Lost Angeles (28 page)

Stupid belt.

“Coffee first.” I might not normally drink it, but right now, I
need
it. I need time, too. Time to process, time to wake up, time get my mental shit together. “Please?”

“Sure.” Ever obliging, Xaine pats me on the butt and sends me off down the hall toward the kitchen.

I’ve explored it top to bottom, but the reality of Xaine’s house still surprises me. It’s not one of those ultra-modern places that’s all glass and metal. He didn’t veer in the opposite direction with faux-crumbling plaster and old Tuscan tapestries either. Instead, it’s… austere. Cold, beyond the temperature on the thermostat. There aren’t any mementos sitting on the tables scattered throughout, and the only photographs are massive black and white prints of Xaine from various photoshoots. The furniture looks like it came straight out of a Beverly Hills showroom. Everything from the heavy marble slab of a coffee table to the black colonial-style couch looks as if he walked into the model, slapped a handful of cash on the rolltop desk, and bought everything
as is
. It doesn’t even look lived in. No scratches, no scuff marks. Every surface as slick and shiny as the day it got delivered.

Usually it reads like a mausoleum, but today it’s a bonafide madhouse. People crisscross the floor space and gather in every corner. Tech ninjas set up cameras and lights, hang backdrops, and mill about behind big, fuzzy microphones. I pass a girl who looks like me, with the same skin tone, same hair, same height and weight and general body shape. They’ve got her positioned in front of the cameras, and one of the million people huddled around her is adjusting the lighting. There’s a guy who looks like Xaine next to her, and it’s weird, like I’m looking at a pair of Twilight Zone doppelgangers. They’re stand-ins, but they’re creepily familiar nonetheless.

I’m so intent on staring that I trip over some wires and stumble awkwardly. The belt Xaine used for a leash comes loose, and the robe starts to slide open. Thankfully, I catch it before my bits and pieces are bared to the world, but the entire incident serves to remind me that I’m down here, milling through an honest-to-god throng in nothing but a bathrobe and a ratty T-shirt. From that point forward, I keep an iron grip on the silk and both eyes trained on the floor. I’m fine, right up to the moment that a dark-haired guy carrying two heavy-duty silver cases rounds a corner and nearly takes me out. As it is, I barely manage to flatten myself against the wall in time.

He flashes an apologetic grin that shifts to something else, like he’s running through a mental guest list and finally lands on my name. “Hey, it’s you!”

I blink, because it’s such a weird thing to say to someone you’ve never even met. He huffs a laugh, and the smile is back, this time with a dimple at the corner of his mouth.

“Sorry, I mean, you’re DJ Lore. I caught your act at Halo before you went supernova. Was already a huge fan.” He hitches the cases up, because they are heavy as hell, according to his bulging arm muscles.

“Halo?” I repeat, with no little bit of surprise. “We’re a long way from DC, sir. What were you doing at Halo?”

“I spent some time in that area,” he says, almost apologetically. “Sorry, I know these Hollywood types are all slick as shit about stuff like this.”

“Meaning you’re not a Hollywood type?” I’m starting to wonder if it’s smart, standing here in the hall with a guy I don’t know. Black T-shirt, ripstop pants, built like a Greek god but lean as a whippet. When he moves, it’s with an easy grace that suggests… well… exotic dancer.

Or a guy completely at home in his own body. Geez, Lore, get a grip.

“I’m with Asher’s crew,” he says with a shake of the head. “Name’s Lonan. I’d offer a hand—”

“Otherwise occupied. No worries.” Even if he’s with PFC, I feel better about skipping the handshake. After Benicio, I’m wary of touching strangers, and even thinking about that is enough to bring out the goosebumps. “It was nice to meet you, Lonan, but I need to get coffee and then…” I vaguely wave at Everything Else going on down the hall.

