Just One Bite (24 page)

“That’s true.”

“It isn’t every day that the perfect woman comes along. Stop worrying and embrace the new you. A little change never hurt anyone.”

“Tell that to my back.”

My next phone call was to Mia.

“How did it go?”

“Not so good.”

“No sex?”

“We only did it twice.”

“The impotent bastard.” Twice? In three hours? That was more action than I’d seen during the entire Clinton administration. By my own choice, I reminded myself. I’d already decided to give up meaningless sex and find my one and only.

An image of Ty appeared, and my brain went
cha-ching!

I
really
needed to get more sleep.

“I was going to play the sex down a little,” Mia went on. “And just act like twice was okay. But I shouldn’t have to put up a front just to please some guy. I want a man who likes me for who I am. I shouldn’t have to pretend I’m something I’m not, should I?”

“No, no, pretending isn’t good. At the same time, a little change never hurt anyone,” I heard myself say for the second time that night.

“So who’s next?” she demanded.

I pulled up my list of prospects, which consisted of last night’s dud and Evie’s cousin, Word.

“I do have this one guy. I wouldn’t call him the most experienced lover on the block. He’s a little quick on the draw, but he definitely gets an A for effort.”

“Bring him on.”

“There’s just one thing.” I thought of Word and his rabbit fetish. “How do you feel about small, furry animals?”

“I love ’em. So does Pooky my python. He’s always up for a good snack.”

“I’ll set it up.”

Twenty-three

I
was at the coffee shop at a quarter to ten. I sat in a booth and stared at the church that towered across the street. It was an old stone building with lots of stained glass and a bell tower. Lights gleamed from inside, casting colorful patterns on the concrete steps. The place radiated an old-world charm that reminded me of rolling French countryside and a certain stable boy named Andre.

He’d been my first crush—a young, strapping human—at a time when I’d been intent on rejecting my inner
vampere
and pissing off my folks.

Oh, wait…I was still rejecting my inner
vampere
and pissing off my folks. Only now it wasn’t intentional. Really. I
wanted
to embrace my born-vamp heritage. To do my duty and populate the species and give my mother a wallet full of grandkid photographs to pass around at her monthly huntress club meetings.

I just wanted to do it with someone I actually loved.

Like Ty.

I nixed the thought as soon as it struck.

I
so
didn’t love him. For all the obvious reasons, of course. And even more because he was a selfish jerk. That was the only explanation for The Kiss. If he’d had even an ounce of feeling for me, he would have wished me luck with my life and said
adios.
But nooooooo. He’d had to kiss me and remind me exactly how fiercely the chemistry burned between us.

We’re talking a full-blown nuclear reaction, as opposed to the tiny flicker I felt whenever I was around Remy.

Which had been his intention.

The rat bastard.

Fergie started singing, indicating my new ring tone, and I whipped out my cellphone. For a split second, I thought maybe Ty had smartened up and decided to apologize. I glanced at the caller ID.

Make that a stubborn rat bastard.

“Why are you calling me when you should be proposing to the perfect woman?” I asked Vinnie.

“I’m getting to it. I’m just waiting until everyone finishes eating. Then right before they bring out the cake, I’m going to pull Carmen off to the side and ask her.”

“Does your mother like her?”

“She let her stir the spaghetti sauce.”

“She likes her.” I smiled. “Sounds like you’re all set.”

“Yeah. Shouldn’t I be more excited about this? I mean, if she really is the perfect woman, this ought to be easy?”

“Think of it like a Band-Aid. You’re dreading it, but once you work up the courage and just rip, it’ll be over and done with.”

“A Band-Aid,” he said. “I can do that.”

I hung up, slid the phone back into my purse, and went back to staring out the window. And trying not to think about Ty.

I pictured tomorrow’s outfit and I went over my list of questions for the black market exorcist Father Duke. But then ten o’clock rolled around, and then ten fifteen, and then ten thirty, and, hey, a girl could only think so much about one measly outfit and an exorcism. My only saving grace was another phone call from Vinnie.

