Confessions of a Werewolf Supermodel (6 page)

“I do not like girls,” Natasha sputters. “People think because I have an athletic build, I am a lesbian. Not true.”

Grabbing Natasha's wrist, Karen lifts it in the air. “Then why do you wear this big ol' sports watch? That's the first clue, you know. The big ol' sports watch.”

I nearly burst out laughing again. Natasha wrenches her wrist from Karen. “I run,” she explains. “I need stopwatch!”

“Uh-huh,” Karen mumbles.

Now Natasha's face is blotched with red spots. I feel a little sorry for her. I know what it's like not to be part of the “in” crowd. “Lay off, Karen,” I say quietly.

Natasha stomps to the back of the room.

“You're wicked,” I tell Karen.

Her catty smile confirms it. “Truth is, if you're not going to take him, I want him for myself. If I have to convince old broad shoulders that she's gay to get her to back off, then so be it.”

I imagine if Karen wanted Stefan, she could have him. She's exotically beautiful. Her skin is the color of hot chocolate. She's six feet two inches of legs. Men go crazy over her.

“I don't know why you'd want a skinny white boy like him, anyway,” I tease her back, undressing along with everyone else.

“Hey, Lou, you should have come out with us last night,” Leslie calls. “Freddie Z's was really rocking.”

Mention of the club makes me think of Morgan Kane. “Was the band any good?”

“Oh, yeah,” she answers. “Lots of loud rock and roll.”

Which is the reason I never go there. Loud music hurts my ears. After recent events, I'm afraid I'd start that howling some dogs do when they listen to music. Besides, I don't remember being asked, but I don't point that out.

“Lou, if you're calling a cab, better do it,” Karen says. “We're all leaving in a minute and it'll take one a little while to get here. I want to make sure you have a ride.”

I've finished dressing and grab up my beauty bag. I fish out my cell. It rings. I jump. My phone doesn't ring that often. Only a few people have my number. Stefan is one of them. I figure he's caught in a line at Starbucks and is double-checking on whether I need a ride. I flip my phone open.

“No, I don't need a ride,” I say.

Silence. Finally a voice with a smooth Southern drawl asks, “Sherry? Sherry Billington?”

My throat has a big lump in it. I can't respond.

“Hey, talk to me, Sherry,” Kane says. “At least I didn't call you ‘cupcake.'”

I hang up. How did Morgan Kane find out my real name? How did he trace my cell number and what the hell else does he already know about me?

“Hey, girl, you okay?” Karen pauses before me. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

In a way, I have. I knew if I decided to hire Kane to find my biological parents, I would have to give him my adopted name, but so far, that information was still a secret.

“I'm fine,” I say to Karen.

The other models start leaving. Karen asks, “Sure you don't need a ride? If you don't want to go with Stefan, you can go with me and Leslie.”

What I need is a few minutes to collect myself. No one has called me Sherry for seven years. “Thanks, but no. Really, I'm fine. I have a cab on the way.”

“How about we meet for lunch on Thursday?” Karen asks. “Maybe do a little shoe shopping?”

“Sounds good.” I love to shop for shoes and Cindy never wants to go anywhere but Red Wing.

“Okay, see you later.”

I'm suddenly left alone in the dressing room. I turn to face the ceiling-to-floor mirrors, a must-have for women who model everything from makeup to shoes. Again, I catch a flash of Sherry Billington in the mirror. My face shape is the same, but that's about it as far as the resemblance goes. My eyes are more slanted. My lips are fuller, my nose shorter. I'm taller now, stronger. And yet at times, I still feel vulnerable.

The door swings open. I jump.

“Sorry,” Stefan says, latte in hand. “Just came in to make an inventory and see that everything that needs to be sent back gets sent back.”

I haven't called a cab. “Does that ride offer still stand?” I ask.

He smiles. I try not to melt. “Sure. Just let me wrap up here.”