“I don’t want to get between you and your caffeine fix. And you don’t have to worry about your safety either.” Lonan’s eyes go dark, his easygoing expression hardening, almost like he dove inside my head and plucked out my thoughts. “We’ve got this, Miss Chase. The security, I mean. We locked absolutely everything down after the most recent attack—”

“The one in Xaine’s pool, you mean?” Phrasing it that way is disconcerting, because the pool in question is visible through a set of French doors. They drained it and are in the process of scrubbing it out, but I wonder if I’ll ever feel comfortable enough to swim in the damn thing—

“No, the other girl,” Lonan corrects, hitching up the boxes again. “The one from last night.”

“Wait, what?” I ask him, my world falling out from under me. “What ‘one from last night’?”

“Uh…” he hedges, realizing how much he just screwed up. “Xaine didn’t mention that?”

“He sure as hell did not. And neither did
your boss
when we spoke on the phone earlier.”

“Uh…” Lonan repeats, trying to sidestep me. “Maybe they were saving that for
after
the junket.”

“I’ll ‘junket’ them.” Then, because he’s still trying to get away, I slap a palm against the opposite wall, barring him from moving. Oh, sure, he could probably walk right through it and keep on going, but if Asher’s men are anything like Asher himself, I doubt he will. “Let me guess. Blonde. Leggy. Looked a lot like me?”

“Yeah.”

“
When
?”

“Sometime after you guys left the warehouse.” Beads of sweat gather on Lonan’s brow, but I’m not sure if that’s because his arms are giving out or because I’m grilling him.

“And Asher thinks it was Benicio again.” Not a question this time, because we both know the answer. The sin-eater got close enough to rub up against me, fought a not-vampire so I could get to safety, and then I took off with Xaine
again
. So he found someone who looked like me, killed her, and dumped her
again
.

“Miss Chase,” Lonan grunts out, “would you mind not shooting the messenger?”

“Fine. Yeah.” I back off, realizing it’s not exactly his fault that the other men in my life have been less than forthcoming.

“I meant what I said. We’ve got the security loopholes on the property covered, and the house is pretty much buttoned up. If you need anything else, let me know.” Lonan offers up one last smile before he lopes off.

Rosa finds me there, staring after him, and she hustles me into the kitchen. If the foyer is organized chaos, then this is the military base camp. There are massive thermal pots for coffee and hot water. A mini-fridge set up for sodas. Plastic-wrapped flats of bottled water. A heating drawer that, on further inspection, is stocked with Type O packs. That means that there are vampires other than Xaine in the house right now, because even on a good day he couldn’t run through this much blood. I’m not afraid, but I don’t like the idea of it. For some strange reason, it doesn’t seem right. This is his place. His home.

My eyes skim over the kitchen, taking in the bones beneath all the writhing tissue. Like the rest of the mansion, the space is lacking in any sort of welcome. Every room, except for those that Xaine occupies regularly, is completely devoid of personality, and maybe that is exactly the way he intended it.

The separation of Church and State.

I get about ten seconds to scarf down a scone and a cup of light-and-sweet coffee before someone snags me by the elbow and I end up in a chair in the game room, which is serving as an improvised dressing room. There’s a pool table, jukebox, neon-lit bar, and a row of vintage pinball machines. Somehow, it’s hard to picture Xaine hanging out in a man cave, but judging by the scuff marks, the pool table has seen quite a bit of use. Whether it was used for a good old-fashioned game of eight-ball or a rousing game of one-pocket is anyone’s guess, but I’d wager that any horizontal surface sturdy enough for two people probably sees a surfeit of action in this house.

Right now, the only action involves three people grabbing at my hair and dabbing at my face. Another three stand by a rack of clothes, tapping their collective toes until they can get their hands on me. Like vultures, they all smile wide and put their heads together to talk, but frankly, I’m more concerned about the third dead girl on my conscience than whatever they might do. I think about her as the hair stylist puts in massive Velcro rollers, winding them so tightly that I can feel each strand tugging painfully at my scalp. I wonder who she was and why she was in LA as they spackle foundation on with a trowel and glue inch-long false eyelashes to my eyelids.

Someone’s daughter… mother… lover… wife.

