Just One Bite (13 page)

“Let’s see…” I did a little speed-reading through Earl’s profile. “First off, can you verify your address?” He repeated the exact information scribbled on the form. “Date of birth?” Ditto. “Children?”

“Four daughters.”

It was him, all right.

“Have you recently visited a dating service?”

“Can’t say as I have. Met a lady who owned one not too long ago, but haven’t worked up my nerve to call yet.”

“So you didn’t fill out a profile at one beautiful, gracious, fantabulously well-dressed woman’s dating service—Dead End Dating, I believe the name is—just last night?”

“Course not. I was as sick as a dog last night. Been that way for the past two days.”

Since that night at the church.

“I called in and spent the whole evening catching up on sleep. I feel loads better today.”

Because he was no longer possessed by green-and-slimey. The demon had expelled himself in a cloud of foul-smelling flatulence and traded late-model Earl for a newer, flashier Evie.

“Thank you, sir.”

“That’s it? Don’t you census folks usually ask a lot more questions?”

“Did I say census? Silly me. This is the United States
Dating
Bureau. We’re only concerned with your social life, or lack thereof. Since you don’t have one, I don’t have any more questions for you.” I disconnected and sat there trying to come to terms with the truth.

Evie. Possessed.

EVIE. POSSESSED.

EVIE. POSSESSED.

Anxiety swamped me, followed by full-blown panic. My body trembled and I bolted to my feet. I had to
do
something.

I had to call Ash. He would know how to handle the situation.

Uh, yeah. He would show up with his brothers and drag Evie straight to Hell.

I couldn’t let that happen. I owed her. She’d put in months of loyal service without medical or dental or even a paid vacation. She was as committed as I was to the success of Dead End Dating.

No, I had to figure out a way to expel the demon and save Evie before the Prince brothers figured out that she was their Most Wanted.

And cut off her head.

And chopped her up into itty-bitty, teeny, tiny pieces.

And chucked the whole lot into a blazing inferno—

The bell on the front door jingled and pulled me off the Morbid Express.

I stiffened and gave myself a great big mental kick. There was no sense dwelling on what
could
happen, because it wasn’t going to happen. I wouldn’t let it. Somehow, someway, I would get rid of the demon and save Evie before Ash Prince could blink his incredibly sexy eyes, much less figure out the truth.

The soft pad of leather soles echoed in the outer office and the smell of garlic and Dippity-do burned my nostrils.

But first things first—I had to deal with an SOB.

Thirteen

“A
re you sure you didn’t have a bad connection?” Vinnie sat in my office, an impatient look on his face. He glanced at his watch. “Maybe she said I was a hot stud with a really cute butt.”

“No.” I swallowed and summoned my courage.
Again.
“She definitely said you were a big dud and she hated your guts.”

Silence stretched between us as the news settled in. His gaze narrowed and his mouth thinned. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together, his knuckles white. I had a sudden vision of myself tacked up to the nearest wall, a bull’s-eye painted mid-chest, while Vinnie selected a weapon for his record-breaking BV kill.

I slid a discreet hand across the top of my desk (I had a feeling Vinnie had a low tolerance for sudden moves) and retrieved the letter opener that lay near my stack of bills. I scooped it into my top drawer, followed by every visible pencil and pen. The corkscrew I kept on hand for the bottle of AB negative in my minifridge. A container of paper clips and some folder brads.

There. I tried to relax. Short of carrying his own weapons arsenal, he wasn’t—oh, wait. He
did
carry his own weapons arsenal.

My stomach hollowed out.

“That’s the bad news.” I smiled, trying not to act the least bit unnerved by the sudden tension in the air or the all-important fact that I was SO screwed. “The good news is she definitely wants to see you again.”

He looked about as happy as a born vampire during an IRS audit. “I’m through playing games.” He pushed to his feet. “I gave you a chance and you blew it.” His hand disappeared inside his jacket and he pulled out a long, lethal-looking stake that made my letter opener look like a dental pick.

