Just One Bite (9 page)

“Yes, yes and yes. I want an attractive man who’s nice and sweet.”

“And Italian?”

“Italian would be good.”

My smile widened as my fingers flew across the keyboard.
Balducci.

“I want someone who’s compassionate, too.”

“When you say compassionate, you’re referring to a man who’s considerate, yes? A man who, say, cares about other people? Like, for instance, his mother?”

“Of course.”

I keyed in
mother-loving Italian.

“But he shouldn’t care about her more than me. I don’t want a mama’s boy.”

I keyed in
you are so screwed.

I abandoned the computer screen and reached for a blank profile. “I think I get what you’re looking for. Why don’t you just fill out the personal info on this first page—address, date of birth, that sort of thing—and I’ll play around with what I’ve already got and see what I can come up with.”

Carmen turned her attention to the profile and I turned my attention to the computer screen. I did a quick check on compassionate men in my database. Twenty-three came up as listing that quality as one of their biggest attributes.

Vinnie, obviously, wasn’t one of them.

I ignored the professional inside of me that whispered I was going against all tried-and-true methods (and the big-mouthed romantic that screamed what a selfish bitch I was), pasted on my biggest smile, and declared, “Here we go.
The
perfect man.”

“Really?” Hope blossomed in her eyes and I squelched a niggle of guilt.

I mean, really, who was I to say at this point that Vinnie
wasn’t
the perfect man? Sure, all evidence pointed to the contrary. But love
was
blind. And maybe, if I was extremely lucky, deaf and dumb as well.

Vinnie might very well turn out to be the star of Carmen’s hottest fantasy. Her soul mate. Her be-all and end-all when it came to the opposite sex. He would be eternally grateful to me and I would never have to worry about being an SOB target ever again.

I held tight to the slim possibility and smiled. “How would you like to meet him later tonight?”

Nine

I
spent the next half hour giving Carmen a few dating dos and don’ts and battling my own conscience.

I know, right?

Super vamps didn’t usually get caught in the sticky details of right versus wrong. We’re creatures of greed and lust and instant gratification. What can I say? I was cursed at birth. I kept picturing Little Red Riding Hood (or in Carmen’s case, Little Blond Riding Hood with natural boobs and a wholesome spirit) getting dismembered by the Big Bad SOB.

All thanks to
moi.

At the same time, there was always a chance (however teeny tiny) that they could fall madly, passionately in love. And who was I to stand in the way of true love? As a matchmaker, I’d pledged my afterlife to helping lost lonely souls find their One and Only (for a fee, of course, but that’s beside the point). I would never be able to sleep during the day if I deprived even one individual—vamp, human or Other—at a chance at happily-ever-after.

Besides, Vinnie was a Sniper of
Otherworldly
Beings, meaning his handiwork was limited to Others, and so I felt certain that Carmen wasn’t in any physical danger.

I made a mental note to look up the SOB handbook online—dontcha just love the Internet?—just to make sure there was a little rule in there about the non-dismemberment of humans. In the meantime, I fished a can of Mace from my bottom drawer (Evie had bought us both cans of the stuff after watching an
America’s Most Wanted
episode that featured a serial rapist from Manhattan) and handed it to Carmen.

“What’s this for?”

“Some businesses give out matchbooks, we give out Mace. Just in case someone grabs you in an alley, or a cab driver turns out to be a crazed kidnapper, or Mr. Right morphs into Mr. Slice-and-Dice. Not that any of that is going to happen,” I rushed on. “It’s strictly a promo item.”

She eyed the silver can. “But there’s no DED written anywhere on here.”

“True, but it’s the thought that counts. When you whip that baby out, you’ll think about how much DED cares about you.”

That, or what a lunatic I was.

While Carmen gave me an odd look and pocketed the Mace, I made a reservation at Pollo Loco, the hottest, trendiest,
busiest
restaurant in SoHo. The plan? For Carmen to meet Vinnie in an hour for drinks and appetizers and, hopefully, some major fireworks when she looked at him and he looked at her and…well, you know.

