The Fangover

Praise for the novels of
USA Today
bestselling author

ERIN M
C
CARTHY

“Steamy . . . Fast-paced and red hot.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“A runaway winner! Ms. McCarthy has created a fun, sexy, and hilarious story that holds you spellbound from start to finish.”

—
Fallen Angel Reviews

“The searing passion between these two is explosive, and the action starts on page one and doesn’t stop until the last page. Erin McCarthy has written a fun, sexy read.”

—
Romance Reviews Today

“This is Erin McCarthy at her best. She is fabulous with smoking hot romances!”

—
The Romance Readers Connection

Praise for the novels of
USA Today
bestselling author

KATHY LOVE

“Love has a way of expertly blending poignant narrative with wonderfully lovable flawed characters . . . She adds a suspense-filled, supersexy plot to keep her readers’ hearts racing in more ways than one.”

—
Booklist

“Supercharged with sexual tension, mind melding, and suspense . . . Love delivers, with her usual fast pace and witty style.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“A fast-paced, humorous book that dishes out satisfying romance as well as lighthearted laughs.”

—
Love Vampires

“Kathy Love has done the impossible: come up with an original idea for a vampire romance. A bloodsucker’s delight.”

—
The Best Reviews

ERIN M
C
CARTHY

and

KATHY LOVE

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Cover photo by Claudio Marinesco.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

BERKLEY SENSATION
®
is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / November 2012

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

McCarthy, Erin, 1971–

The fangover / Erin McCarthy and Kathy Love.—Berkley Sensation trade paperback ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-101-61227-9

1. Vampires—Fiction. 2. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction. 3. Paranormal fiction.4. Erotic fiction. I. Love, Kathy. II. Title.

PS3613.C34575F36 2012

813'.6—dc23

2012031877

Dear Reader,

We’ve been good friends for ten years and took our first trip to New Orleans together six years ago and have been back together many times since. We’ve made friends on Bourbon Street, we’ve heard a lot of Journey, seen many a weird thing, and shared a lot of laughs. So when we talked about collaborating on a book, it made sense to combine three things we both love: New Orleans, vampires, and a sense of the absurd. Because really, what could be more absurd than vampires waking up from a forgotten night of debauchery with missing fangs, a priest in the bathtub, and a drunk parrot who sings Barry White?

While we conceived the story idea and time line together (not to mention our awesome chapter headings) Erin wrote Wyatt and Stella’s story, and Kathy wrote Cort and Katie’s. We hope you’ll enjoy our fun romp into hungover vampires as much as we enjoyed writing it, and if you’re ever in New Orleans, stop by Fahy’s and have a drink. Just don’t tell the bartender you know us.

Cheers and Happy Reading!
Erin and Kathy

Chapter One

THE NIGHT AFTER

H
OLY
crap on a cracker. Wyatt Axelrod’s head hurt. Big-time. He pried his eyes open and groaned as the ceiling came into focus. He felt like his neck was broken and he was paralyzed from the waist down. He moved a leg and an arm. Still working, which was a good thing, but damn, even that small movement made the blood vessels in his head threaten to burst.

He wasn’t sleeping in his bed. He was in a chair. And there was the most god-awful screaming coming from the other room. Righting his head and leaning forward, swallowing hard, he realized he was in his bandmate Cort’s apartment. Saxon, their keyboard player, was lying on the floor, holding his own head, blonde hair falling into his face.

Wyatt didn’t remember coming back to Cort’s. He didn’t remember leaving the riverboat they were having Johnny’s wake on. He didn’t remember much of anything from the night before, and that was a first. A scary first.

“What the hell happened last night?” he asked.

No one seemed to know. As Cort and Saxon blathered on and on about who the hell knew what, Wyatt checked his jeans pocket. He still had his phone and his wallet, fortunately. But he also still had a headache, which the shrieking wasn’t helping. Asking his friends what the awful noise was, he contemplated standing.

No one had the chance to answer his question before a woman came running into the room, looking more than a little hysterical. Wyatt felt his eyebrows raise as he recognized the mortal washboard player from the day band at the bar where their band worked. What the hell was Katie doing here?

“I woke up in someone’s room . . .” she was saying to Cort, who had somehow mustered the energy to stand.

Wyatt knew what that meant—someone had hooked up with Katie. He didn’t think it was Saxon. He knew it wasn’t him. So it was either Drake or Cort, and he had no interest in watching this very awkward morning after moment go down. Besides, speaking of hookups, he wanted to know where Stella was. The last thing he remembered was having a bit of an argument with her on the deck of the riverboat. He didn’t want to fight with Stella. He wanted to make love to Stella, all night long, like a classic rock song. He was head over ass for her, and now he was worried.

He opened his mouth to ask if anyone had seen her when Katie beat him to the punch.

“I seem to be a vampire,” she said, her voice shaky, eyes panicked.

Wyatt cursed.

That sound?

That would be the shit hitting the fan.

