Dead, Undead, or Somewhere in Between (6 page)

“Why did Disco and his people get involved?”

“I’m not at liberty to say Rhiannon,” Goose answered after a lengthy hesitation. “Maybe one day you can ask Disco.”

“Okay.” I didn’t pry, aware that I’d trespassed onto some private matter best left alone.

He changed the subject by formulating our plan. He would arrive at nine o’clock sharp at my place, bringing us fashionably late to the shindig in the hope that tardiness would excuse us from the early tasting, as well as keeping us below the radar.

Our plan was simple—mingle, observe, and listen. Anyone who raised a red flag would be marked as a suspect of interest. And we only had one rule that governed the entire stakeout.

If somehow we were caught—get the hell out of there.

Goose said I looked amazing, and I would have accepted his compliment with tact and grace if I didn’t feel like a bad Tammy Faye impersonator at a religious rally.

My outfit came courtesy of Macy’s, and it was something I could live with—a black halter jumpsuit. I never knew such an amazing and smart piece of clothing existed. The back was open to the waist, which was foreign to me, but the legs were long and billowy and hid the new boots I’d purchased to match. Since I lived in shit kickers and Nike’s, I hoped I didn’t need to haul ass or jump obstacles. If so, I was bound to eat turf.

Goose looked outstanding. His suit was deep navy, almost black, and matched his coloring wonderfully. He wore a light blue shirt with a luxurious navy tie that matched the pants and jacket. His hair was neatly slicked back, and he smelled so good that I pretended to adjust his tie just to take another whiff.

Our driver stopped in front of our destination on Park Avenue, pulling to the empty curb, and my nervousness returned. I was out of my league and completely out of my zone. Whereas I could conform to an emo crowd easily enough, pretending to matriculate from upper crust ass-hats was too surreal. Goose insisted my stellar attitude and superb language skills had to be put on hold while we were inside the building, which meant I had to keep my big fat cow shut.

It was the equivalent of asking a little girl not to scream the first time she was personally introduced to Hannah Montana.

We walked into the building and signed under pseudo names. Hello, Mr. Receptionist. We’re Mr. And Mrs. Hamlin, visiting the Westhouses on the 74
^th
floor, if you please.

Goose kept his arm loosely at my waist, appearing much taller as he focused on his posture. He totally looked the part. As the door to the elevator slid closed, we both relaxed.

“Remember to watch your language, Janet.”

I turned toward him, brushing off his lapels and giving him the once over.

“Why ever would you say such a thing, Brad?” I smiled innocently and started to snicker. I loved our names, straight out of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
At any moment, I was going to ask Goose to do the “Time Warp”.

“Quiet,” he shushed me as he fought his own laughter, lips contorting with the effort, and pulled me to his side.

I stood patiently, nervous but somehow excited too. I felt like a spy, assuming different identities and working under cover. The
Mission Impossible
theme echoed through my mind as the lights shifted on the panel. My heart started hammering, and my skin began to tingle. The doors opened, and Goose’s arm tightened around my waist, leading us out.

Directly ahead was a man in a black suit. Goose pulled me forward and approached the door confidentially. “Brad and Janet Hamlin, we were invited by Marcus Delmar.”

He didn’t offer any further explanation and he didn’t look away.

Jesus.

Goose
was
a bona fide professional.

I started to relax. Mr. Ethan McDaniel P.I. had this shit, no problem. The man in black nodded and moved away from the door to grant us access. Goose reached out and gripped the handle. Opening the door, he motioned me inside. I could hear the voices, high-pitched drones with pronounced vowels and leering pronunciation.

I bit my lip, vowing I would not speak unless spoken to. I had two huge strikes against me. I had no formal education—other than the school of bar—and I came from the south. My southern accent wasn’t as severe as some, but it was evident, especially in a room full of millionaire northerners.

Goose guided us across the room, toward a huge walk-in closet. He helped me out of my jacket and gently pulled my hair around my shoulders. Sensing my confusion, he led me inside and hung up the garment, showing me where it would be in case we made a speedy departure. I smiled nervously and his eyes tightened. He patted my chin with his knuckles, and I nodded in understanding.