They don’t even attempt to cover up the bite marks on my neck. Instead, the area gets highlighted with a pale cream so that the holes stand out in even greater relief. Considering the way they are trying to bring attention to Xaine’s puncture wounds, I’m surprised they don’t smear the whole area with glitter. Meanwhile, all I can think about is the fact that I’m shacked up with the sexiest bad boy on the planet, getting ready to talk about my Top Five song, closer to Cas Declan than ever before, and all it cost was three human lives. Doesn’t really seem worth it anymore.

Because it’s all my fault.

“Up.” The stylist glaring at me is the same one that dressed me the night of the lockdown, even if she didn’t do much except squeeze me into the skimpy outfit Xaine had already picked out. She looks mad now, and I wonder if she’s still pissed about the shoes.

Nobody, but
nobody
snaps a heel off a Louboutin.

I end up all in white this time, a one-piece catsuit cut out of some sort of curve-hugging spandex that makes me look like a comic book character. A leather belt gets slung around my waist, and one of the three not-so-amigos shoves me into matching boots. They cap the whole deal off with an utterly ridiculous fur shrug that catches strands of my hair the second they pull the rollers out. The only color I’m wearing is the violent red on my lips and the marks at the side of my neck.

The costuming makes sense the second they steer me toward the photoshoot set-up, because Xaine is head-to-toe in black. Devil to my angel, Dark against Light.

The smile to my frown, the pale to my blush, the arrogance to my innocence…

Working my way through a yin-yang litany helps distract me from my anxiety about the newest body dump. I don’t have a single quiet second to ask Xaine about it. Standing under the brilliant lights, everything starts to blur, one pose into the next, one shouted instruction to another, until precious little seems real. It becomes clear early-on that I am most definitely not a natural at this. I spend the first twenty minutes tripping over my own feet, the next ten tripping over Xaine’s feet, and then five after that flushed so red that they have to stop until I get my fumbling under control. For his part, Xaine seems merely amused by the entire episode, pulling me up and dusting me off, wrapping himself around me until I have no choice but to stand and deliver, so to speak. It seems like forever before the photographer waves us off in opposite directions: me to the Dreaded Chair, X to wherever he’s been hiding out for the last three hours. Apparently we’re going to bounce around each other, only touching occasionally until this trial by fire is done.

Next up is an interview, and thankfully they stick me in a pair of ripped jeans, a glittering tank top, and a pair of stilettos that might just kill me. Dead or not, anything is an improvement over the fur cape, in my opinion. The stylist makes a huge deal over the heels, telling me in no uncertain terms that I am not to drag my feet, damage, scuff, mark, scratch, dent or—god forbid!—
break
them. Right about then, Xaine swings into my corner of the ring, grasps me by the hand, and yanks me from the chair. There’s an unsure second as I struggle to get my legs under me.

“Quit it, jerkface.” I scowl because he did it on purpose, but I manage to keep from snapping the precious red-painted peg that’s holding me up.

“Relax, babe.” He grins into my
I hate you
face, sliding a hand around my waist and pulling me snug against him. “You can burn the shoes in effigy if you want, once we’re done. I won’t even tattle.”

They put us on a couch. It’s not Xaine’s couch, so I can’t fathom where it came from unless there’s an attic full of couches somewhere. Or they brought their own, which seems inordinately silly but this
is
Hollywood. Xaine does most of the talking, and I’m content to let him, following his lead, watching him soak up the limelight.

It’s all cake until someone fires up one more Leko, and I’m pinned to the upholstery by a high-intensity halogen—

White illumination overhead, burning into my retinas, and yet I spot the flash of gold as someone turns. His eyes catch the light the way that vampire eyes do. Like cat eyes do.

My mouth is dry, lips so parched that they’re cracking. My voice is gone, long gone, and I don’t even bother trying to speak. It’s no use anyway. It’s all going to end soon. I can feel it, the pervasive weakness weighing down everything inside of me. There’s no strength left, no fight. We stare at each other, me and the man with the tiger eyes, and I find that his face is as devoid of sympathy as it is devoid of malice. It’s just blank.