Confessions of a Werewolf Supermodel (3 page)

Shay reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a photograph, and extends it toward me. “Have you seen this woman before?”

It takes a minute to realize he didn't ask me about Haven, Texas. Or prom night. Or Tom Dawson. I take the photo. At first glance, I think the picture is of me, which doesn't make sense. Then I realize the girl just happens to bear a striking resemblance to me.

“No, I don't know her.” I hand the photo back to him. “But I see the resemblance between us. Why are you asking me about her?”

Shay stuffs the picture into his pocket. “She liked to tell people she was you. Use the resemblance to her advantage to get past the lines at clubs and restaurants.”

I laugh, though I sound nervous. My knees are weak with relief that he's not here to arrest me. “I didn't know impersonating a supermodel was a crime,” I say.

The detective never cracks a smile. “It's not, Ms. Kinipski, but Sally Preston used your name to get into a club called the Pink Palace last night, and now she's dead. I'm just following up on any possible connection between the two of you.”

The word “dead” always has a sobering effect on people. Apparently even on werewolves. “Dead?” I repeat dumbly. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Maybe nothing,” he answers. Shay takes a notepad and pen from his pocket. “Unless whoever killed her thought she was you. Do you have any enemies?”

The words “whoever killed her” are as unpleasant as the word “dead.” “Enemies?” If I keep repeating everything he says he'll think I'm an idiot. “No. None that I know of.”

He scribbles something in his notebook. “How about crazed fans? Stalkers? Pissed-off ex-boyfriends? Have you recently received any threatening letters or gotten any strange phone calls?”

Most models have a crazed fan or two, but I'm discreet about giving out personal information. The apartment building I live in has good security. My cell is unlisted. “No,” I answer. “I'm sorry this woman is dead, but whatever happened to her has nothing to do with me.”

Shay glances up from his notepad. His gaze slides up and down me before returning to my face. “You're sure?”

At least now I know RoboCop is human. He just checked me out. “Positive,” I answer.

He replaces the notebook and pen inside his jacket, reaches into another pocket, and withdraws a dog-eared card. “If anything occurs to you, if you suddenly feel as if you're being followed or you receive any strange phone calls or threatening letters, give me a call.”

Reluctantly, I take the card he extends. “I'll call if I think of anything.” I almost add that I
won't
think of anything, but then I'm sure Shay already has that preconceived notion about me. Unfortunately, the world seems to associate smart with unattractive and attractive with “NASA is not going to call her for a job interview” when it comes to women.

Now that he has concluded his business, Shay removes his sunglasses from his jacket pocket. How many damn pockets does that jacket have? I might not have to carry my beauty bag if I had a jacket with that many pockets. He slides the glasses back on, nods and heads toward the door. “Sorry to interrupt your—”

“Shoot,” I provide. “Hey, we both have shoots in our line of work.” Oh, my God. Now I've had a Sherry Billington outbreak.

“That's funny,” he says in a flat tone that lets me know it isn't.

Since I'm not being hauled off to jail, I'd like to send Shay away with more than a glance at my cleavage and the certainty I have shit for brains. “Cause of death?” I blurt out.

He pauses, his hand already on the doorknob. When he turns to face me, he removes the sunglasses again. I guess there's something in the cop handbook about not wearing sunglasses during official business.

“Blood loss,” he answers.

“Blood loss” seems like an odd term to use as a cause of death. But then, maybe not. “Do you mean she was stabbed or shot to death?”

He sighs and slips the glasses back on. “I shouldn't discuss details with you. The case is still open. Leaks could give whoever is responsible an advantage.”

A geekish snort slips past my defenses. “Do you think I'll be talking to this guy?”

“I hope not.”

Shay is perfectly serious. I hope not, too. He reaches for the door again but now he has me curious. “I think you owe it to me to tell me what kind of psycho we're dealing with … if you think I really could be in danger.”

“You said you weren't,” he turns back to remind me.

“I could be wrong.” But of course I'm not wrong. I'm just curious.