I help Stefan because I'd like to hurry him along. I need to go home and think about what I'm going to do regarding Morgan Kane. I guess if he's gone this far, I need to hire him. If I don't, he might snoop around more in my life just for spite. At least I have the name of the adoption agency. Kane should be able to get past the sealed records … I hope. What he's done is basically blackmail me into hiring him. Very clever.

A few minutes later Stefan and I speed along in his little Porsche. We haven't said much to each other. It's awkward because we're usually chatty.

“It was one night, one time, I haven't called her since,” he finally says.

My first reaction is a little jolt of joy. My second is more rational. “Guess you get a prize for acting like every other asshole out there, then,” I respond.

“I'm not bragging,” he says. “But I don't want what happened between her and me affecting our relationship … our friendship,” he clarifies.

I do my geek snort. “You don't want it affecting our working relationship,” I correct him. I'm not in the mood for this now. Not after having Morgan Kane blackmail me. “I'm over it,” I say. “Let's just both forget about it. I thought you had higher standards, is all.”

Stefan pulls up before the curb of my building. He puts the car in park and turns toward me. “I do have higher standards, but we can't always have what we want, can we, Lou?”

This is not my day. I'm not up to a serious discussion about our relationship and the fact we are both more attracted to one another than friends should be. Since I can't be honest with Stefan about everything going on in my life, I'll be honest with him about what I can. “No, we can't always have what we want,” I answer. “Sometimes the timing isn't right. Sometimes other issues get in the way.”

He stares at me and I'd like to pull that ridiculous orange cap off his head. “Tell me the truth. Is it because of Cindy? Are you two more than friends?”

I didn't see that one coming. Stefan thinks I'm gay simply because my best friend is. It's funny … for about a split second. Does Stefan make that assumption just because I'm not all over him? The fault cannot lie with him; therefore it must lie with me, right? He's so typically male, sometimes I wonder why I like him at all. His question doesn't justify an answer. I open the door and climb out.

“Bozo,” I say before slamming the door.

Marching toward my building, I wonder why Gus hasn't rushed to get the door for me. He usually does so to keep me from having to punch in my security code. I punch in the code and walk into the building lobby. Gus stands a few feet away, talking to a man in black. The doorman glances up, sees me, and calls, “Sorry, Ms. Lou. He flashed a badge and I had to let him in.”

Terry Shay looks as good as I remember. Even though at the moment I'm in complete agreement with Karen that all men are pigs, I have to admit if I had a tail it would be wagging about now. Shay walks toward me. By his serious expression, I'm thinking this is no social call.

He pulls a photograph from his pocket. The girl in the photo resembles me. She smiles for the camera while perched on a bench. Her jeans are too tight. So is her T-shirt. The word
EROTICA
is scrawled across the front.

CONFESSION NO. 5

Honesty may be the best policy, but I say when confronted with a truth that may lead someone to discover that I'm stranger than your average Joe, lie like a son, or daughter, or whatever, of a bitch.

I recognize the shirt in the picture. Now I understand why I seem detached from my nightmares. When I dream, I'm not dreaming about myself, I'm dreaming about other women … and how they are murdered. My hand shakes when I hand the photo back to Terry.

“You found her in a sleazy motel.” It's not information I intend to speak out loud, but I'm dazed and the words slip past my defenses. I glance up at Shay. His brow furrows.

“How'd you know that?” he asks.

The neon sign flashes in my head. I can't tell Terry that I dream about the murders. He'll think I'm crazy. I shrug. “A wild guess.”

Shay's baby blues narrow on me. “Pretty damn good guess,” he says. “Why do I get the feeling you know more about these murders than you're telling me, Ms Kinipski?”

Some type of explanation is in order. A lie. Something a little odd, but not as odd as the truth. This is where watching too much
Court TV
pays off. “I'm psychic,” I blurt.

Shay blinks at me. “What?”

I've stepped in it now, I have to follow through. “I got that she was murdered in a hotel from touching the photo. I sometimes have visions from touching an object related to an individual, or seeing a photo.”

Terry opens his mouth to respond, but Gus interrupts.

