirl’s salary. I just had to tutor some were-skunk mechanic’s kids in English for the next semester.
“She’s beautiful.” I sighed, rubbing a loving hand over the dimpled hood.
“It looks exactly the same,” Dick said. “Pathetic. It probably cost you as much in repairs as it would to put a down payment on a decent car that doesn’t smoke when you turn the ignition.”
“Big Bertha was my first car, my first love. Aunt Jettie taught me how to drive in this car. I’m just not ready to give her up yet.”
Dick smiled, an indulgent patriarch tolerating my whims. “I figured, which is why I had Billy make some modifications.”
My hands froze mid-stroke on Bertha’s hood. “Dick, what did you do to my car?”
He grinned. “Well, let’s just say Billy had some ideas for how to make Big Bertha a little more vamp-friendly. Tinted windows, SPF 500, thank you very much. Side-curtain sunshields you can pull down in an emergency. Emergency sun-protection packs tacked under the front seats. A little refrigerated cooler for traveling with blood—it’s cooled through the AC. And the pièce de résistance.” He opened the back hatch. There was a coffin-sized door in the floor of the rear compartment. “An emergency hidey-hole.”
“This is great,” I said. “This is just, wow … “ He shook his head. “Would it be rude of me to question this sudden burst of generosity?”
“Well.” Dick stretched a companionable arm around my shoulders and offered what I’m sure he thought was a guileless smile. “You could put in a good word with your friend Andrea.”
This was the thousandth or so anvil-sized hint Dick had dropped on me to hook him up with my blood-surrogate friend. Most vampires are interested in Andrea Byrne’s delicately flavored, extremely rare AB-negative blood. But Dick was far more interested in the fact that Andrea is also coolly, elegantly, irritatingly gorgeous. The two of them had a strange chemistry, like ammonia and bleach.
Dick and Andrea moved in very different vampire circles. Most of Andrea’s undead clients had houses without wheels. In a deliciously karmic development, Andrea didn’t want much to do with Dick—not because she was a snob but because he reminded her so much of Mattias Northon, a vampire college professor who had seduced her, introduced her to life as a blood surrogate, and dumped her like a bad habit. Smooth, effortless charm just pissed her off. I think being turned down by a woman for the first time in his long, long life fried something in Dick’s brain, because he’d been obsessed since meeting her.
“Oh, you’re pure evil.” I led him back into the store. “You almost had me for a second there, pretending to be all sweet and vulnerable. Did you script this conversation out in your head before you came in here? Is your special vampire power flirty manipulation?”
Dick made a deep, distressed noise and covered it with a cough. “Obviously not. Why won’t she go out with me?”
“She knows your type,” I said. “She’s painfully familiar with your type, Mr. Love ‘Em, Bite ‘Em, and Leave ‘Em.”
“That seems … fair,” he said dejectedly. “Could you talk to her—”
“No,” I said, firmly enunciating each word very carefully. “I’m her friend, not her pimp. Put your big-boy pants on and deal with this yourself. Maybe you could ask her to Zeb and Jolene’s wedding.”
He chuckled. “Speaking of the Gormless Wonder, I got this in the mail today.”
He took a cornflower-blue envelope out of his back pocket and slid it across the counter.
“Wow.” I marveled at the Lavelle-McClaine wedding invitation. I’d been trimmed from the invite list when Zeb and Jolene realized I was honor-bound to attend most of the wedding events anyway, so we didn’t need to bring engraved stationery into the deal. “I’d heard about them, but … there are no words.”
Jolene and Zeb were having a Titanic-themed wedding. Personally, I think centering your nuptials around one of history’s greatest maritime disasters is kind of creepy, but Jolene has a serious Kate-and-Leo complex. I guess I shouldn’t judge. When I was a little girl, I dreamed I would get married in an ancient English castle and ride away in a horse-drawn carriage. And my sister would be tied up in the dungeon. Of course, I also thought I’d be marrying Mark-Paul Gosselaar from Saved by the Bell, and we can all see how that turned out.
Jolene’s theme was a mix of the morbidly historical and old Hollywood glamour. Her wedding ensemble consisted of a rhinestone copy of the Heart of the Ocean and a slightly-too-flattering-to-be-true-to-period costume. Zeb just barely managed to talk her out of having decorative life preservers made up with their names and wedding date. She was, however, using a model of the Titanic to serve chips and salsa. The boat was split in two, the salsa in one side and the chips in the other. She ordered this monstrosity online, along with her wedding ensemble and the invitations with an embossed iceberg on the cover and the words “Struck by Love.” If you looked closely enough at the crags in the pressed-relief iceberg, you could make out Jolene’s and Zeb’s initials.
Some people should not be allowed access to the Internet.
“What exactly are the rules for bringing dates to werewolf weddings?” I asked. “I didn’t get an invitation per se, so I can’t exactly send back a response card with a ‘plus one.’ Then again, Gabriel is a groomsman, so I assume they know he’s coming. You, on the other hand, got an invitation, but it’s addressed to you alone. Are you allowed a ‘plus one’?”