I would keep my chin up. To hell with the snobby bastards.

He held out his arm and I took it without hesitation. This was a partnership now. I’d have to get used to trusting someone else besides myself.

We exited the closet and walked into a huge room full of people. I suddenly understood the need for snazzy clothes. Everyone was dressed in form-fitting dresses, suits, and designer duds specifically tailored for them. The crowd was older, too. I was one of the youngest in the room, and probably considered eye candy along with the few other males and females with older dates.

There were tables filled with drinks, and hors d’oeuvres were lined up on one side of the room. The wall opposite was open to allow a breathtaking view of Central Park, street-lit walkways as perfect as a watercolor painting.

“So far, nada,” I leaned over to whisper in Goose’s ear, smiling pleasantly as a server with a tray offered us a glass of wine. I put the glass to my lips and took a small sip. It tasted slightly off, too sweet somehow, and I puckered my lips.

Goose’s face tightened, and his eyes narrowed.

As if to say I told you so.

I would have spit the fluid back up if I could. How stupid could I be? The room changed as the air became crisper, the voices became clearer, and my vision…I saw every minute detail, ranging from the brownish seeds on the strawberries nestled on trays across the room, to the lint on Goose’s shirt as he turned to me.

“Oh God,” I whispered, wanting to be sick but knowing I had to keep a straight face. I swallowed, aware of my tongue and the sweet taste that lingered on the surface.

Goose moved in against me, a fake smile plastered to his face. He shifted close and leaned down. The feel of his breath against my cheek made me shudder as my legs swayed.

“It will pass in another five minutes or so. You didn’t drink much.”

“Okay.” Even my voice sounded different, like a purr in my ears.

His hand grasped mine, and I could feel the heat as it radiated from his body in warm waves. He slipped my fingers under his arm, wrapping them around, and walked me to the window, giving me something to focus on until the feeling passed. I stared down at the trees and lamps in the distance, and slowly, things dulled. My perfect vision faded until everything was blurry, sounds were distant and slurred, and smells were no longer evident.

“All better?” He didn’t turn from the glass, pretending to look outside at the fantastic view.

“Mmm hmm.” I vocalized, afraid to speak and hear myself purring.

“Pardon me,” a deep voice interrupted from behind, and we both turned to greet the stranger. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.

He was a big guy who devoted serious time to the gym, with long hair that fell down his shoulders in soft brown waves, and caramel brown eyes that went beautifully with his tanned skin and handsome face. His suit was formal, but he didn’t wear a tie, the collar loose and comfortable at his neck.

“I don’t believe we have.” Goose-stepped up to the plate, more seasoned than a award-winning actor from Julliard. He extended his right hand and introduced himself, “Brad Hamlin.”

“Jude Mason.” He shook Goose’s hand forcefully and turned his attention to me.

Goose didn’t seem to appreciate the interest generated in my direction when he placed his arm gently around my waist and said, “Allow me to introduce my wife, Janet.”

“The good ones are always taken.” Jude grinned, full lips parting to reveal perfect white teeth.

He reached for my hand and brought it to his mouth. It took all of my control to keep from complaining that I didn’t know where those lips had been or what they’d been doing. He brushed them gently across the tender part of skin directly below my knuckle and let go.

“Who told you about our private party this evening?” The question was cordial, but the undertones were blatant. He didn’t recognize us, and that pulled a red flag.

“Marcus Delmar,” Goose answered.

Marcus was the supplier for these little gatherings, and when Disco threatened to shut down his little operation, he’d gladly given up the goods on tonight’s extravaganza.

His was one name the people here wouldn’t question.

“I see.” The suspicion evaporated from Jude’s face. “Then allow me to introduce you to a few of the other guests.”

I stuck to Goose like a bad rash, keeping my body in close contact. I could handle a drunken asshole with over one-hundred pounds on me, but I was mortified of social interaction with these people.

Jude led us to a large group standing along the far wall, and I knew I was staring at a living billboard epitomizing wealth and sophistication. They reeked of superiority and affluence. Each of the men stood leisurely, accompanied by hard-bodied dates.

