Love Bites (7 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I shouldn’t have said that to Peter. We were having a good time looking at the Christmas decorations, and I think I dampened the mood of the evening with my diatribe about humanity. I had the were attack in the back of my mind, and the fact that I didn’t know who he was or why he’d come after me was pissing me off. Not to mention that I hadn’t done away with him when I had the chance. So I started railing about the Deluge and the War of the Triple Alliance, the Herero genocide, and, of course, the Armenian genocide. “You know what Hitler said when he ordered his death-head units out?” I asked Peter. “ ‘Gas the Jews; who remembers the Armenians?’ ” That left Peter sort of speechless; I don’t think he’d ever heard it. Actually, Hitler’s exact words were “Who, after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?” I memorized them at the time. Right after I drained an SS officer. But I shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place; it wasn’t very festive. And certainly not on a second date. I shouldn’t have gotten started. But, you know, it’s one thing to read about the horrors mankind has perpetuated over the last five hundred years and quite another to have seen a lot of them with my own (sometimes raging red) eyes.

Anyway, I finally changed the subject. Peter asked about the films we had in production, and I told him one of my favorite agent stories—about the time we offered Matthew MacFadyen a role in
Drown with Love
and heard back from his agent that he hated the script and wasn’t interested, but that they had Denis Leary as a client and he’d love to do it. So we started negotiations with Denis, whom I love as well, and that weekend I ran into Matthew at a fund-raiser for blood disease. I told him I was sorry he hadn’t liked the project, we thought he’d be great in the role. He didn’t have any idea what I was talking about. His agents had never shown him the script or told him about the offer. They figured they could get more money for Denis, so screw their own client Matthew. Needless to say, Matthew’s not with them any longer.

That was the same agent who made an appointment with me to discuss a series idea he wanted Anticipation to produce. He handled the writer and Jeff Bridges, who was interested in starring. The writer and I made a date to meet at the agent’s office, but when we got there, his secretary said he was tied up on a conference call and it might be a bit of a wait. We waited. A half hour later, she tried to persuade us to reschedule the appointment because she said he was going to be on the phone a while longer. I rarely go to an agent’s office to begin with, they come to me, so I was already beginning to steam. I said we were there and we weren’t going anywhere, we’d wait. A half hour later, I got a call on my cell phone. It was the agent. He said he was in Aspen, Colorado, at the Comedy Festival and he’d gotten hung up and was really sorry, but he was going to have to reschedule. I told him he’d better look for another studio to “reschedule” with because I wasn’t interested in wasting any more of my time. The writer went home, hopefully to change agents, and Maral drove me over to Universal, where I was meeting Ron Myer at the commissary. And guess who walked in? Aspen—my ass.

I regaled Peter with a couple more industry stories, and then the Doobie Brothers came up on his iPod and we took turns trying to hit Michael McDonald’s high notes. Peter won.

We sang all the way to our next stop, which was a funky little outdoor restaurant in Glendale, with a four-piece band playing Armenian music and Peter’s friend SuzieQ doing a belly dance. I loved it.

I noticed Peter was careful not to get too close to me when he opened the car door, which was good; the smell of him only weakened my control all the more. He was worried about getting burned, and I was worried about doing the burning. If I didn’t concentrate, I’d be changing in the middle of the parking lot.

He smelled like fresh rain. Like green apples and comfort. Like “come lay your head on my breast and let me crush you to me”—whatever that smells like. I write horror films, I’m not so good with romantic descriptions.

He looked great, too. In black pants and a black David Bowie concert tour T-shirt with a beautiful dragon graphic and Japanese writing on it. It must have had Lycra in it, because it hugged every muscle on his chest, just the way I would have liked to.

SuzieQ was in the middle of her set, dancing to a guitar, a clarinet, a dumbek, and an oud. The host led us to a round table away from the dance floor. I suspected Peter had requested it because it was one of the more private spots on the patio. Peter ordered meza—a large plate of appetizers SuzieQ could share with us (and no one would notice if I didn’t eat)—yalanchi, souboereg, tourshou, keufteh, little squares of lahmajoon, and taramasalata, hummus, and tabouli for scooping onto pita. I felt like I was back in the old country again.

