Dead End Dating (11 page)

Meanwhile, my two best friends collapsed on the sofa and kicked off their shoes.

“You really should let your hair down once in a while,” Nina One said as she eyed me. “Since when do you pass up Chinese?”

“Since I decided to open my own business.”

“You still have to eat.”

“True, but I’m keeping things simple and frugal for right now. I have to stay focused.” And feeding—the real thing—was a definite distraction. Not to mention, I really hadn’t been in the mood for Chinese. Now, if the delivery guy had shown up in a cowboy hat and boots, that would have been a different matter altogether.

I was focused, not dead.

Not technically, that is.

“Y
ou’re just in time,” my mother declared when she opened the door Sunday evening. “Your father just pulled out his golf clubs. Oh, and don’t say anything about your father’s hand. He and that woman next door got into it earlier this evening when your father went to trim the hedges. He has a bit of a cut. Nothing a little sleep won’t cure, but of course he’s stuck with it until morning.”

Okay, so it wasn’t like I could
not
show up. My parents would disown me if I didn’t put in an appearance. Worse, they would tell all of their friends what an ungrateful excuse for a daughter I was—which meant I could kiss good-bye the small trickle of clients my mother had sent my way.

This was strictly business.

“Don’t you have a gardener who clips all the hedges?”

“Your father knows how riled up Viola can get, and he doesn’t want to put Mr. Wellsprings in any sort of danger. Good gardeners are so hard to find.”

“Dad just likes to make Viola mad,” I pointed out.

“He simply likes to stand his ground, dear. Viola Hamilton is a beast, and your father isn’t about to be bested by a werewolf, of all things. Those hedges are on
our
side of the property line, and the sooner she realizes that, the better.”

My parents had lived next door to Viola for eighty years. If she hadn’t realized it by now, she wasn’t going to. I pointed this out to my mother, who merely gave me a “keep quiet and get inside” look.

Strictly business.

I tried to remember that over the next hour as my brothers slowly trickled in and I watched my dad demonstrate his latest twist and putt technique with a bandaged right hand.

But we’re talking an
hour.
For one three-second technique. Which meant my eyes were crossing and I was
this close
to throwing myself off the nearest balcony and sprinting back to Manhattan—my favorite Manolo Blahnik stilettos be damned—when my last and youngest brother finally showed up.

Like my other brothers, Jack had the typical Marchette good looks, with dark hair and deep brown eyes and a sexy aura that had women worshipping at his feet.

Or carrying his duffel bag.

“Where should I put this, Jack?” She was a redhead and she was human and she looked at Jack as if he were the biggest, most decadent chocolate brownie on the menu.

Note—Jack was the only brother who always showed up with a little someone extra.

My mother frowned disapprovingly. My father shook his head and grinned. Obviously the “boys will be boys” mentality crossed all race and culture barriers.

“Mom’s ready to kill you and so am I.” I hugged Jack and barely ignored the urge to tighten my arms and crush a few ribs in the process. But then he would have been inclined to crush me. We would end up wrestling around like when we were kids and the traditional hunt would be ruined due to fractured bones and pierced organs and the desperate need for rejuvenating sleep.

Then again, what was a little excruciating pain and a few extra hours of sleep if it got me out of the hunt?

“What?” he asked me. “You don’t like Tammy?” He eyed the woman who stood across the room shedding her coat, her gaze fixed on him. He smiled, and she all but orgasmed right on the spot.

“I couldn’t care less about Tammy,” I said under my breath. “You’re late.”

“It’s eight-thirty.”

“We meet at seven-thirty,” I informed him.

“I could have sworn it was eight-thirty.”

“We always meet at seven-thirty.”

“Since when?”

“Since about five hundred years ago.”

“Are you sure?”

Jack may be a mega-hot vampire, but he wasn’t the sharpest thorn on the family tree. He was the youngest next to me, and he was still stuck in the I-can’t-see-beyond-my-dick phase that all males go through. For humans, this usually occurs in puberty and lasts through the twenties. For vamps, it’s the first six hundred or so years, also known as the Sexed-Up Six Hundred.

I know. It sounds like a NASCAR race. In a way it is. Male vamps spend this entire period honing their sexual techniques and are, for the most part, in a constant race to see how often they can get off.

I smiled. “Jack’s here. We can get started now.”

My dad poised for yet another demonstration of his swing. “Not yet. We’re still missing someone.”

I made a quick visual count. My brothers had gathered around Jack to check out his latest minion. My mother stood across the room and poured herself a glass of wine—the real stuff because my father didn’t allow anyone to
drink
drink before a hunt. He said it dulled the instincts and killed the driving hunger that made us natural-born predators. “One set of parents. Five kids. And a Tammy. Who could we be missing?”

“Your father invited someone to join us.” My mother downed half her glass in one gulp and cast another disapproving glance at Tammy.

A hollowness settled in the pit of my stomach. “Please tell me the someone is female.”

“You like females?” My father poised in his putt and shot my mother an alarmed look.

“No, but they do.” I motioned toward my three brothers. “The extra someone is for one of them, right?”

“Now, why would we try to fix up your brothers?” Meaning, my parents felt my siblings were doing just fine on their own.

I raised my eyebrows and glanced at Tammy, who’d picked up a wineglass and was now holding it to Jack’s lips so he could take a drink without busying his hands.

“He’ll grow out of it.” My mother leveled a stare at me. “It’s you we’re worried about, dear.”

“Tell me you didn’t invite someone for me?”

“His name is Wilson Harvey.”

“Once Wilson Harveaux,” my father chimed in. “Before his family simplified things for their auditing business.”

“An auditor? You fixed me up with an
auditor
?”

“A CPA,” my mother clarified. As if it made a difference. “A very successful one, I might add.”

