Dead and Dateless (13 page)

I opened Evie’s bottom drawer in search of the one shining ray of hope amid so much gloominess. See, last month Evie had been totally stressed over her dad coming to visit, which meant she hadn’t gotten her usual eight hours, which meant she’d needed an extra pick-me-up midday, which meant she’d headed to Starbucks during our peak hour and had been in such a hurry that she’d forgotten to get a lid for her cup.

Long story short, she’d dribbled mocha latte on the computer keyboard while trying to answer a new call and key in the latest client. Talk about multitasking. Anyhow, the system had blanked out and we’d had to call a repairman. He’d been able to retrieve some of our data, but not all. After he’d quieted me down (I’d sort of whimpered), he’d suggested backing up to a data pin in the future.

All right, already. So I’d bawled like a baby. My professional life had been on that computer. Talk about a low moment.

I’d picked myself up, as usual, and taken the guy’s advice. Now we were a totally hip, totally conscientious matchmaking firm that backed up religiously.

My hand dove between a box of tampons and a can of hairspray and started to search. I unearthed a spare lip gloss, a bottle of clear nail polish (was there anything that stuff couldn’t fix?), a chocolate-dipped spoon, two packs of Equal, a data pin, a mini curling iron—yes!

I planted a big one on the small contraption and stuffed it into the envelope along with the rest of my goodies. Closing the drawer, my gaze snagged on the message light flashing on Evie’s telephone.

No touching, I told myself. First off, I didn’t want to leave a fingerprint because if the cops fingerprinted they would know I’d been here.

Then again, they’d probably already fingerprinted and even if they hadn’t, this was my place. My fingerprints were everywhere.
And,
I was pretty sure that leaving a fingerprint wasn’t like getting offed and having the contents of your stomach examined for time of death. It was a fingerprint, for heaven’s sake. There was no way to tell what time or date it had been left. Or was there?

I was sort of figuring this stuff out as I went along and my curiosity quickly voted N-O.

I turned the volume button down all the way so as not to alert Columbo that there was anyone inside and pressed the play button. My vamp hearing tuned in to the nonexistent sound and the words echoed through my head.

“You’ve reached Dead End Dating, where finding love is as easy as applying for a modest, but well worth it, home equity loan.”

It wasn’t the greatest slogan, but I was still working on it.

“Our offices are closed, but if you’ll leave a name and number, someone will contact you on the next business day.”
Beeeeeep.

“I’m calling for Lil. This is Ayala Jacqueline Devanti.”

Aka my one and only Dead End Dating failure.

Okay, so she wasn’t my only one, but the f-word was such an ugly term that I reserved it for only the most disastrous of experiences. In a nutshell, Ayala was the daughter of one of my mother’s friends and the perfect female vampire. She was ultra hot. Educated. Her orgasm quotient rivaled even mine (baker’s dozen, or it had been the last time I’d actually
had
sex, say, about a hundred years ago) and she desperately wanted to settle down and contribute to the vampire race.

I know, she should have been an easy match, right? I’d thought so, too, which was why, before I’d paired her up with a real candidate and added her to the Wall of Fame, I’d hooked her up with Wilson Harvey. See, Wilson had had the hots for my best friend, Nina Two (brunette, conservative, did the financials for her father’s female sanitary products plant in Jersey) but he hadn’t wanted to admit it. Nina had been slow on the uptake as well. So I’d paired them each up with primo potential mates and sent them to the annual midnight soirée sponsored by my mother’s huntress club. They’d each been insanely jealous of the other (am I good or what?) and had come to their senses (hello Wall of Fame), but not before Ayala’s werewolf lover had shown up and staked me in the shoulder.

Ouch.

He’d been aiming for Wilson, of course, but I hadn’t been able to stand idly by and let some crazy wolf off my best friend’s eternity mate. Not to mention, Wilson had yet to pay his hook-up fee and I wasn’t eating
that.

Anyhow, in the short time since getting staked, I’d introduced Ayala to several potential eternity mates, expecting each one to be It. Surprisingly, she hadn’t clicked with any of them. She didn’t like brunettes. She didn’t like blonds. She didn’t like doctors. She didn’t like lawyers. She didn’t like condescending men who only cared how many times she could scream their name during one sexual encounter.

At least none who fell into the born vamp category.

I’d broached the subject with her a few times and suggested she let me fix her up with, I don’t know, maybe another werewolf? I mean, she had listed
Wolf
as her all-time favorite movie. And her number one song? Big surprise. “Werewolves of London.”

Forget the writing on the wall. She had it tattooed on her forehead. But, alas, she wasn’t ready to come out of the closet. She wanted to settle down and make babies, and she was looking to me to make it happen.

Always up for a challenge—and a free shopping spree (her father was well-connected with Barney’s)—I was still searching for Ayala’s perfect someone.

“Friday was a total disaster. He wore a navy suit and I absolutely abhor navy. Did I mention that on my profile?”

Uh, no.

“It made him look even more washed out,” the message continued. “Even after we had dinner, he still looked as dead as ever. But I’m not crying over a spilled martini. There’s always next week, right? Provided, of course, you have someone. You do have someone else lined up, don’t you?”

No.

“But of course you do,” she went on. “You’re the expert.”

The line clicked and the second message played.

“Lilliana? This is your mother.”

As if I didn’t know.

“Things are chaos right now. Pure chaos.”

And it was all my fault.

“I’m at my wit’s end.” My mother’s voice actually faltered and my guilt gave way to a rush of warmth. Awww, Mom. “Both your father and I are. We haven’t a clue where we went wrong.”

You didn’t do anything. It’s my fault. I’m the one who opened the dating service. I’m the one who’s on the run.

“We’ve failed as role models. And mentors. And parents.”

