Just One Bite (12 page)

“Piranha.” She blew out an exasperated breath. “It just didn’t work. We’re too opposite. I idolize Mother Teresa and read poetry and watch the ballet. Guess who Vinnie idolizes?”

I crossed my fingers. “Gandhi?”

“Jimmy Hoffa. He also reads the obituaries and watches WWF.” She sighed. “If we were concession candy, I’d be a Three Musketeers and he’d be a giant Jawbreaker. The guy has no feelings. There was a woman walking around with roses and I hinted that I would really like to have one. Do you know what he said? He said flowers were for funerals and that when I kicked the bucket, he’d be happy to send me a whole truckload.”

“At least he’s not cheap.”

“He’s morbid. And crude
and
obnoxious, and I don’t think he has a compassionate bone in his body.”

“You know, Carmen”—I summoned my most convincing voice—“that’s a little hard to believe. Vinnie is actually one of our most sought-after clients.”

“He is?”

“Of course.”
Not.
“I mean, I know he doesn’t make the best first impression, but he does have other good qualities.”

“Like what?”

“Nice hair,” I blurted after a long, contemplative moment. “He’s got very nicely groomed hair.”

“Would that be the hair on his head, or his back? Because he took his shirt off to flex for me before I climbed into the cab. He was so furry that I couldn’t tell if I was looking at his pecs or his shoulder blades.”

Definitely too much info.

“Talk about poster boy material for a heavy-duty wax job,” she went on. “As for the hair on his head, I swear he uses an entire bottle of Dippity-do. Even a tornado couldn’t do any damage.”

“I know he’s a little fifties when it comes to the hair, but retro is in”—I thought of Vinnie’s Gucci jacket—“and back hair aside, he does know how to dress.”

“He wore all black. I felt like I was talking to a funeral director.”

“Don’t be silly.” I summoned a laugh. “Vinnie’s not a funeral director.”
Although he does contribute heavily to the industry.
“He’s in the, um, cleanup business.”

“Does he recycle?” She sounded hopeful.

I thought of the bones in his sock drawer. “Sort of.” While I wasn’t sure that he was using them for anything other than souvenirs, at least he wasn’t cluttering up the local landfill. “He’s definitely into conservation.” Before she could say anything, I rushed on. “Why don’t you give him another chance? Maybe you two just got off on the wrong foot last night. He’s a little rough around the edges, true, but beneath the surface, he’s a sweet guy.”

“Really?”

“A marshmallow,” I assured her. “You just have to get past the hard shell.”

“He picked his teeth with a razor blade.”

“You can’t blame a guy for good hygiene. Come on, give it one more try. I promise you won’t regret it.”

“And if I do?” She sounded hesitant.

“I’ll reimburse your profile fee.”

“I didn’t pay a profile fee.”

Oh, yeah. “A free spa trip,” I blurted, thinking of my monthly spray tan appointment with Dirkst (next Wednesday, six p.m.). The man had the fastest gun in New York. He also had a twin brother. “Two full hours with the one and only Devin. He gives the most magnificent Swedish massage.”

“A massage?”

“Not just any massage. A Devin massage. You know what they say about a man with big hands?”

“That he has a big penis?”

That, too. Those thin white spa pants left little to the imagination.

I shook away the sudden image. “I’m talking about his grasp. Guys with big hands usually have strong fingers. They can go after those deep muscles like nobody’s business.”

“I
have
been under a lot of stress lately,” she said after a long silence. “A massage might be just the thing to take the edge off.”

I rotated my head and listened to the
snap, crackle
and
pop
of my own muscles. Maybe I needed a visit with Devin and his gonzo feelers myself.

“So you’ll give Vinnie another chance?” I persisted.

“Did I mention the hair on his shoulders?”

“I’ll throw in a pedicure.”

“One more date, but that’s it.”

“Monday night,” I told her. “I’ll call with the details.”