“And he’s just franchised his firm.” My dad was big on franchises (see Moe’s). “He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

“And he’s eager to settle down.” My mother smiled. “He was just about to a while back—about ninety years ago—when his intended was involved in a car accident and the steering column pierced her you-know-what.” She held a hand to her own chest. “Anyhow, he just hasn’t gotten out much since then. Since you aren’t getting out either, we thought the two of you could join forces and get out together.”

“A date.”

My mother frowned. “Our kind don’t
date,
dear. We discuss. One good solid conversation is all that’s necessary to know if he’ll make a decent eternity mate. You ask him the important questions, such as how much money he makes and his fertility rating, he’ll ask you the pertinent stuff, and that’s that.”

No kissing. No holding hands. No flirting or teasing or enjoying each other’s company. Just two people discussing fertility ratings and “pertinent stuff.”

Okay, so this is, like, my heritage and all. But sometimes I think being a born vampire bites the big one.

Now was definitely one of those times.

“I’m not ready to settle down, Mom.”

“Because you haven’t met someone who’s viable material. Tonight that’s all going to change.”

“No, it’s not. I don’t need you to fix me up.”

“Of course you do, dear. Otherwise, I’d have a grandchild by now. Why, Loralee Hoffmeyer has twenty-nine grandchildren. And sixty-eight great-grandchildren. And one hundred and three great, great-grandchildren. And one hundred and sixty-two great, great, great-grandchildren. And…”

My mother went on, her normal pale complexion pinking around the cheeks and nose. “…want is one.
One
grandchild to carry on the Marchette name and continue the bloodline. Is that too much to ask?”

“Couldn’t you ask it of them?” I pointed to my brothers, who were busy discussing the hindrance of big boobs (Tammy had them) when trying to pierce the lower jugular during a sex/eating fest.

“Your brothers will settle down when the time is right.” My mother said this with such faith that I couldn’t help but wish I’d been born with a penis. “It’s you we’re worried about, dear. At least they’re trying out different women and looking.” She motioned toward the handsome trio. “But you”—she shook her head—“
you
haven’t found one decent prospect for yourself.”

I wanted to point out that Tammy was
human,
and the only thing decent about her was the Antonio Mellani handbag she carried, but I knew my mother would just make another excuse.
Jack’s young. Jack’s in his prime. Jack’s perfecting his carnal skills.

Jack Schmack.

“You have to start thinking about the future.
Our
future. Our kind would have died out ages ago if all females were as picky as you, dear.”

“I’m not picky. I just have high standards.”

“Then you’ll love Wilson.” The sound of a doorbell punctuated her sentence. “That’s him.” She nailed me with a stare. “You’ll meet Wilson and talk fertility ratings, and I’ll be that much closer to little Annabella Jacqueline Marchette.” My grandmother was Annabella and my mother was Jacqueline, and I was shit out of luck.

“Wouldn’t that be Annabella Jacqueline Marchette Harvey?”

“Argueing semantics will not get you out of this, Lilliana.” She said my name with a stern look that had me closing my mouth before anything else came out.

Wilson Harvey was tall, dark, and handsome with vibrant green eyes and a statuesque nose that hinted at good breeding (is there any other kind among us born vamps?). He wore his dark hair short and neat. He had high cheekbones and a
GQ
face. A three-piece suit molded to his perfect physique. He smelled like decadent rum sauce. Rich and sweet with a potent edge.

Rum sauce and cotton candy?

Not.

I smiled as my mother made the introductions and went to pour Wilson a glass of wine.

“So.” I smiled and resisted the urge to turn and bolt. “My mother tells me you’re an auditor.”

“Yes. I have a two-forty fertility rating.”

O-kay. So much for small talk. “That’s, um, impressive, Wil.”

“It’s Wilson. How many times can you orgasm in one encounter?”

This was the “pertinent stuff” my mother had mentioned. Fertility ratings were the cinch factor for male eternity mates, while the OQ told the tale for the females. See, female born vamps couldn’t just fake it. They had to actually orgasm, which released an egg, which gave them a shot at conception. So the more, the better.

“I can hold my own,” I told him.

He gave me a serious look. “I need a number.”

“Maybe two.” He frowned. “Or three, or four.” I wasn’t trying to encourage him. At the same time, I had my pride, and the scream and release capability obviously factored in. “Say, do you play golf? My dad’s got this great new move…” I effectively turned Wilson’s attention and spent another fifteen minutes watching my father and his golf clubs.

But hey, it was better than talking multiple Os with Wil—
son.

“I guess we should get started,” my dad finally declared as he shoved his driver into a red leather golf bag.

Agreement echoed around the group, and I chimed in, ready to get the whole evening over with as quickly as possible. I would lay low as I always did during the hunt, and my brothers would pursue it with the same zealousness they always did, and I’d be back on my way to the city in no time.

“I thought we’d mix things up a little tonight,” my dad said as he wheeled his clubs into a nearby corner. “The past few months, Jack’s been
it
eight times.”

My youngest brother shrugged and turned his head so that Tammy could dab a drop of wine from the corner of his mouth. “That’s right. Why do I always have to be it?”

“Because you can’t draw for shit,” Max told him.

“Drawing straws doesn’t involve skill. It’s all about luck.”

“And you’ve got the worst in the family.”

“Boys.” My father glared at his sons, and they quieted. “I don’t think it’s fair that Jack hasn’t been able to hunt and have any fun, so I thought we would just start rotating. That way everyone will get to hunt on a regular basis.” My stomach bottomed out even before my dad turned his attention to me. “Since it’s been forever since Lil’s had a turn, I thought we would start with her.” My dad smiled as I prayed for lightning, or even a thunderbolt, to strike me smack dab in the middle of my suddenly tight chest. “You’re
it,
dear.”