48 Hours Earlier

“Ugh, it’s disgusting in here,” Stella Malone said as she stood in the middle of her brother Johnny’s apartment and gestured to the floor. “Who just dumps an ashtray in the middle of the room?”

Wyatt knew his buddy Johnny was a two-pack-a-day vampire, but he didn’t think even he could create a pile of ash that high. With a piece of paper in it. And a necklace.

Oh, shit. He glanced toward the French doors a few feet away. The drapes were pulled open, and Wyatt knew for a fact that the New Orleans sun beat in those windows during the day.

It couldn’t be.

If he had a heartbeat, it would have been racing by now. As it was, his stomach was churning, the bag of blood he’d had an hour ago sitting like an anchor in his gut. Johnny wouldn’t do it.

It could have been an accident. A horrible, careless accident.

Wyatt pulled the piece of paper out of the ash carefully and shook it off.

“It’s so typically Johnny to just run off without telling anyone where he’s going,” Stella said.

“Oh, actually, he left a note.” Wyatt scanned the piece of paper and cursed.

“What? What does it say?” Stella snatched the paper away from him, kicking some of the ash as she moved toward him, a little gray cloud rising up to her ankles.

It seemed appropriate. Wyatt kind of wanted to kick Johnny himself. How the hell could he kill himself? It was selfish, stupid, so not like Johnny that Wyatt was reeling.

“Stella . . .” Wyatt tried to take the note back, thinking he could break it to her more gently. “Maybe you should . . .”

Too late. She gasped. “Oh, my God. This is a suicide note.” It fell out of her hands, fluttering down to the ash pile. She suddenly seemed to realize she was standing in her brother’s remains and she jumped back. “How could he do this?”

Wyatt shook his head, bewildered. He’d known Johnny for forty years and he’d never thought of him as anything but happy-go-lucky. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I didn’t see this coming at all. He seemed fine. I just saw him last night.” When Stella had told him Johnny wasn’t answering his phone, he hadn’t thought it was any big deal. He’d figured she was overreacting, but he had agreed to come check on Johnny with her.

It seemed her worry had been well founded.

Reaching down, he picked up the note and scanned it again.

To Whom It May Concern,

I have walked in darkness far too long.

Today I will step into the
sun.

And
die.

Don’t grieve me. But if you throw an Irish wake, which you really should, please don’t let Saxon do backup vocals on any Boston songs. He sings like a cat in heat.

Cheers,
Johnny

P.S. Stella, the fifty bucks I owe you is in the cookie
jar.

“He was fine. This is insane.” Stella grabbed the note from him again. “And To Whom It May Fucking Concern? Really? That’s how he starts a suicide note?”

“It sounds like a bit of last-minute humor. You know Johnny.” Wyatt was still in shock himself and he honestly had no clue what to say to Stella, how to calm her down. It had been a long time since any vampire he knew had died. He had watched hundreds of humans leave this life, but he’d gotten used to the idea that he and his vampire buddies were exempt from death. Immortal was immortal, right?

Except when you threw open the blinds and went sunbathing.

“Yeah, I know Johnny. I’ve spent my whole life being the responsible one while my brother screws around and does whatever he feels like.” Stella crumpled the note and threw it at the wall in a fit of fury. “How dare he? How dare he just kill himself without even saying good-bye? Without talking to me about whatever was bothering him?” With an exclamation of frustration, she kicked the coffee table. “I’ll give you To Whom It May Concern. Concern this.”

Wyatt’s gut told him to just let Stella have her rant. She started swearing and spinning around, tossing Johnny’s lamp on the floor with a resounding crash. She threw the pillows from the couch in the direction of the kitchen and knocked over a breakfast bar stool. It was almost as shocking as Johnny’s suicide. Stella was one of the most controlled women Wyatt knew. She was never late to work. She paid her bills on time. She drank her blood delicately, in a glass. She never swore. Ever.

And now she was cursing with a creativity that astounded him, her eyes blazing with fury, her finger bleeding from the lamp she’d shattered.

Finally, she seemed spent, her face crumpling. She gave one final kick, right through Johnny’s ashes. She seemed to instantly regret it, her heavy breathing the only sound in the room as she bent to try to cup his ashes back into a pile, then thought better of it.

She burst into tears as she stood back up, fingers flexing.

Wyatt moved toward her. “Oh, Stella, sweetie, I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his chest. She let him, which showed him she was really a hot mess. Stella didn’t like to be touched—not by him, anyway. She thought of him as the goofy guitar player. Fine for friendship, but nothing else. And she’d never let him get particularly close to her.

For years—okay, decades—he’d had a crush on her. But she was out of his league and he knew it. He was just a dusty old cowboy-turned-vampire guitar player, and she was all that was class and intelligence.

If he could be there for her in any way, hell, he was grateful. He held her and murmured words of comfort in her ear, his hand rubbing up and down her back. It was so damn hard to process the fact that Johnny was gone. It was surreal, mind-boggling. So he focused on the feel of Stella in his arms, the soft floral scent of her hair, and the sound of her sobbing as it slowed into snuffled crying. He was glad she hadn’t found Johnny alone.