“Did you remember I was from Armenia when you decided to come here?” I asked. Very few people know my real nationality. As far as the public is concerned, Ovsanna Moore is third-generation Hollywood royalty. My “grandmother” came over from Europe in the early 1900s, and until “I” arrived, my “mother” had me going to boarding schools in London and Paris. Certainly no one except Maral and my clan knew my real name—Ovsanna Hovannes Garabedian.

“I wish I could say I did. That would make me pretty thoughtful, wouldn’t it?” He used three fingers to pop a stuffed grape leaf in his mouth. “But the truth is, SuzieQ suggested it. She’s here every other Tuesday. And she likes having friends in the audience.”

She was great fun to watch in her two-piece outfit: a push-up bra that barely covered her nipples and gave her generous breasts plenty of room to bobble; and an ankle-length, low-cut skirt made of a gauzy fabric sheer enough to see through, cut in panels so it opened when she danced. Her legs were long and muscled. I remembered the exotic dancers from my parents’ village; they didn’t look anything like SuzieQ. They were short, dark-skinned women with plenty of belly fat to roll around. And mustaches. Plenty of mustaches. Armenians thought they were sexy.

SuzieQ didn’t have a lot of belly fat, but she could really roll what she had. The women at the tables laughed and poked their husbands in their sides. The husbands laughed and tucked one-dollar bills into the waistband of SuzieQ’s skirt. The single men smirked and tucked five-dollar bills on top of the ones. By the time she finished her number, I couldn’t see her navel for all the cash. She took a bow and came to sit with us.

The host turned out to be the owner of the restaurant. He arrived at the table with a bottle in his hand. SuzieQ introduced him as Kerop Shamshoian.

“
Ahman asdvatz.
You’re the movie star, aren’t you? In my restaurant!
Parev!
Welcome, welcome. Have some raki. It’s good! We make it ourselves.” He pulled three shot glasses out of his pocket and set them on the table.

Raki is Armenian moonshine. If Kerop made it himself, it was probably two-hundred-proof alcohol. I shot Peter a look that said, “Help me out here,” and hoped he remembered that drinking anything but blood wasn’t high on my list of favorite things to do. Kerop uncorked the bottle and filled the glasses. Peter distracted him with a question about the menu, and while he was raving about his shish kebab, I emptied my shot glass under the table. Then we all said,
“Kenats’t,”
and Peter and SuzieQ downed the raki while I pretended to do the same. Even SuzieQ didn’t notice my sleight of hand. It helps, being an actress.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The raki was having an effect on me. Or else it was Ovsanna. She actually got up and danced with Suzie in the middle of the room, doing one of those chain dances where everyone holds hands and snakes through the tables, stomping and kicking their feet. I scanned the restaurant, worried about photographers or somebody from the job recognizing one of us, but I didn’t see anyone I knew. A birthday celebration was taking up one side of the room, and all the attendees were speaking Chinese. I don’t think anyone there recognized Ovsanna at all. I could tell from the head nods and whispers at a couple of the other tables that some of the patrons knew who she was. Two teenage boys, twins, came over to ask for her autograph. One of them gave her his baseball cap to sign and the other his skateboard.

She was gracious with both of them. Not like some of the jerks I have to ride herd on when I’m working. It seems to me these celebrities are where they are because of their fans; it doesn’t take much for them to be courteous, at least. Of course, I haven’t been on the receiving end of the obnoxious asshole fans who think it’s their right to demand the stars’ attention, either. Maybe hanging out with Ovsanna would change my mind.

God knows I’d changed it more than once already, where she was concerned. Seeing her again, after the way she’d KFC’ed me on Sunday night, didn’t seem like the smartest choice I could have made. But I couldn’t stop myself. Even there in public, all I wanted to do was grab a handful of her black, curly hair, and pull her across the table and kiss her. I didn’t care who was watching, I just wanted to feel her under my lips, explore her mouth with my tongue. Hope I didn’t cut myself on any hidden canines.