“I haven’t been invited to a wedding in about ninety years,” Dick admitted. “I’m still trying to figure out what those little pieces of tissue between the envelopes are for.”
“Zeb said you guys are doing some sort of manly bowling-drinking-bonding thing this weekend. Do I have to give you the ‘Allow my friend to be hurt by one of your less-than-reputable acquaintances, and you’ll wake up with my foot lodged in your nether regions’ speech?”
“No,” he said, grinning broadly.
“Good, because the title gives away the ending.”
Dick muttered, “See if I help you escape certain death again.”
“Well, do you have any other homicidal ex-girlfriends who might try to frame me for murder?”
He made a rude hand motion I choose not to describe here. It was enough to bring Mr. Wainwright out from the shelves to scold Dick for his lack of chivalry.
“In my day, gentlemen didn’t make gestures like that at ladies,” he said, drawing himself to his full height. All five feet and six inches of him. Osteoporosis had not been kind.
Dick grinned lazily, unashamed. “Once you spend more time with her, Gilbert, you’ll understand.”
Mr. Wainwright’s eyes narrowed, staring. “Do I know you?”
“Yes,” Dick said. He winked at me. “See you later, Stretch.”
“Do you know him?” I asked after Dick left.
He shook his head. “I have no idea. I have a much better memory for books than for people.”
“You’re probably better off,” I assured him.
“I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about Zeb’s upcoming nuptials, Jane. I think I have a book that might help you.” He held up a soft-cover volume titled Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were.
I opened to a section titled “Human-Werewolf Relations” and read aloud: “The best way for a suitor to win over a female werewolf’s father is to present him with a fresh carcass. The larger the game, the more impressive the suit. Deer and elk make a bold statement. Squirrels and rabbits will get you laughed out of the pack.”
I kissed the top of his balding pate. “A book for every problem. I love you, Mr. Wainwright.”
He flushed with pleasure, squeezing my hands. “The feeling is mutual, dear.”
3
Because of their natural animalistic leanings, were-creatures are more connected to their sexual instincts than the average human. Because premarital relations are frowned upon in the were community, were honeymoons generally last three or four times as long as human honeymoons.
—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were
Other than a new career, new hours, new diet, new friends, and a slightly unhealthy sire-childe relationship, not much had changed in the months since I’d been turned.
No, wait, I was going broke. That was new.
My part-time paychecks weren’t enough to fund my “extravagant” lifestyle. Thanks to the wonders of vampirism, I’d been able to cut little extras such as food and medical insurance. But the taxes on River Oaks were coming due soon. The water heater was making weird noises, and there was a suspicious and expensive-looking sag in my roof just over Aunt Jettie’s old room. I had a 200-pound dog to feed and an expensive dental regimen to maintain. And the payment people at Visa were starting to ask questions. The financial juggling was becoming a little more than I could keep up with.
Complicating matters was the delay in my “triumph settlement.” Earlier that year, I’d fought Missy the Evil Realtor to the death after she’d framed me for a series of crimes, all in an effort to obtain River Oaks—or, rather, the property River Oaks stood on. My sprawling old family farm was the keystone plot in a tacky undead condo development she had planned. Frustrated by Aunt Jettie’s refusal to sell, Missy had decided to use the World Council for the Equal Treatment of the Undead’s laws governing vampire behavior to yank the property out from under me. So I didn’t feel too bad about running her through with one of her own realty signs.
In the vampire world, if you kill another vampire in battle, you get all of his or her stuff. And since Missy had spent years amassing property and swindling vampires out of their homes, that amounted to quite a bit of stuff. But after months of red tape and delays, I wasn’t holding my breath for the council to fulfill its promise to fork over Missy’s holdings anytime soon. Of course, holding my breath wouldn’t really matter one way or the other, but …
I hadn’t told anyone about my financial woes, not even dearly departed Aunt Jettie. There was nothing I could do. I was stuck. I was too fond of Mr. Wainwright to leave Specialty Books. Even though I was basically an unglorified sales clerk with two advanced degrees, I’d gotten the distinct impression that Mr. Wainwright had come to depend on me. He was doing less and less at the shop, opening later, going to bed earlier in his little apartment over the store, and leaving me to close. I couldn’t abandon him.
If I told my parents I was having money problems, Mama would, well, I don’t think she would insist I move back in with them now. But I’m sure my life, liberty, and pursuit of healthy boundaries would be infringed upon in some way. And while Gabriel had made repeated offers to help me out financially, that just wasn’t relationship baggage I wanted.
Most sire-childe relationships are not as complicated as ours. Gabriel is dark and intense, obsessive to the point of being just this side of creepy. Some guys bring you flowers and candy; others exact biblical revenge by pushing trees on top of the drunk hunter who fatally shot you. I’m more of a crunchy-granola-pacifist vampire, so I found this rather disturbing. OK, it was a tiny bit hot but mostly disturbing.