The Vampire Book of the Month Club (4 page)

She sits up. “Well, I'm sorry if I'm too busy out shooting movies in order to buy ramen noodles to feed
you
when you come back from your signings to actually go to one!”

I snort and throw a silk pillow at her.

We both know we're being ridiculous, but despite the late hour, it's too fun to stop. Besides, there are plenty of throw pillows to go around. The school provided us with furniture in each of the two-room dorm suites, but of course Abby and I weren't happy with the suede-and-polyester sectional number they gave us when we first moved in, so we had to redecorate. Silk throw pillows—not to mention a matching couch and love seat combo—were our first step. Matching silk curtains, a fireplace unit—for our silk Christmas stockings, natch—oriental end tables, and lots of earthen bowls with beaded balls (Abby's fave accessory) followed.

Now the dorm suite is a stylish affair and our favorite place to hang—that is, when we're not at signings or on movie sets or in class or at the gym or . . .

“Hey,” she says, out of throw pillows now and eager to get back to basics. “
Paperback vriter
. What about this hot mystery man you were talking about?”

“I'm tired,” I say, ignoring Abby's use of her favorite term for me, a dig on my chosen specialty in fang fiction. “I'll tell you all about Reece tomorrow. In fact, you can meet him, if you want.”

Now she's really sitting up.

“Whoa, wait, you're not going anywhere until you dish this-here dirt. Reece? Tomorrow? You know his name
and
you're seeing him again? When did you, of all people, become a player? What gives, sister?”

“You'll be seeing him too. That is, if I can ever get you up in the morning. He's going here now, to Nightshade. Starts tomorrow, in fact. His freshly printed schedule was in his book, and when I went to sign it, it slipped out, and I saw that he was—”

“Ah, this guy is slick.” She smiles, kicking my feet off the coffee table for emphasis. “You think he just happened to show up and just happened to hand you a book to sign with his schedule inside?”

“Yeah, sure,” I mutter, almost defensively. “It happens all the time.”

“Really, Nora, when was the last time it happened? Tell me, quickly!”

“OK, never, but . . . it didn't
look
staged, if that's what you're implying.”

“So it didn't look staged. That just means he's really, really good at it.”

She looks at me funny, like a troop leader checks out the Girl Scout who sold the most boxes of cookies when he didn't think she had it in her. “Nora, you might just have your first stalker.”

“Stalker. Yeah right. I
wish
someone cared enough about me to track me down, find out what school I attend, register there, print out his schedule, buy one of my books, come to one of my signings, slip his schedule into the book, and hand it to me just so we'd have something to talk about for two-point-three minutes.”

Hm, what's that I tell my vannabes at every book signing?

Be careful what you wish for.

Yeah, if only I'd thought of that before I agreed to meet Reece at my locker the next morning.

F
or the record, Reece never shows up at my locker the next morning.

He never shows up at my locker at all.

Instead he shows up in homeroom, bearing flowers and chocolates, and literally gets down on one knee to apologize.

Yeah, OK, I know I'm a writer, but I am seriously
not
making this up.

But wait, let me back up a bit and break it down for you.

So I got here bright and early, really early, because I'm not used to meeting hot guys at my locker.

Heck, I'm not used to meeting
any
guys at my locker.

OK, maybe Wyatt Cash, but he's different. (And in a
very
good way.)

And I'm there, at like 6:45—even though Abby warns me to play hard-to-get and arrive after 7:16—and I'm dressed, well . . . elegantly.

For me, anyway.

Typically I shlub through my days as much as possible. There's no uniform at Nightshade Preparatory Academy for Exemplary Boys and Girls (yes, it actually does say that on our school sign, thank you very much), so typically I just do the baggy jeans, (mostly) clean T-shirt, and hoodie look. But today Abby swore she wouldn't let me out of the dorm suite in anything less than business casual, so I had to look through my closet for something a little more appropriate.

Only when I was in snug black linen slacks, a white cotton turtleneck, and wobbling around on unfamiliar—to say nothing of uncomfortable—black heels did she let me leave the room, and only then when she'd grabbed a bright red satin scarf from one of the many pegs on her wall and cinched it tight around my waist.