“Miss Lou, Detective, do you mind taking your business elsewhere?” When I glance at Gus he blushes. “The residents get nervous when they walk into my building and see a police officer talking to another resident,” he explains.

My building is very upscale. Gus takes his position seriously. No funny business goes on in the lobby. He leaves me little choice but to invite Terry up to my apartment. I never have men in my place. It's my sanctuary.

“I guess we can go up to my apartment,” I say.

“Either that or the station,” Shay offers.

No, thank you. “This way.” I move toward the elevator. The building is a high-rise. I live on the tenth floor and never realized how slow the ride up is until I'm stuck in the elevator with a good-looking man … a detective, to top it off. Shay has a particular scent. Axle grease mixed with Brut aftershave. It's a complete turn-on. The situation, however, is a complete turnoff.

“So, how long have you been psychic?” I don't have to be clairvoyant to detect sarcasm in his voice. Shay is obviously a nonbeliever.

“For a few years.” I immediately wish I could modify my answer. I think those people are born with “the gift.” The elevator doors open and I step off. “I mean, I really only came to understand what was happening to me in the last few years,” I add, fumbling for my keys.

Shay makes a grunting nonbeliever sound. After I unlock my dead bolt, I open the door and stick my head inside, looking for signs that a werewolf lives in my apartment. I don't see any clumps of fur on the furniture or rawhide bones scattered around on the floor … or bones of any kind.

“All clear,” I announce and open the door. Shay follows me inside. His masculine presence immediately invades my space. I'm not sure I like it.

“All clear of what exactly?” he asks.

It's a good thing I have a fast brain to go with my lame mouth. “The girl next door sometimes hangs out here watching my television. I have a bigger screen.”

“Ah,” he comments. “I thought you meant ghosts or something.”

I give him a “very funny” look and set my beauty bag on the entry table. “Would you like me to make coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee would be nice.”

Even as Shay says this, his eyes move around the room, scoping everything out. They land on my home theater system and light up. “Nice,” he comments. “Love to watch a game on that thing.”

I'm not psychic, but I do have a vivid imagination. I picture Terry reclining on my couch, watching a game and getting peanuts or popcorn or whatever guys eat while watching sports all over my imported rug. It's not a pretty picture. My imagination plants me next to him, maybe playing with his big gun while we watch TV, and I warm to the idea.

“This way,” I instruct, assuming Shay will follow me to the kitchen. My kitchen is spacious and airy. The appliances are all stainless steel, the countertops black marble. Shay slides onto one of my dainty bar stools. He looks about as at home as a rabbit would in a fox's den.

“Okay, tell me what else you ‘sense' about Lisa Keller's murder.”

He's not one for small talk. Now that I know what's really going on in my nightmares, I see no reason not to share the information. “The man who murdered her has a tattoo on the back of his left shoulder.” I close my eyes as if seeking a vision. A moment later I open them and sigh. “I can't make it out in my head. It says something.”

Shay lifts a skeptical brow. “I thought you had to be touching the photo to get your ‘visions.'”

Oops. “I only have to touch it once … the karma stays with me after that.” What a load.

Terry glances around and I figure he's looking for a shovel to get through the bullshit. His gaze travels back to me. “Where were you last night?”

“Home,” I automatically answer.

“Alone?”

While I scoop coffee into a filter, it dawns on me that Terry is not just chatting me up. He's suspicious of me. And I guess he has every right to be. “Some of the time,” I answer. After filling the pot with water and starting the coffee, I turn toward him. “A friend dropped in later and spent the night.”

“Oh.” Shay frowns. He takes out his notepad and pen. “What time did he drop by?”

Why did Shay automatically assume it was a he? And why do I get the feeling he's not happy to hear I have late-night male visitors? Or is he just disappointed that I have someone to vouch for me for part of the night?

“Around two,” I answer. “And it wasn't a he, it was a she.”

My answer receives another brow lift. “Any chance I can verify that with your friend?”

Not until I get my story straight with Cindy. “I can give you her cell number,” I offer. Cindy's probably next door napping after spending the night on my couch. I'll have a chance to clue her in before Shay talks to her.