I crossed my fingers, gave Carmen cab fare and a reassuring smile, and watched her leave. After sending up a silent prayer to the BVU (Big Vamp Upstairs), I walked into the outer office to beg Evie’s forgiveness for sticking her with Earl.

She wasn’t at her desk. Her computer was off, her paperwork cleared. The door to room A stood wide open and empty.

Apparently, she and Earl had bailed while I’d been with Carmen.

The smell, unfortunately, hadn’t.

Thankfully Evie bought bulk for the small votive holders we had situated around the office. I unearthed a box of candles and spread them throughout the room. I’d just finished lighting number twenty when the bell on the door trembled and my next appointment walked in.

She had long, jet black hair, pitch-black eye shadow and bright red lips. She wore a black leather tank top, ripped jeans, and black biker boots. The sharp smell of rubbing alcohol and ink clung to her. Understandable. With the exception of her face, there wasn’t a visible area of her body that wasn’t tattooed.

She had a purple snake that started just under her jawline and curled down around her neck. A bright pink flamingo wrapped around her right bicep. A black and white shaded portrait of Janis Joplin hugged the other. A leopard print dotted her right arm from elbow to wrist, while Betty Boop perched on the left. Hearts dotted the tops of her knuckles. Tweety Bird peeked up over the neckline of her tank and the tail of a dragon curled from under her shirt and encircled her belly button.

She eyed the candles and arched one black brow. “Human sacrifice?”

“That was last night.”

“Bummer.” She glanced around and held out her arms. “So where are the dudes? Your assistant said you had over one hundred eligible guys for me to pick from.”

“In our database. We don’t actually keep them here on display.”

“Oh.” She shifted from one foot to the other and I could tell she felt way out of her element. She was obviously used to being the one in control rather than the one asking for help.

One glance into her heavily rimmed eyes and I could see why. Mia van Horowitz had been on her own since sixteen, when she’d snuck away to Atlantic City to get her first tattoo.

It had been right before her younger brother’s bar mitzvah, and her parents had been so outraged (by the tattoo and the fact that she’d dyed her strawberry blond hair a bright, vivid blue) they’d kicked her out of the house. A Jewish princess didn’t have blue hair and a purple snake wrapped around her neck. She had a tasteful bob and a four-carat diamond wedding band wrapped around her finger. Her parents had disowned her and she hadn’t been welcome at family functions since.

I quickly envisioned myself showing up at the next hunt with blue hair and a snake winding around my neck.

Nah. My cousin Jeanine had blue hair and a real live snake (a pet named Buddha) that she wore to the annual Marchette family reunion, and no one batted an eye.

“So how do we do this?” Mia asked me.

“Well, first you fill out a profile. Then we’ll talk a little bit about what you’re looking for and your preferred dating package. The super-deluxe is my personal favorite.” And the most expensive—which, of course, was why it rated
numero uno
with yours truly. “You get six months in our database and ten guaranteed prospects. Plus we pay for your first date.” I motioned Mia into my office and settled behind my desk. I pulled up her appointment information on the computer. “It says here you’re a tattoo artist?” As if I didn’t already know.

“I own my own shop down in the Village. I started small about ten years ago as a one-woman show. Now I’ve got eight other artists working for me. I recently bought the storefront next door and doubled my space to accommodate more clients. Scribble—that’s my place—does everybody who’s anybody in New York. I’ve worked on the lead singer of Nickelback, the fashion editor from
Vogue,
even Mr. Weather.”

Mr. Weather was the local celebrity bachelor who had been featured on
MMW
last season. He was also the one I’d scared the shit out of during a wild carriage ride through Central Park.