So there I stand, reeking of Abby's imported French perfume, looking ridiculous next to my black-painted locker from 6:45 to 6:50 to 6:55 to 7:00.

I get excited around the 7:03 mark as I see the crowd in the commons area part for a staggeringly handsome teen.

But then I recognize my other best friend, Wyatt Cash, strolling up. As usual, his appearance makes my heart race in a very romance novel way, though by now I've learned to control the sudden blush that used to creep into my cheeks every time he appeared. To say nothing of the thumping of my heart or the soft, rosy glow in the pit of my stomach. I look at him, his hair close-cropped, his jaw square, his eyes a shimmering blue. He's looking athletic, as always, in a sleek white tracksuit that is so
wow, that's so retro-hip it's cool again
it must have been a gift from one of the sportswear companies he frequently models for.

“Nora!” he says, clearly surprised to see me loitering at my locker so close to the first homeroom bell. “Aren't you afraid you'll get an almost demerit if you get to homeroom only ten minutes early?”

I slug his shoulder. “Where'd you get the new duds?”

He flips the jacket collar, striking a pose as he replies, “I just did a gig for this new European sportswear company. This is their latest. Dig it?”

“Very sporty,” I say, forcing myself not to look for Reece over Wyatt's broad shoulder. “Look out—you could start a new trend.”

“If I'm lucky. Hey, listen. Sorry I couldn't make it to your signing last night, but . . . something came up.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, slugging him again. (Man, his biceps are hard!) “What was her name?”

“Very funny.” He leans against the locker next to mine. “Turns out they needed some extras on Abby's new flick last night, so I figured, this could be my big break, right? Who knew I'd be buried under three pounds of zombie makeup, but Abs promised I'd get my name in the credits, so at least it will be good for my reel, right?”

My cheeks flush with sudden, irrational jealousy. “Absolutely. Abby told me they needed extras, but she didn't mention she'd made a special request for male models to show up.” I try to keep the resentment out of my voice.

Wyatt shrugs. “Yeah, well, she probably just didn't want you to know she was the reason I couldn't make it to your signing. So how'd it go?”

I shrug back. “It went just like all the other book signings you and Abby can never make it to.”

He laughs again, his teeth pearly white but charmingly crooked, like his smile and sense of humor. “You know none of us male models can read. What if I do show up and someone picks on me and asks me to read a passage out loud?”

“I guess I should thank you,” I say, my heart fluttering as I catch sight of Reece over Wyatt's shoulder . . .

Nope, no, false alarm. Just that tall kid from the deodorant commercials.

“If you ever were to come to one of my signings, the girls would all mob you, and I'd be left alone at my little table, signing my name on the tablecloth in despair.”

“Who are you looking for?” One of his eyebrows arch; the other one, too.

“What? Who? Nobody. Why?”

“Nora, you are the worst liar. If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were waiting here for someone. Oops, there's second bell. He better hurry up, or you'll be late—for once.”

And with that he is off, racing down the commons toward the gym for his first—of three—gym classes of the day.

I loiter for a few minutes more, until the very last second before I really will be late for homeroom.

I make it just in time, grabbing my usual seat next to Abby and settling in with a
Don't even go there
face.

For once, she doesn't.

But Bianca Ridley does, tapping the back of my seat with her garishly jewel-encrusted—and ridiculously expensive—heels. “Look who's suddenly gunning for Most Likely to Play Dress-Up, girls.”

Abby turns around and shoots her a look, but I choose to ignore her (as usual).

Meanwhile her posse, a group of similarly entitled, well-to-do chicks with fake smiles and even faker tans, all giggle.

“Needs a little more work,” one of them not-so-quietly mutters.

“I'll say,” murmurs another.

My face burns, and Abby looks at me expectantly, probably waiting for me to whip up one of my trademark comebacks.

It's at this precise moment that Reece Rothchild knocked on the door.

Yes, he knocked.

Not once but twice!

So of course Mrs. Armbruster, our exceedingly nice but dangerously narcoleptic homeroom teacher, has to get up from drooling all over the roll book—hm, guess I could have hung out by my locker a little longer—and ever so slowly walks to the door.