No, no, no! You’re both good role models. Great mentors. Kick-ass parents.

Okay, so maybe kick-ass was pushing it a bit, but they’d been good. The best a pair of ancient, snotty, aristocratic vamps could be, I supposed.

“That’s the only explanation for what is happening right now. It’s our fault. We must have done something horribly wrong to have our handsome son fall victim to the wiles of a mere
human.
”

The only thing
horribly wrong
they’d done had been when they’d forced me to go on the family vacation to Rome rather than letting me fly off to Paris with The Ninas—wait a second. Handsome son? Mere human?

“Jack’s ruining his afterlife and there seems to be nothing we can do to stop him.”

Jack?

“He’s fallen for a human, which brings me to the reason for the phone call. We had to move the hunt from Sunday to Saturday because we’ve committed to meeting the human’s parents for tea on Sunday evening. Your father wants everyone here early so we can put our heads together and come up with something effective to dissuade Jack from his present course of disaster and get him to cancel the tea. An intervention, so to speak. Your father’s ready to take away his 401K and his PTO, but I think that’s a bit drastic. PTO maybe, but both? I mean, Jack’s still young. It’s only natural that he’ll make
some
mistakes. Speaking of mistakes, your father and I fully expect that you’ve learned your lesson about all this dating nonsense. We told you it was a bad idea, just like the time you decided you wanted to become a nun.”

I’d been like,
five,
and totally enamored of Sister Mary Elizabeth who’d been my
au pair
at the time. At least, I’d thought she was my
au pair.
It turns out she’d been my aunt Sophie’s food source on account of Aunt Sophie had been going through a strictly Kosher phase. I know, she’s a vampire, right? She had been, before she’d nuked herself in a tanning bed not so long ago.

Bye, bye Vampie!

Before then, however, she’d been an adventurous and fun-loving spirit who’d been fascinated by all things
not
vampire, including various cultures and people. She’d worn sarongs and learned how to make poi. She’d belly danced for kings, ridden camels across the desert (at night, of course), and dog-sledded through the Andes. She’d traded beauty tips with Queen Elizabeth (the first one) and made love to the real Don Juan.

I’d been told more than once that I’d taken after Aunt Sophie, but I couldn’t really see the connection. Sure, I’m sort of fascinated by unvamplike stuff and I do know more than my share of beauty tips, but you wouldn’t catch me doing it with a player like Don, or wearing a sarong—unless it had a Christian Dior label.

“Now that you’ve seen for yourself, you can forget this crazy nonsense,” my mom’s voice continued, “put your nose to the grindstone and get back to work at Moe’s.”
Click.

Back
to work?

I’d never actually reported
to
work.

But since I had a whole stack of lime green polo shirts (courtesy of my father) with my name embroidered right above
STORE MANAGER
, I was considered the head honcho of my father’s second NYU location.

I listened to three messages from various clients and fast-forwarded through two sales calls, a couple of
I told you so’s
from my mother and one more
poor Jack
before I reached the end.

I took one last, lingering look at my office. It wasn’t the biggest space in Manhattan, but it was
très
chic. Even more, it was mine and I’d grown sort of attached to it. Enough that a lump worked its way up into my throat as I walked toward the back door and slipped out into the alley.

Hello? It’s not like you’re calling it quits and heading over to NYU. You’ve still got your very own business to run. Small and floundering, particularly with murder charges hanging over your head, but a business nonetheless.

I clung to the hope, locked up, replanted the spare key and morphed back into the batmobile.

My tiny wings beat a fast, furious pace as I topped the building and headed for number one on my
Alpha Meet Markets
list—a Knicks game.

“E
vie. That sure is a pretty name.” The man (Knicks cap and matching shirt, and jeans) smiled and glanced up from the business card I’d just handed him. I’d purposely grabbed a stack of Evie’s cards back at the of?ce rather than my own—do I know how to lay low or what?

We stood in the Play by Play near an air hockey machine. The P by P was a sports bar located inside Madison Square Garden where fans could play video games, make jump shots, and scarf nachos.

The game had ended less than a half hour before and the place over?owed with people psyched over tonight’s victory against the Orlando Heat. The two dozen TVs that lined the walls broadcast highlights and the postgame show. Nickelback blasted from the speakers. Cigarette smoke fogged the air. Beer ?owed. Testosterone oozed.

I had my foam finger tucked under one arm (okay, so I’m a Knicks fan, too) and an appletini in my hand. I’d been making the rounds when this guy had flagged me down. A table full of men flanked him. Beers in hand, they eyed me and waited for me to (a) throw myself at their friend and renew their faith in womankind or (b) kick him in the nuts like the usual snotty bitch.

The guy had a twinkle in his eyes and a
come here, baby
grin. He leaned in closer and
eau de
Heineken burned my nostrils. “Listen here, sweet thing, why don’t we blow this joint and go back to my place?” He winked, which looked more like a blink on account of the fact he was sloshed and both eyes were involved. “I’ll let you ride the pony.”

Pony?
I shook my head, snatched my card back, and stuffed it into my pocket. “Sorry, but I’m in the market for a Clydesdale.”

“What?” He looked confused until one of his buddies leaned forward and clapped him on the back.

“She’s saying your equipment’s too small, dude.” A round of laughter erupted and
eau de
Heineken’s face turned bright red.

“Actually, I didn’t say anything.” I smiled at the blinker. “You filled me in on your own.” I held up my drink in salute. “Have a good evening.”

“Wait a second! That was just a figure of speech.” He grabbed my arm as I started to turn. Quite forcefully, I might add.

I gave him another once-over. “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“Damn straight.” He nodded fiercely and puffed out his chest. “There isn’t anything small about my equipment. I’m locked and loaded, baby.”