“I didn’t blow it,” I blurted, at the same time mentally surveying my available options. I could (a) use my BV strength to kick Vinnie’s ass and hope his aim was as bad as his hair or (b) make a run for it. Even in stilettos, I had no doubt I could get away (it’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s Super Vamp).

It was the inevitable trip back to my apartment for my clothes and Killer that scared the crapola out of me. Vinnie was sure to be waiting with a pair of gonzo pliers. Being the first toothless matchmaker in Manhattan was about as appealing as sinking my fangs into Rush Limbaugh.

“You want Carmen and she wants you,” I rushed on. “That smacks of success.”

“But you just said she hated me.”

“She hated the wrapping.” I gestured from his head to his toes and back up again. “But she’s willing to stick around to see what’s inside the package.”

He grinned at the last word. “I knew it. She wants me to bone her.”

“She does not want you to bone her.”
Men.
“Not yet, that is. Carmen is a sensitive woman who needs a sensitive man. A man who isn’t afraid to show his true feelings. A man,” I added, “who’s completely in touch with his feminine side.”

“In other words, she wants a pansy.”

“No, she wants a man who isn’t afraid of his inner pansy.” Where did I come up with this stuff? “See, every man has a soft, compassionate nature, also known as the inner pansy. Some men have no problem flaunting their inner pansy.”

“My cousin Paulie showed up at the last family reunion wearing a taffeta dress and a goddamned tiara.”

The fact that Vinnie could distinguish taffeta from the vast number of fabrics stirred a tiny bubble of hope that maybe—just maybe—Vinnie wasn’t as one hundred percent macho as he appeared. “Paulie is obviously in touch with his inner pansy.”

“And his outer pansy. The boy’s as gay as a three-dollar bill.” He shook his head. “You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think I’m jumping the man ship and diving into the fruity Pacific.”

“Being soft and sensitive isn’t about changing your sexual orientation. Vinnie, Vinnie, Vinnie.” I shook my head. “All men, not just the gay ones, have a feminine side. For some men like Paulie, it’s close to the surface. For others like you, it’s six feet under. But regardless, it’s still there.” I tapped my chest for effect. “Inside.”

“Says you.” He didn’t seem the least bit convinced. Still, he shoved the stake back into his pocket, hiked up his pants legs, and sat back down. “I’m telling you right now, there ain’t no inner pansy in a man like me.” I arched an eyebrow, so he added, “Wearing women’s panties every now and then don’t mean shit. Arnold Schwarzenegger wears a Speedo, which is practically the same thing, and there ain’t nothing fruity about him.”

“A man doesn’t stay married as long as Arnold without getting up-close-and-personal with his inner pansy. Which brings us to you.” I eyeballed him. “You want to settle down, right?”

“Damn straight.”

“And you want to do it with Carmen?”

He nodded. “She’s everything my Mama’s ever wanted in a daughter-in-law.”

“Then you have to open up and let it all hang out. Show Carmen you’re not afraid to be sensitive. Stop being so gruff and dangerous. Wear a pink shirt once in a while. Cry during a sappy movie. Watch a re-run of
How to Look Good Naked.
”

He shifted uneasily and my vamp instincts kicked into full gear. A grin tugged at my lips. “Get.
Out.
You watch
How to Look Good Naked
?”

“Only ’cause my buddy Harry—he’s an SOB out of Rhode Island—said they show the occasional boob shot. Fuckin’ idiot. I seen every episode and I ain’t never caught a full boob. Sure, they hint at boobage and even a little trim, but there’s always a bra and some fancy-schmantzy panties in the way of the really good stuff.”

“A pink shirt?” I asked hopefully.

“I’d sooner have cement blocks tied to my ankles.”

“A sappy movie?”

“I’d rather take a bullet to the brain.”

