Sucker for Love (30 page)
I smiled. “Sin City, here I come.”
Read on for an excerpt from
Here Comes the Vampire
by Kimberly Raye
Published by Ballantine Books
I never should have sucked down that last naked virgin.
Shoving my head under the pillow, I prayed for the bed to open up and swallow me whole. No more pounding skull or swirling stomach or aching muscles. And the dreams … Sheesh, if I pictured myself humping Elvis in the glass elevators of the Mayan Resort and Casino one more friggin’ time, I was going to aim for the nearest stake.
My name? The Countess Lilliana Arrabella Guinevere du Marchette (I think). I’m a five-hundred-year-old (and holding) born vampire. When I’m not lying catatonic, praying to the BMVITS (that’s short for Big Momma Vamp in the Sky) to please, please,
please
put me out of my misery, I play head honcho at Dead End Dating, Manhattan’s hottest matchmaking
service for vampires, weres, Others and even the occasional human. I’ve got an ultra chic fashion sense, an ever-expanding collection of MAC cosmetics and a fierce bod that’s landed me more than my share of super hot boyfriends.
The latest and the crème de la crème? A hot, hunky bounty hunter who wouldn’t be caught dead with lamb chop sideburns and a white jumpsuit.
Which made the whole Elvis scenario that much more unnerving, ya know?
Ty Bonner aka Mr. Hot and Hunky, had been the star of each and every one of my fantasies since the day I’d met him. Yes, he was a made vampire, which sort of put a crimp in the whole happily-ever-after thing I’d been cooking up since I was a kid. Unlike born vampires, our made brethren couldn’t procreate. Meaning, I wouldn’t have to worry about having a little Vlad or baby Morticia with Ty. But hey, I was okay with that. Really. If Brad and Ang could go the adoption route, why not yours truly? Even more, I was about to be an aunt for the first time. I could
so
do the vicarious thing with my future niece or nephew.
At least, that’s what I was telling myself.
But that’s beside the point. Ty was my leading vampire. When I closed my eyes and gave in to my most erotic thoughts, he was
always
there.
Until last night.
Forcing my eyes open, I stared at the ancient sun stone perched on the nightstand and tried to focus
my watery gaze. Not that I could interpret said stone, but I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the digital read-out in the far corner for those guests less skilled in the art of primitive culture.
The Mayan was the newest five star attraction in Sin City, complete with oodles of pricey artifacts in addition to some very real looking reproductions. There were sacrificial altars and stone carvings and drinking vessels and incense burners, and even a small hanging tree located in the center of the casino.
Oh, and did I mention the lost souls?
Seriously.
They were everywhere.
Some nice. Some wicked. Some smelly.
While I couldn’t actually see them (I’m a vampire, not the Ghost Whisperer), I could see the proof every time I turned around. We’re talking bumps in the night, moving furniture,
eau de
rotting corpse and the occasional Kurt Cobain solo.
I’d received the complimentary stay from none other than Ixtab (affectionately known as Tabitha to all her BFFs), the Mayan Goddess of Death. She was my newest client at DED and had single-handedly saved my fantabulous ass from a demented sorcerer intent on pulling a
Silence of the Lambs.
I’d been so appreciative that I’d hooked her up on about a zillion dates. In return for all the fun she’d been having (she lived to par-tee), she’d hooked me up with an all-expense paid weekend getaway.
Unfortunately, she’d hooked up my entire family,
as well. I’d arrived on Friday, followed by my brothers, their wives, my father, my mother, a dozen members of my mother’s Connecticut Huntress Club (that’s synonymous for snotty, pretentious, narcissistic female BVs) and Remy Tremaine, chief of the Fairfield Police Department and my mother’s latest attempt to find me the perfect born vampire.
Hence my excessive drinking.
I made one more attempt to check the time before giving up the effort and resting my head back against the down pillow. I tried to quiet the Nine Inch Nails drum solo pounding in my head. And that singing … Would someone shut that guy
up?
Yes, it was definitely official. No more naked virgins. Or chocolate martinis. Or whiskey sunrises. Or those funny blue drinks with the cute little umbrellas. No lounging by the pool, soaking up the moon. No more gambling and begging my brothers for extra cash. No more missing Ty, who’d begged off at the last minute to chase bad guys.
I was booked on an evening flight back to New York and my fantabulous life. All the more reason to haul myself up and get moving. I still had to pack and visit the downstairs boutiques.
I pictured the Chanel rhinestone tank I’d spotted when I’d checked in and gathered my resolve.
Several painful moments later, I managed to throw my legs over the side of the bed. I blinked once. Twice. There.
I took a good look at the mess that surrounded me.