The glasses come off again. “Blood loss from a bite wound. Sally Preston's jugular vein was severed by a vicious bite to the neck while she was having sex, we're assuming with the murderer.”

A flash of the dream explodes inside my head. Blood flecking the ceiling … pooling on the sheets. I have that woozy feeling people get right before they faint. I stumble back a step. Shay moves fast for a tall, built man. He takes my shoulders between his hands and steers me toward the bed.

“Your face is white. You need to sit down.”

I do sit … on someone's shoe, but I'm too numb to care. It's nice to know that the sight of blood still sickens me, considering all the weird things going on with me lately.

“Sorry about that,” Shay says. “I forget that most people don't have to deal with this day in and day out. I'm a little hardened to it all. I should have been more considerate.”

His baby blues are leveled on me. Damn, his lashes are so long, if he were a woman, Revlon would be all over him. “Someone being bitten to death is everyday?”

Shay shakes his head. His hair is good, too. Longer than he's probably supposed to wear it, and thick. “No. This is not everyday. Sorry I had to bother you with it. Now, I should be going.” He stands and moves toward the door again. “Call me if you need anything, I mean, if you think of anything that might help the case.”

“I will,” I say, still dazed. I won't call Shay. The poor woman's murder has nothing to do with me. I'm certain of it. The dream flashes in my head again as if to mock me. Across the room, Shay opens the door and comes face-to-face with four frozen angels, Cindy and Stefan. He nods to the models.

“Ladies.”

The girls watch him walk away. When they glance back at me, it occurs to me that I might look like I've just had sex and a shower. A big grin breaks out on Karen Sims's face. She rushes into the room.

“Don't tell me. He's a rent-a-cop, right? Did a little striptease for you? Hey, is it your birthday?”

I wish. I mean about the striptease. Birthdays are a model's enemy. “No, he's the real deal,” I assure Karen.

Now the girls hover over me, I'd say like mother hens due to the feathers, but that would be a stretch of the imagination.

“What did he want, Lou?” Stefan asks. “Unpaid parking tickets or something? Are you in trouble?”

Stefan is adoringly protective of me. If I tell him a detective is worried that a recent murder might be a case of mistaken identity, meaning I was the murderer's real target, I really will have a stalker problem. Him. “Identity theft,” I answer, which is in a way the truth.

“Sheeeit,” Karen draws out. “You been shopping online, girl?”

I shrug, which can be taken as a yes.

“Let's get this room cleaned up,” Stefan instructs everyone. “I need a Starbucks.”

Something stronger sounds good to me. It's been a hell of day. Karen eyeballs the card still clutched between my fingers.

“Nice ass on that man,” she says. “Is that his number?”

I should give her the card and hope she hooks up with Shay. Someone should get some of that. Instead, I open my robe and slide the card into my two-sizes-too-small bra.

CONFESSION NO. 3

I obviously do not understand the old adage “let sleeping dogs lie.”

Shay's card still rests on my bedside table three days later. While I dress for my appointment with the private investigator, my gaze darts toward the card. I should have trashed it. Our business is over. It's only the “heat cycle” thing that makes me think about him. Messing with a cop would be like playing Russian roulette. I'm sure as soon as my hormones calm down, I'll be able to forget Terry Shay and his baby blues. Racket from the kitchen breaks into my thoughts.

Cindy is banging things around in there because she's mad about my appointment with the investigator. What she doesn't understand is that in my case, the need for truth outweighs the consequences of someone else finding out the truth right along with me. Cindy is aware of what happened seven years ago. She's also aware of the recent outbreaks. She thinks I'm panicking unnecessarily. In other words, she's in denial.

When I'm bent on doing something Cindy considers self-destructive, she reminds me that a full-blown transformation only took place once. She's certain I just have a werewolf bug or something and it will go away soon. I can't be as certain. Thus the need for a private investigator.

“Lou, I can't get this jar open!” Cindy yells.