Instead, when she reached out to pull me on the dance floor, I flinched.

She laughed and dropped SuzieQ’s hand. Suzie grabbed the next person, and the line danced on past us. “Ah-ha, afraid you’re going to get burned again, huh?”

“Well,” I said, “can you blame me? You’ve never been on the receiving end of whatever that thing is that you do, have you?”

“No, I haven’t. But I promise you, Peter, the next time I lay my hands on you, you won’t suffer.” She had a teasing smile in her eyes.

“And when might that be? This laying on of hands?”

“Oh, I don’t know. What did you have in mind for the rest of the night?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I had to give Peter credit: Any other man would have driven right back to my house to take me up on my offer (Casanova pounced on me within hours after we met). I wouldn’t have minded, either. Every cell in my body was bouncing around in anticipation.

Instead, Peter said he’d planned one more stop, and he drove us to another street, this time in North Hollywood. It had only one house on it decorated for Christmas, but the decorations were unlike anything I’d ever seen. We parked across the street and walked over to stand on the sidewalk in front of it.

It was a one-story suburban home, painted white, I think. I couldn’t tell for sure because every inch of the house was hidden behind the most incredible decorations. Movable miniature sleigh rides and ice-skaters on a rink. Santa’s Workshop, where elves pounded hammers and slid down a pole to deliver toys. The Elf Diner with red paper flames flickering in the fireplace. Thousands of lights formed icicles, candy canes, Christmas bells, Santa’s sleigh and reindeer on the roof. It must have taken a month to design.

“How did you know about this, Peter? It’s exquisite.”

“It’s my nephew’s teacher’s home. She and her husband decorate it like this every year. It’s been on the news. Pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

I nodded, stepping in front of him to look more closely. He wrapped his arms around me. Tentatively at first, I think until he knew it was safe. I leaned back against his chest, my head fitting just under his chin. I could feel his heart pounding against my back, my own heart matching his in its rhythm; I could hear his blood running through his veins. And smell him—God, he smelled good. His hands were warm on top of mine. My body started to tingle, a weakness spreading up from between my legs to my breasts and down my arms. I was melting inside. I turned and looked into his eyes. I saw desire there, and acceptance. I raised up on my tiptoes to meet his mouth—

And a car pulled up next to us. Five screeching kids slammed open the doors of a minivan. They shoved their way around us, pushing us back towards the curb, their parents yelling at them to keep their hands off the decorations.

I almost released my fangs. Goddamn it to hell. I was so aroused that I was on the brink of a change. I had to close my eyes and concentrate to keep the whites from turning red. Those kids didn’t know how close they’d come to getting tossed down the block.

Peter started laughing. He grabbed my hand and we ran to the car.

“It could have been worse,” he said. “They could have recognized you and asked for your autograph. And then asked why your eyes were so bloodshot.”

We got back to the house, and Maral’s car was gone. Good. I wanted to get Peter inside and pick up where we’d left off. He’d run his fingers down my arm while we were driving, and my whole body was vibrating.

Until I saw movement at my bedroom window. Shit. Another werebeast? The same one? What the hell was going on?

I grabbed Peter’s arm and whispered to him to stop the car. We were halfway up the drive.

“What is it?” he asked.

There wasn’t time to tell him much. “Someone’s here, Peter. In the house. Someone or some thing.” He gave me a look that said, “You’re kidding, right?” and then reached across me and took his Glock out of the glove compartment.

I wished I were.

My vision sharpened. There was a thick cloud cover, but I didn’t need moonlight to see. I sniffed the air and scanned the grounds. Nothing was out of place. The geese were quiet. That briny odor Maral had brought home with her was still in the air, but nothing else. Whoever—or whatever—it was had been inside for a while. If it was a vampyre, getting in wouldn’t have been a problem, but a were would have had to break something. All the front windows, at least, were intact.

We got out of the car quietly. Peter didn’t have to tell me to leave my door open. He stepped in front of me, his gun held loosely in his hand, and led the way to the front door. I had to smile at his chivalry. Maybe it was just his cop’s nature, but it tickled me to know he thought he could protect a vampyre from danger.