The open suitcase, the scattered clothes, the panties hanging from the light fixture—no, wait. That was my bra. My panties were nowhere in sight.
I had a fuzzy memory of the panties coming off in the elevator a split-second before Elvis entered the building, if you know what I mean.
Nah.
Denial rushed through me at the same time that I became acutely aware of the sound of running water and the verse of
Love Me Tender
that drifted from the bathroom.
“… you have made my life complete and I love you sooooooo …”
What the …?
As I pushed to my feet, my gaze snagged on the discarded silk blouse I’d been wearing last night and the round button pinned near the collar.
Here Comes the Bride!
blazed in bright pink letters and my stomach dropped to my knees. A few inches away, a white four-color brochure for the Hunka-Hunka Heartbreak Wedding Chapel lay crumpled on the thick carpet.
“… all my dreams fullllll-filllled. For my darling, I love you and I always willlllll…”
The elevator. The fanged and fabulous Elvis. The missing panties. The button. The brochure.
The pieces started to fit into a weird, twisted puzzle that sent a jolt of dread through me. Anxiety made my legs tremble as I rummaged in my suitcase for my robe.
“Run,” a soft voice whispered. “While you still can.”
I whirled and found myself staring at the translucent image of a woman standing near the window. She looked to be in her forties with long red hair and a slim build. She wore a blue beaded dress that looked like she’d just been to the prom. Ouch.
“My mother picked the outfit,” she said as if reading the horror in my gaze. “It was the only one left on account of Dewey here cut up my clothes after he popped a cap in my ass.” She motioned to the apparition standing next to her.
He was tall and lanky with black hair and piercing black eyes. He’d probably been handsome at one point in his life, but now he had a hole in the middle of his forehead, which took off major
GQ
points.
“Jesus, Mona. Can’t you forgive and forget?”
“I’m a ghost, Dewey. That’s a little hard to forget.”
“You act like it’s my fault.”
“It
is
your fault. You pulled the trigger.”
“You bought the wrong orange juice,” he said defensively. “I told her time and time again, buy the extra pulp.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “It tastes more like the real thing.”
“The store was out.”
“You should have tried a different store.”
“I told you to pay for those anger management classes instead of buying that tool set off of eBay. Then we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Ixtab took pity on us and brought us here instead of sending us down under,” Dewey said.
“You mean she took pity on your sorry ass. I don’t deserve to go down under. I’m not the one who shot my wife.” Mona’s gaze met mine. “Ixtab has a weakness for suicide victims. When Dewey, here, turned the gun on himself, she couldn’t bring herself to doom him to hell. Something about a final moment of remorse. Now instead of spending my hereafter enjoying myself with free manicures and facials, I have to put up with Dewey, here, following me around.” She shook her head. “Run,” she said again. “Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t saddle yourself with one man for the rest of your existence.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But I had the sinking feeling that I did.
My frantic brain noted a pair of discarded black pants and a Gucci jacket draped over the back of a nearby chair. A
Varooooom, I’m the Groom
sticker had been stuck to the lapel.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she told me before glancing at her watch. “I’m due for a steam bath right now.”
“I hate steam baths.”
“So go do something else,” she told Dewey.
“By myself?”
“Why me?” she muttered.
The couple disappeared and I became acutely aware of the hard glass dangling between my breasts.
I stared at the small crystal vial filled with a dark crimson liquid and a lump jumped into my throat.
Nuh-uh.
No way.
I didn’t …
I couldn’t…
Steam rushed at me as I pushed open the door and stepped into the marbled bathroom. The tile had been arranged in an ancient Mayan pattern, the sink a stone number that would have looked as if it had been plucked from the Mexican jungle if not for the ornate gold fixtures. The shower was one of those open designs with a digital keypad and multiple jets that blasted water from all angles.
Water sluiced over the muscular form of the man standing center stage. He was tall and toned and tanned. And very blond.
A small sound bubbled past my lips. Part cry. Part scream. Part
holy shit.
He turned then. A pair of vivid green eyes met mine and I found myself staring at Fairfield’s finest.
The small vial suspended around his neck confirmed my worst fear even before Remy opened his mouth. “There’s my lovely eternity mate.”
“But …” I wanted to talk. To tell him he was crazy. To tell him I’d had way too many drinks. To tell him not no, but
hell
no.
Not him.
Not me.
Not
us.
But suddenly, the only thing I could do was stand there, my heart pounding, my mind racing.
And then the truth weighed down, my legs gave out and I fainted dead-away.
Sucker for Love
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Books Mass Market Original
Copyright © 2009 by Kimberly Raye Groff
Excerpt from
Here Comes the Vampire
copyright © 2009 by Kimberly
Raye Groff
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE
and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-345-51505-6
v3.0
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