By the time she gets there, a full thirty seconds later—I'm timing it on the black-and-white clock above her desk—of course the class is anticipating who it might be.

Principal Chalmers, there to pluck some unlucky student out for detention?

A singing telegram?

A UPS guy in short shorts with another box of organic, gluten-free breakfast bars for Bianca?

A flower delivery guy, also in short shorts, also for Bianca?

When the door finally opens, lo and behold, Reece stands there.

Suddenly, like, six of the eight girls in the room openly gasp in admiration. (Yeah, I'm one of them. What of it?)

“Who's the hunk?” asks Bianca.

“I don't know,” says one of her minions, “but as soon as I find out, I'll be writing his name on my folder three thousand times today; that's for sure.”

Abby looks over, likely sees the blush creeping above my suddenly cloying turtleneck collar, and whispers, “Your boy sure knows how to make an entrance!”

Does he ever. Today he's wearing wheat-colored cords and a faded off-white rugby shirt with maroon sleeves and a matching collar, which is unbuttoned just enough to reveal the hint of his bulging pecs but not quite enough to say
tool
. His sneakers are impeccably—and purposefully—distressed, much like the satchel clinging to one broad shoulder.

“May I?” Reece asks, a bouquet of long-stemmed roses in one hand, a brown velvet (velvet?) box of chocolates in the other.

“May you what, dear?” Mrs. Armbruster says with obvious glee, the color rising to her own cheeks.

“Enter, madam?” he says with equal good humor.

“Please do,” she says, making a grand, sweeping gesture of standing off to the side.

Reece spots me in the middle of the next-to-last row and strides over. He looks at no one else in the room, not a soul. Not at Abby, who is gorgeous (and famous). Not at Bianca, who is even gorgeouser (though slightly less famous). Not even at the tramps who flank Bianca, who are not quite as pretty but doubly trampy and well worth ogling.

Instead he focuses those dark-chocolate eyes like a laser beam on me and, just before getting to my desk, goes to one knee, and presents the flowers and chocolates. “Allow me to apologize for my tardiness at your locker this morning, Nora. Some . . . unforeseen circumstances prevented me from getting there on time.”

“Reece, I-I-I—” I try, until at last I take his offerings and lay them on my desk.

Only then does he stand, grabbing something out of his front pocket, and just when I let myself think it's going to be some kind of diamond-slathered engagement ring (greedy much?), he turns on his heel and walks away to hand his schedule to Mrs. Armbruster.

“Reece Rothchild,” he says, his cheeks dimpling. “Reporting for duty, ma'am.”

“I'd say.” Mrs. Armbruster wheezes as she gathers up the bifocals resting comfortably on her massive chest and slides them on her nose. “Take a seat, Reece, if you will.”

He does so, right next to me.

I sit there like a pity prom date, suffocating in my turtleneck, about to bust out of my black slacks—which I bought for a chorus recital freshman year and haven't worn since—and literally watching my nose grow three sizes as the roses in such close proximity cause my sinuses to swell.

Once Mrs. Armbruster has duly recorded his name in the roll book and handed back his schedule, she promptly returns to her desk and—naps out.

Reece looks from her to me with amusement. “Is she always this . . . attentive?”

I snort, and Abby goes to extraordinary lengths to elbow me from one desk over, causing me to double-snort.

“Uh, Reece, this is my best friend, Abby—”

“Abby Hastings,” Reece finishes for me, reaching across my desk to shake her hand. “I'd know that face anywhere. I'm a big fan of
Zombie Diaries
. I've got the first four on Blu-ray. We used to watch them all the time at my old school.”

“Oh yeah?” Abby opens the big brown velvet box of chocolates on my desk minus an invitation. “Where's that?”

“Milton Prep in Manhattan. My . . . elders thought it was time for a change of pace, so here I am.”

“Well, it's awfully nice to meet you,” she says around a gorgeous dark-chocolate truffle. “Remind me, and I'll get you the fifth
Zombie Diaries
on Blu-ray. It's not even out yet, but for you, I'll make an exception.”