Silently he motioned me to unlock the door and check the alarm. It was off. Something was definitely wrong; Maral always armed the system when she left the house.

We both heard the movement at the same time. Whatever it was was in my upstairs office. Something scraped across the wood floor. Peter took the stairs two at a time, and I was beside him in an instant. My claws were out; I let my fangs unsheathe. If it was the werewolf, Peter’s Glock wasn’t going to do us much good. I didn’t want to tell him that.

“Police!” he yelled. “Come out of the room with your hands in the air.”

That wasn’t going to do us much good, either, but that was another thing I didn’t want to tell him.

More scraping and then the weight of something moving across the room. I put my hand on the knob to tear the door off its hinges.

Maral’s voice came from the other side. “Ovsanna?”

“Oh, my God. Maral?”

Peter pulled me away. He had his gun on the door. “It’s Peter King, Maral. Will you come out, please? With your hands above your head.”

“Maral, are you alone? What are you doing in there?” My body was flooded with adrenaline.

The door handle turned slowly. Maral pulled it open and stepped back into the office with her hands up. She looked terrified.

“Come out, please. Are you alone?” Peter demanded.

She nodded, her eyes wide with fear. “What is it? What’s going on?”

Peter pushed past her and cleared my office. He passed through the adjoining doorway into my bedroom, cleared that and my dressing room, and ran down the stairs to check the rest of the house.

I turned on Maral. She didn’t know about the incident with the werewolf and I didn’t want to frighten her, but boy, was I pissed. And frustrated as hell. My desire for Peter had brought on the Thirst big-time. I wanted to tear somebody apart. What the fuck was she doing still in the house?

It was all I could do to retract my fangs. “Where’s your car, and why are you here?” I snapped. “You were supposed to go to the beach house.”

“I gave my car to Jamie’s friend to go get something to eat. Then he was gonna check into the hotel and drive himself to the studio in the morning. I didn’t want him staying with me. And I just thought I should wait until you got home to make sure it was okay if I took the SUV to the beach.”

That was a fucking lie. The media call me the Scream Queen because I’ve starred in so many horror films, but the people who know me well know there’s another reason for the name. You don’t want to piss me off. Maral knows that better than anyone. She also knows she doesn’t have to ask me to use one of the cars. She was pissing me off.

“That’s bullshit, Maral,” I hissed. “I wanted you out of here and you stuck around on purpose. And now you’re lying about it. If something’s bothering you—”

Peter walked into the room before I could say any more. Maral was cowering against the wall.

“There’s nothing here, Ovsanna. Not in the garage or guesthouse. And I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. The Captain just called, I’ve got a dead body to look at. Will you be okay?”

“Not as okay as I would have been if you could stay and everyone else would leave . . . but”—I turned to stare daggers at Maral—“
we’ll
be fine.”

I walked him down the stairs and out to his car. He warned me to put the alarm on when I went back inside and gave me one of his business cards to give to Maral, so she’d have his number in case of a real threat. I’d made the right decision, not telling him about the were attack. I didn’t want him worrying about me. He drove away with a wave and nothing more. The mood had definitely been broken.

But my Thirst hadn’t. I was so frustrated, if I could have bitten my own arm and satisfied myself on myself, I would have done it. But that doesn’t work. At least not for me. It’s impossible to concentrate on sucking while I’m being sucked, if I’m the one doing the sucking.

I stomped back up the stairs and threw Peter’s card on the hallway table. Maral was in her bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the doorway. I was across the room in an instant, pushing her down on the satin coverlet, grabbing both her wrists, and holding them above her head. I straddled her body, kneeling with my legs on either side of her. I didn’t want her wrist this time. I was too angry to be seductive. I wanted blood. Right then. I wanted to feel her flesh split open as my fangs pierced her skin and sank into the wetness of her, all the way up to my gums.

She stared at me. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down the sides of her face. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she turned her head to the right, resting her dampened cheek on the sage-colored satin. I doubt if she meant it. After all, she was getting what she wanted.

I jerked her head back and put my mouth on her throat and fed.