“I’m really sorry,” he told her again. “But eternity is a long time. Maybe Johnny was just tired of the ride.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, her words muffled against his chest. “I need a glass of wine. My stomach is upset.”

Wyatt wasn’t sure that alcohol was the best thing for her, but he kissed the top of her head and moved to Johnny’s sparse kitchen. He found vodka and rum, but no wine. He poured some vodka into a glass and brought it to Stella. She tossed it back in one quick motion.

Holy shit. Wyatt wiped the tears off her cheeks, debating whether he should suggest they clean up Johnny or if he should wait and let her take the lead. She was a control freak, so chances were she’d want to handle it, but he was a little concerned he might wind up with Johnny on his boot if they left him there too long. There was something seriously unpleasant about the thought of walking around with his best friend stuck to him like old gum.

“Can I have another drink?”

Wyatt hesitated, but she looked up at him, so vulnerable, eyes glazed with shock and pain, that he couldn’t say no. “Sure.”

He went back to the kitchen, feeling the need for a drink himself, Stella on his tail. She kept glancing back to the pile of ash, almost as morbid as an actual body lying there would have been. “I just don’t understand,” she repeated.

“That’s the rub, honey. Some things we’re just not going to be able to understand.” Like how he could be looking at Stella and thinking how beautiful she was when they were in the midst of tragedy. Or that her body looked particularly enticing in her jeans and V-neck T-shirt. But he was. Which made him a sick, sick man, and eternally grateful that she couldn’t read his mind.

Of course, he always had those thoughts around Stella. Maybe he was just conditioned to be aware of what she was wearing and how much he wanted to play hide the salami with her that even death couldn’t distract him.

Now he definitely needed a drink.

Wyatt poured her another finger of vodka, and one for himself. She downed it then just took the whole bottle out of his hand, clearly going for efficiency. He felt his eyes widen as she chugged half of it. Who chugged vodka? His throat burned just watching her. “Stella. Babe. I think that’s enough.” He reached for the bottle.

She evaded his hand. “He left me. He just left me here. All alone. By myself.”

The pit in his gut had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the fact that for a very long time he’d been crushing on Stella, and it broke his goddamn heart to hear her so torn up, so quiet, so sad.

“You’re not alone. I’m here.” He brushed her auburn hair back off her cheek. Stella’s Irish heritage was evident in her hair coloring, and the dusting of freckles that popped even louder against her pale, smooth vampire skin.

“I’ve never been alone, Wyatt. I’m scared.”

“You’re not alone.” He cupped her cheeks, moving so that his body blocked hers up against the counter. He wanted her to feel that he was physically there, not going anywhere. He wanted to reassure her.

“You won’t leave me?” she asked softly, her green eyes glassy with grief and alcohol.

“No, I won’t leave you.” He wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but he was willing to offer her anything that she would take. It was no secret to him that he’d been finding excuses to spend time with Stella for years. Hell, that was half the reason he stayed in the band, because Stella was the sound tech and he got to see her five days a week. It was very possible he was actually in love with her, if he wanted to get technical about it.

But Stella had never given him the time of day. Or night, more accurately.

Until now.

Now she was gripping the front of his shirt and staring up at him with such woeful eyes he would have done anything she asked.

“Kiss me,” she said.

“Uh . . .” For a second Wyatt wondered if he’d slipped at work and hit his head on an amp and he was unconscious. This had to be a dream. Well, a nightmare and a dream. Johnny was gone. Dead. Stella wanted to kiss him. The whole world had tilted on its side.

None of this could be real.

Only he hadn’t gone to work since it was Monday and their night off from playing on Bourbon Street.

He didn’t think he was dreaming.

And if he thought about it too much, his head might actually explode, so he decided not to think at all. He was just going to obey.

Kiss her. He could do that.

He leaned down, eyeing her small lips with a predatory satisfaction. He’d been waiting forty years for a crack at her mouth.

Stella wasn’t really sure why she had asked Wyatt to kiss her. It was just that she felt so lonely, so shocked, so horrified. So drunk.

Her brother was dead. After eighty-five years of hanging out undead together, her taking care of him, suddenly he was gone. Just gone. He was never supposed to be gone. They were going to live forever. But he hadn’t. She couldn’t comprehend it. She couldn’t think about it. At all.

Wyatt was looking at her with such compassion, his muscular body close to hers as he brushed her hair back off her head. Stella had never really thought of him as much more than a slightly less annoying version of her brother. But now he looked like a perfect way to ignore what was really happening.

Plus, she was drunk.

It had been years since she’d tossed back that many shots in such a short amount of time. In combination with her shock, it had gone straight to her head. Why that meant she would ask Wyatt to kiss her, she wasn’t sure. But she had, and he was clearly going to oblige her, and that seemed like it all made sense to her.

She’d never noticed how intense his eyes could be. Or how perfectly pristine his fangs were.

His fangs were out.

That meant he was aroused.

By the mere idea of kissing her.