“I think I should wait until after the cake,” he told me. “I wouldn’t want to upstage Italian Crème.”

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m just waiting for the right time. And for the Rolaids to kick in. And the wine. Then I’m gonna do it.”

“Swear?”

“Fuckin’ A.”

I hung up and my thoughts shifted to the scarred tabletop, then the checkerboard curtains. I stared at the menu and glanced at the ancient Coke sign that hung above the cash register.

The Coke bottle made me think of how thirsty I was, which made me think of the great big bottle of O positive sitting in my fridge, which made me think about warming said blood in my microwave. Warm blood reminded me of Ty and just like that, I was thinking about him and his kiss and—whew, was it hot in here, or was it just me?

I tugged at the neckline of my glitter tee and reached for the ice water sitting in front of me. A huge gulp, and the glass was empty. I signaled the waitress for a refill.

“You sure I can’t get you anything else?” She paused when she finished topping me off.

Melba Donelli. Mid-forties. Married. No kids. She wore a bright pink uniform and white Keds. Her bright red hair was teased and sprayed within an inch of its life and she wore an even brighter red lipstick. A Jersey native, she’d been born and raised just a few blocks over. She knew everybody in the neighborhood. She also knew every piece of gossip.

“A piece of pie?” she went on. “A burger? Tonight’s special is meatloaf.” She wiggled her carefully painted-on brows. “How’s about I cut you a nice big slice?”

“No, thanks. Could you tell me what time it is?”

“Five minutes since you asked the last time.” She shook her head. “Can I give you a piece of advice, sugar?” I nodded and she added, “If he ain’t here by now, he ain’t coming. You ought to just cut your losses, have some pie, and start fresh again tomorrow. Life is one great big cookie and you can bet there are plenty of chocolate chips where that one came from.”

Her meaning hit and I shook my head. “It’s nothing like that. I’m not waiting on a date—”

“A date,” she cut in, “a friend, an acquaintance, a sex buddy—whatever you kids call it these days—you’re much too pretty to let some guy string you along. You ought to be out living it up instead of warming the vinyl in a place like this. Bowling. Now there’s a fun pastime for you, and a surefire way to meet a man.”

“Bowling, you say?” Hey, I’m always looking for new hook-up venues.

She nodded. “Met my husband Don when I joined the Rock ’n Bowlers over at Fairbridge Alleys. Watched him bowl that first strike and bam, I fell hard and fast. I showed him my curve technique and we’ve been together ever since. Just celebrated our fifteenth anniversary. He got us matching balls.”

I smiled. “He sounds like a keeper.”

“You’re telling me.” A wicked gleam lit her eyes. “And lemme tell ya, the man knows how to bowl a strike, if you know what I mean. Say, my Don has a younger brother. Been divorced a couple of times, but only because he has a bad habit of mistaking sex for love. I swear the boy’s a nympho—but then what man isn’t, right? Forget the tramps, I tell him. Find yourself a nice girl.” She eyed me. “You look like a nice girl.”

“Thanks, but I’m already seeing someone.”

Or I would be just as soon as I saved Evie from the bowels of Hell and called Remy.

Lil Tremaine. Lilliana Tremaine. Princess Lilliana Tremaine.

It had a ring to it.

Sort of.

“It figures,” Melba went on. “The good ones are always taken.”

“Not necessarily.” I thought about Mia and the crappy time she was undoubtedly having with Word at that very moment. “I just might be able to help him out.” I pulled a DED card from my wallet. “Tell him to give me a call and I’ll find him the perfect woman.”

She eyed me again. “You sure you’re spoken for?”

“Yes.” The word came out as more of a croak than the confident reply of a born vampire eager and excited to take the next step in her life.

Princess Lilliana Marchette-Tremaine.

I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat. “You wouldn’t happen to have a chocolate martini, would you?”

“I’ve got chocolate meringue pie?”