Twelve

A
fter I hung up with Carmen, I headed up Lexington and quickly outlined a plan of action before I dialed
casa di Balducci.

“Just tell me where and when,” he said when he picked up the phone on the second ring. “And I’m there.”

“Dead End Dating. One hour.”

I know, I know. I was definitely digging my own grave by not setting up the date for tonight, but if I wanted to make this work, I couldn’t send Vinnie back into play without softening him up a bit first.

A few minutes and another coffee spill later, I pushed through the front door of DED to find Evie sitting behind her desk.

While I didn’t require her to work on Saturdays, she usually stopped by in the afternoons to get organized for the upcoming Monday. That, and for the occasional client who couldn’t spare the time to stop by during the week.

“New client?” I set the paper cup on the corner of her desk. Shoving my hand deep into my bag, I retrieved a wet wipe to mop at my coffee-drizzled skin.

“Just lining up a few matches for Monday. Is that for me?” She snatched up the coffee before I could say
“No, it’s for me. I didn’t know you would be here,”
and downed half the scalding liquid in one swallow. “Man, I fucking needed that.”

Time.
Out.

Since when did Evie go around using the f-word? Sure, I did it myself, but only in extreme circumstances—when I burned myself with the curling iron or someone cut in front of me at the Starbucks or when Killer took a dump inside my favorite suede boot.

But in normal, everyday conversation? Try never.

I eyed her and noted her pale complexion. “Is everything okay?”

“You bet.” She downed the other half of the coffee, wadded up the cup, and slam-dunked it into the nearest trash can before turning back to her computer.

The hair on the back of my neck prickled and something niggled at my gut.

I know, I know. She was a grown woman. If she wanted to say
f-this
and
f-that,
who was I to say anything about it? I terrorized poor, unsuspecting humans and drank their blood for Damien’s sake.

All right, so I bought the stuff already bottled from my favorite deli. The point was, I wasn’t one to be waving my finger at someone else.

I cleaned my hand, tossed the used wipe, and shifted my attention to the task at hand. “Do you think it’s too late to get a hot wax kit?”

“I could probably pick one up at the pharmacy around the corner. They’re open until eight on weekends.” She grabbed a stack of manila folders, pushed up from her desk, and started toward the file cabinet. “Just let me put these away and I’ll head over.”

As usual, she looked office fab in a flowing white silk top, gray slacks, and worn camouflage Crocs—

Wait a sec.

I blinked, but they were still there. Still worn. Still camouflage. Still
Crocs.

I tried for a nonchalant voice. “Those new?”

Evie shoved the folders into the top drawer and glanced down. Her eyes widened as if seeing the shoes for the first time. “They, um, belong to my maintenance man. He leaves them by the front door every night.”

“Okay, I’ll bite.” Not literally, of course. While Evie and I shared everything from fashion tips to man troubles (she thought Ty was as megalicious as I did), I’d yet to come out of the coffin. Not because I didn’t trust her. Rather, I’d disappointed my parents enough by snubbing my nose at the family business—in particular the closet full of beige Dockers and lime green polo shirts also known as Moe’s trademark uniform. I wasn’t going to break the number one born-vamp commandment—Thou Shalt Keep a Low Profile—and add another black mark to my already tarnished record. “Why exactly are you wearing your maintenance man’s shoes?”

She looked as puzzled as I felt. “I don’t really know.” She shrugged and closed the cabinet with a loud
thunk.
“I guess I was in a hurry and just grabbed the first pair I saw.” She walked back around her desk, opened the bottom drawer, and traded the Crocs for a pair of rhinestone ballet slippers she kept on hand for aching toes.

“One hot wax kit,” she said once all was right with the fashion universe again. “Coming up.” She reached for her purse.

At least, I thought it was her purse. One of those new box types from Chanel that were all the rage in Paris.

Only I’d never seen a Chanel box bag with
MANNY’S CHINESE TAKEOUT
printed in bright red letters on the side.