“So sayeth the outer you. I’m sure the inner you is just dying for a
Steel Magnolias
sequel.” I pushed to my feet. “See, Vinnie, people are like onions. They’re made up of many different layers.” I walked around my desk and grabbed the white paper sack that I’d picked up at the pharmacy. “Once we peel back all the machismo, I have no doubt we’ll find a man who’s kind and caring and compassionate.” I pulled out the wax kit.

Vinnie’s eyebrows shot up above his Ray-Bans. “What’s that for?”

I gave him my most reassuring smile. “The first layer we’re peeling away is the hair.”

“See? I told you there was an inner pansy inside of you just waiting to break free.” I handed Vinnie another Kleenex and watched him blow his nose. His eyes were red and puffy, his face wet with tears. “Of course, I didn’t think we’d get to it in just one layer.”

He sat straddling a small chair, his arms folded and propped on the back.

At least that was his current position. For the past hour he’d been as rigid as if rigor mortis had set in, his muscles tight, his body braced as he’d dug his hands into the back of the chair during each painful
rrrrrrrip!

“It looks great by the way,” I added as I eyed his bright pink back and shoulders. “No bleeding at all.” I glanced at a particularly raw-looking patch on his right shoulder. “At least nothing that won’t stop fairly soon.” I pulled off the gloves that had come with the kit. “I think we’d better call it a night.” Otherwise I’d be calling 911.

He mopped at his eyes and sobbed something that sounded like
Thank you.

Then again, judging from the pained look on his face as he un-straddled the chair and the Jersey salute he gave me, I could have been a few letters off.

“Th-this had better be worth it,” he finally rasped after he’d managed to shrug on his shirt. “B-because if it isn’t, I’m not just going after your f-fangs. I’m going to s-skin you alive f-first.”

My hands stalled on my Rolodex, and the triumph I’d felt at finally cracking Vinnie faded into a wave of panic.

“You really know how to ruin a moment.”

“Just don’t jerk me around.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

He stared at me long and hard, the Ray-Bans drilling into me for several heart-pounding moments before he finally shrugged. The action made him wince and he sucked in a breath.

My chest hitched.

What can I say? I’m totally in touch with my own inner pansy.

“Put this on your back and it’ll ease the pain.” I handed him an extra-large tube of Neosporin. “Every hour on the hour.”

“And call you in the morning?”

“Actually, I want you to call me tonight. On the hour, every hour. It’s part of our next exercise.” I scribbled down an address and handed it to him. “I want you to park it in front of this building and keep an eye on the tenant in 3B.”

“Surveillance? What the hell does that have to do with my inner pansy?”

“It’s an exercise in control of the outer asshole. Why do you usually park it in front of someone’s residence?”

“Because I’m going to kill them.”

“Exactly. See, outer is used to stalking someone for a purpose—to pull out their fangs or chop them up.”

“Or skin them,” he added, reminding me of his earlier comment.

“You never just sit back and watch, right?” He nodded and I went on. “This time the goal is to resist the urge to slice and dice and simply keep an eye on the woman in 3B.”

“Were? Vamp?”

“Human.”

He looked disappointed. “What’s the fun in that?”

“The fun is to be had when you announce your upcoming wedding to your mama. Now, if this woman—we’ll call her Slimey—goes anywhere, I want you to follow. But under no circumstances do you make contact with her. You hang back, take notes, and report back to me.”

“For how long?”

“Until we meet back here tomorrow afternoon.”

“But that’s all night and all day?”

“Stop whining. This isn’t a sweatshop. You get the required fifteen minute breaks and a full thirty for lunch.”

“That’s still a helluva long time to sit and watch some broad for no fucking reason—”

“Forget it then. I’m sure I can find you a nice Presbyterian to take to your mother’s birthday party.”

“Don’t get your panties in a wad. I’ll do it. But you’d better know what you’re doing.”

“I’m a professional, Vinnie. I always know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” I told Nina Two when I called her the moment Vinnie left. I explained the situation with Evie and swore her to secrecy. “So what do you think I should do?”