“That’ll work.” Hey, if I couldn’t drink it, I could at least smell it.

Just as Melba walked away, the bell on the front door jingled and the youngest priest I’d ever seen walked in. His hair was mussed and he had a zit on his chin.

No, seriously. A
zit.

“Father Duke?”

He shook his head. “I’m Father Bryce.”

No, seriously.
Bryce.

“Father Duke’s assistant,” he added. His gaze collided with mine and his stats ticked off one by one.

Father Bryce McGhee. Twenty-one. His two best friends had gone into the police academy and he’d joined the church. While most boys had spent their childhoods fantasizing about becoming a firefighter or a Power Ranger or Brett Favre, Bryce had envisioned himself as the Pope or Gandhi or Mr. Rogers.

No, seriously—never mind.

“So how long have you been a priest?”

“About six months. How about you?” He arched an eyebrow. “How long have you been a vampire?”

“My entire—wait a second.” I stared into his eyes, which glimmered with a knowing light. “I’m, uh, there’s no such thing,” I blurted.
Vampires DO NOT exist.
I sent the silent thought and he smiled.

“Forget it. It doesn’t work.”

I’d never heard of priests being immune to born-vamp charisma, but hey, what do I know? I wasn’t exactly the worldliest born vamp in existence. “Religious immunity?”

He shook his head. “Drugs. One tiny pill and bam, we’re vampire-proof.”

“Really?”

“No.” He started laughing. “Just a little secular humor. Actually, we’re vamp-proof because we’re celibate. Vampires are, in their most basic form, extremely sexual creatures. They draw power from their sexuality and influence others with the unspoken promise of pleasure of the flesh. Since I’m not interested in fleshly pleasures, I’m not susceptible. Of course, I’m not made of stone either, so I can still hear you. So how long?” he persisted.

“I…” I caught my bottom lip and debated my options. I could stay incognito, forget the exorcism, and head for the door, or I could shove him up against the nearest wall and pat him down for concealed weapons.

“Don’t worry,” he assurred me. “I’m in the demon department. The church, for the most part, leaves the vamps to the SOBs. We deal strictly with evil spirits.”

I stared deep into his eyes for a little confirmation. No, no stakes. But he did have a handheld cassette recorder in his coat pocket, a cellphone and a travel-sized toothbrush and floss because, while his mother had been a religious zealot, his father had been a dentist.

“I’ve been fanged and fabulous my entire life,” I finally said. “Five hundred years old.” And holding. “You couldn’t tell?”

“We’ve been trained to sniff out a vamp, but it’s impossible to know if they’re born or made. I’ve met my share of made ones, but you’re my first born vampire.” He whipped out the cellphone. “Do you mind if I get a picture?” He slid into the booth beside me, held out the phone to arm’s length, and snapped. The camera flashed and I blinked.

“Is that standard procedure? To take a picture of any vampire you meet?”

“Just the ones on TV. So far I’ve got you and Angelina Jolie.”

“Angelina?” I wasn’t an expert when it came to Others, but I knew my own kind. “She’s not a born vampire.”

“Made.” When I looked surprised, he added, “You didn’t think an actual human could be that hot, did you?”

The man had a point.

He slid off the vinyl and folded himself back in the seat opposite me. Excitement lit his gaze as he proofed the pic. “I can’t wait to show the monks over at Lady of the Blessed Virgin. They’re going to
die
—”

My ringtone cut off the rest of his sentence and I reached for my phone. “Could you excuse me one sec? I just need to get this. Don’t tell me you’re waiting until after the presents?” I asked Vinnie once I’d hit
TALK
.

“Communion.”

“At your mother’s birthday party?”

“I told you she’s very religious. Goes to Mass as often as I go to the crapper. Father Paul is even here—he’s the head priest from St. Anthony’s and he doesn’t come out for just anyone. The last time he attended a social event, he was at Madison Square Garden with Tyson. Anyhow, he’s going to say a few words and give my mother a special blessing before she starts opening her gifts.”