“Timothy.” Jude breezed into their circle, sweeping around to face us. “We have new faces tonight. Allow me to introduce Brad and Janet Hamlin.”

Timothy stepped away from the group. I guessed he was in his forties, but only because of the grey that tinted the black at his temples. His face was still smooth, with only a few wrinkles appearing around the slate grey eyes that matched his suit. He extended his hand, and Goose gave another firm shake before he stepped back.

Everyone quickly made introductions. Timothy’s wife, Sarah, appeared years older than her husband, but it wasn’t from lack of trying. I could tell when someone worked out, and this woman would give me a run for the money. She was lean and cut; the direct result of personal chefs and trainers. Her black hair, bobbed to her chin, matched her onyx eyes.

Next on the menu were Mark and Sabrina Smith. They were the youngest of the couples, in their late thirties, and extremely well spoken. Mark was handsome with bronzed skin and dark brown eyes, but Sabrina was a real looker. Curly blonde hair surrounded her face in ringlets, deep blue eyes huge inside her heart-shaped face.

Last were Carson and CeCe Parker, both of which gave me a mondo case of the willies. Each had blond hair, blue eyes, and could easily pass for brother and sister. They finished one another’s introductions, clung to each other like floatation devices, and made me think we had slipped into a bad episode of
The Twilight Zone
.

The conversation quickly delved into subjects chocked-full of words like mutual funds, offshore accounts, and the stock market. The minute they went into that area of expertise, I glanced around the room. Most of the people branched off in pairs—couples, I assumed.

“And what is it you do, Janet?”

Sarah’s voice echoed inside my ears, and I knew she’d caught me daydreaming. I whipped around and smiled awkwardly. My mind shut down, totally devoid of any thoughts or ideas.

Bartender? No. Pool player? No. Ghost hunter? No. Full-time smart ass? No. I was running out of ideas and she was waiting. The room closed in on me as her tiny black eyes came closer and closer…

“You’re looking at it,” I said for no logical reason whatsoever.
You’re looking at it?
What the hell was I smoking? We were busted. I started working out our exit strategy in my head—time to get the hell out.

“What she means is…” Goose pulled me close, squeezing tighter than necessary. “Soon, we hope to expand our family. Janet is currently focusing all of her attention on that aspect of our lives.”

Ah, smart man. Make me a breeder.

“How wonderful,” CeCe exclaimed. She turned to Mark and Sabrina. “Didn’t you say you have a little boy?”

“Yes,” Sabrina answered softly and Mark nodded.

Sarah shook her head distastefully. “I couldn’t have children. I would never get my body back.”

“How selfless of you, Sarah,” CeCe smirked.

“It’s the truth. Some of us are not cut out for Mommyhood.” Sarah’s eyes slitted and her mouth formed a thin line, making her appear much older.

“Ladies,” Jude interrupted, motioning a server over with his index finger, “Let’s remember what tonight is about. Just relax.”

Everyone took a crystal flute, and when the tray made its way to me, I followed suit, keeping the revolting brew at my side.

“Let’s toast.” Jude smiled and brought his glass to his chest. “To longevity.”

Everyone lifted their glasses and I placed the rim my lips, blocked off my throat, and pretended to take a sip.

The wine clung to my lips, and I licked them quickly, tasting that odd sweetness.

“Is something wrong?” Jude asked, and I brought my eyes up. Of course, he’d pay attention. His focus hadn’t left us since we arrived. “You don’t like the wine?”

Damn it.

I didn’t want to drink, and I couldn’t look at Goose for guidance. My fingers tightened on the cool glass as I brought the rounded swell of fine crystal to my lips. Like before, the sweetness lingered on my tongue, and clarity came on hard and fast.

“Good, isn’t it?” Jude’s eyes were all over me, and I found vampire blood didn’t alleviate one human trait—my temper. I imagined erasing his sneer with a wicked crotch shot that would keep him celibate for weeks, but even anger couldn’t overcome the smells that assailed me. My nose took in the scent of perfumes, colognes, starch, and stale air blowing from the overhead air conditioning vents.