Evie took one look at the take-out carton and her hands started to tremble. Her face went even whiter and her bottom lip quivered. “What’s wrong with me?” she finally asked, the question so soft and vulnerable that my chest tightened.

“PMS?” I asked hopefully.

“My period was last week.”

“Post-PMS?”

She gave me an odd look. “Funny.”

“Just trying to keep the situation light.” Not. Thanks to my DNA, I’ve never actually had a monthly visitor (tampons so didn’t fit with the gorgeous and glam born-vamp image). “Maybe you’re out of sorts”—
and crazy as a loon
—“because you’ve got the flu.”

She shifted her desperate gaze to me. “You think so?” I nodded and she tugged at the collar of her blouse. “I do feel a little flushed. And the room is sort of spinning.”

“Why don’t you call it a night and head home?”

She sank into her chair and blinked several times as if trying to shake off a dizzy spell. “But I haven’t finished my matches for Monday. I need to make reservations and notify the parties involved and—”

“I can do it.” I ignored the ridiculous urge to hug her. Born vamps didn’t hug. They sneered and looked down their noses and behaved like typical pompous asses.

Then again, BVs were all about the almighty dollar. Since Evie was my ultra-faithful employee, any “mothering” on my part would fall into the category of good asset management.

I gathered her things and pulled her to her feet. Sliding an arm around her, I steered her outside.

A few seconds later, I loaded her into the backseat of a waiting cab, gave the driver a twenty, Evie’s address, and a mental command:
Get her home safely or I’ll hunt you down and use you for a chew toy.

“Take a bath, put on your sweats and veg in front of the TV,” I told Evie before I shut the door. “You’ll be as good as new after a few
CSI
reruns.” FYI—in addition to having great taste in clothes, my assistant had a thing for David Caruso and the entire Miami gang.

I stood there until the cab disappeared up the street. Turning, I tried to shake off the feeling that something wasn’t right. It was the flu. Or some other nasty virus that humans were so susceptible to. End of story.

That’s what I told myself. Evie had a bug and I had a date with Vinnie and his back hair. I headed around the corner to the pharmacy and tried to decide on the best way to broach the makeover with Vinnie. Instead, I found myself thinking about Evie and how strange she’d acted.

How different.

“If it isn’t you,”
Ash’s voice echoed in my head,
“it’s someone. Someone who’s been in the vicinity.”

Someone like Evie.

But why? How? Where? When?

The questions rushed through my head, pairing up with the slim amount of information that I actually knew.

Why
had me completely stumped.

How?
She had to have touched the demon, or someone possessed by the demon.

Where?
According to Ash, the demon had been right here at DED, or nearby. Maybe the alley out back. The walkway out front. The coffee shop around the corner.

When?
I didn’t know that either. I only knew that she’d been her old self last night when she’d waltzed into room A to deal with Earl.

A completely different man from the one I’d met at the church. The one who’d been summoned on his walkie-talkie to report to the sanctuary right away for a cleanup.

My fingers itched. I could still feel the green slime courtesy of Ash’s Most Wanted.

Had Earl been cleaning up after Slimey and accidentally touched him? Had he inadvertently soaked the little bugger up and brought him here to DED?

There was only one way to find out.

I left the wax kit on Evie’s desk and rifled through the cabinet until I’d unearthed his file.

Walking into my office, I sank down into my chair. Flipping through his information, I found the phone number and punched it in.

“Earl Hubert Stanley?” I asked when a man’s familiar voice carried over the line and dread settled in my stomach. “The Earl Hubert Stanley who works at St. Michael’s?”

“That would be me. Who is this?”

“United States Census Bureau. We’re doing a, um, telephone poll for our latest statistics and you’re next on my list.”

“Okay. Let me just turn down the TV and I’m all yours.” I heard some moving around and the groan of an easy chair, and then Earl said, “Shoot.”