Due to my wicked past, Cindy has trained herself to call me Lou. It's a matter of survival and she takes her position as my best friend and confidante seriously. At times, we both forget who we once were and where we came from. We like our lives now. What Cindy seems unwilling to realize is that if I go wolfy again, I won't have the job that helps pay half her rent in this overpriced building. I won't have anything but a real fur coat.

I go to the kitchen. Cindy hands me a jar of orange marmalade. She's made us toast and hot chocolate. I take the jar from her, give the lid one good twist, and it pops off.

Frowning, she says, “I hate that you can do that and I can't. If I was as strong as you are, I could work construction. Maybe you should work construction, Lou.”

“Your dream, not mine,” I remind her, moving around to perch on a bar stool. “I don't know why you don't like your job, Cindy. You're great with makeup and you get to be around beautiful girls all day. I'd think that would be a lesbian's dream job.”

Opening a drawer, Cindy digs through my silverware and comes up with a butter knife. She points it at me. “It's rude to refer to me in that manner and you know it.”

“What?” I ask. “Calling you a lesbian? That's the name it's called. They gave it a name so gay women don't have to say, I'm a girl who likes girls, you know, versus a girl who likes boys. That is to say, not that I like every girl—”

“Okay, wiseass,” Cindy cuts me off. She smears a piece of toast with marmalade and tosses it on my plate. “As far as having any advantage with women because of my job, that's where you're wrong. All the models talk about is men or shoes. Who's sleeping with who. Who wants to sleep with who and what pair of heels they want to wear while doing it.”

I take a bite of toast. “I'm sure there are closet lesbians among us. You just have to flush them out. In fact, that Russian model, Natasha Somethingorother, she looks pretty masculine to me.”

Cindy comes around and sits beside me. “Natasha Svetbroun is not gay,” she informs me. “She's athletic. In fact, I worked a Nike shoot with her yesterday. I didn't want to tell you, but the reason I know she's straight is because she was talking about a certain photographer's athletic ability in bed. I'm sure you know which photographer she was talking about.”

A bite of toast goes down the wrong pipe. Cindy thumps me on the back.

“Thought that would get to you,” she says.

Once I finish hacking, I take deep breaths and say calmly, “Stefan's sex life is none of my business.” If I repeat that to myself a hundred times a day, maybe at some point I'll believe it.

Cindy takes a sip of her hot chocolate. “Aren't you even curious about what she said about him?”

“No,” I assure her.

When she shrugs and takes a bite of toast, I want to take a bite of her. She knows me well enough to know I'm lying. Finally, I say, “Okay, tell me what she said.”

“Are you sure you want to know?” Cindy tortures me further. “It could just make the situation between you worse.”

I think about it for a minute. “How could it be any worse?”

“Suspecting a man is good in bed and hearing he can make a woman yell like Tarzan are two different things.”

“Ugh.” I bury my hands in my hair. “I knew he was good.”

“Hung, too, or that's what Natasha said,” she adds cheerfully.

Peeking at Cindy through my fingers, I say, “If you were any kind of friend, you would have kept this to yourself.”

Cindy brushes toast crumbs off her chin. “I just don't understand why you don't have him and be done with it. I know you're half in love with him. Why not take the next step in the relationship? Why let everyone else have what should belong to you?”

“Because everyone else has already had it,” I answer dryly. “And there is the little problem of being a murderer and, in recent months, howling at the moon and scratching for fleas.”

This is not a normal conversation, and I have to give Cindy credit for keeping her cool. I, in contrast, am in freak-out mode and have been since the outbreaks started six months ago. Cindy shrugs.

“You killed someone who deserved to be killed and a few fur-and-fang outbreaks aren't like a full-blown transformation. That only happened once and I don't believe it will happen again.”

“Thank you, Dr. Phil.” I sip my chocolate. I wish I could be as sure as Cindy, but Cindy isn't the one who smells like a wet dog after a shower. I glance at my watch.

“I've got to get going.”

“I really think this is a bad decision, Lou,” Cindy grumbles. “This guy is going to snoop around in your life. What if he finds out more than you want him to know?”