“You’re kidding, right?” The only thing I’d seen painted on Mr. Weather had been an overdone tan. He was vain and self-centered and overly obsessed with his hair, and I just couldn’t picture him doing anything to alter what he considered a perfect body. “Are you sure it was him?” I added. “The meteorologist from Channel 5?”

She nodded. “Did a self-portrait on his left pec. I wanted to do the shoulder blade, but he wanted to be able to see himself without looking in a mirror.”

That was Mr. Weather, all right.

“I work at least fourteen hours a day and do anywhere from two to ten tattoos during that time.” She pulled a knife out of her pocket, slid the blade free, and started to clean under her thumbnail.

I
know.

“That doesn’t leave much time to date,” I told Mia.

“My social life doesn’t suck because of lack of time. Time I can make. It’s lack of patience.” She waved the knife. “I hate playing games. I have certain things I want from a guy and I’m not shy about telling them. Most men are intimidated by that, which is why I don’t get asked out much.”

That, and the fact that she looked freakin’ scary.

“So what is it you actually want? Compassion? Understanding? Someone to unclog the toilet?”

“Sex.” She folded the gonzo knife and stuffed it back into her pocket (thankyouthankyou
thankyou
). “I need it all the time. At least three, four times a day. I should have the guys lining up, right?” She shook her head. “While I like sex, I’m not into meaningless affairs. I’ve had enough of that. I want one guy—with a clean bill of health—that I can share myself with again and again.”

“And again.”

“Exactly. Most of the guys who like to do it a lot are players. I thought Buck, my last boyfriend, was the exception. No VD or HIV. The guy was as clean as a whistle. He lasted for about eight months, but then he had to bail. Left me a note saying he just couldn’t keep up and that he was checking himself into Hoboken Rest and Rehabilitation because he had a strained penis. He said I was a freak and I needed Sexaholics Anonymous.” A glimmer of sadness lit her eyes and my chest hitched. “The thing is, I’ve tried SA three times and it just doesn’t work for me on account of I
really
like doing the nasty.”

Amen.

“Maybe I am a freak,” she went on, “but what’s the harm? It’s not like I’m lazing around all day just getting after it. I’m a productive citizen. I pay taxes. I have a job. Sure, I take a few more breaks than most people, but it’s not like I’m puffing away in the alley and killing my lungs, or gulping down a bottle of whiskey and pickling my liver. I’m working my muscles and building stamina. Sex is healthy.”

“Extremely.” I nodded.

“So instead of trying to get rid of a healthy lifestyle, I’m thinking I just need to find a decent guy who can give it to me as often as I need it. If that means paying for ten prospects, or even twenty, I’m there.”

I multiplied the super-deluxe package by two and smiled. “You’ve definitely come to the right place.”

Once Mia had filled out her profile and written me a sizable check, she left to make a late-night appointment with some high-society Park Avenue princess who wanted the latest cover of
GQ
(featuring Russell Crowe) immortalized on her lower back.

I spent the next thirty minutes running searches for possible matches. I came up with a whopping one when it came to common interests—Mia liked sharp objects, New Age Goth music, and deadly reptiles. Unfortunately, the one possibility turned out to be Evie’s cousin, Word.

Word Dalton was a twenty-something horndog who loved heavy metal Goth bands and had a sexual fetish for small, furry creatures. I knew this because he’d installed a speaker system at DED a few months back and I’d actually set him up on a few dates in lieu of payment for services rendered. Word was human, but that hadn’t stopped me from fixing him up with a were squirrel. A match made in heaven, right? Wrong. It turned out that the were wasn’t full-blooded (do NOT ask), and so Word had quickly lost interest. He was back to being a head-banging, animal-lusting loser.

While he gave new meaning to the word horny, he hadn’t had enough actual experience to fill a plastic Coke cap. No way could he satisfy a woman like Mia.

I was definitely going to have to go outside the DED family for this one. I started brainstorming, jotting down any and all possible hot spots to find Mia’s type. I’d managed to come up with three when the phone rang.