Nice Girls Don't Date Dead Men (29 page)

“I make you nervous?” I was strangely pleased by that. After all, he’d made me stutter and drool for most of my adolescence. Turnabout was fair play.

The blush that had subsided only a few seconds before rushed back into his cheeks. “Well, yeah. I like spending time with you. I’m grateful that I’m getting to know you again. I don’t want to screw this up.”

I was able to tamp down my instinct to squeal. I had some cool, flirty speech prepared about Adam playing his cards right, but he suddenly stood up, took my face in his hands, and brushed a quick kiss across my cheek, leaving a tingling path where his lips had touched my skin. He was so warm, vital, full of life. He smelled like sundried cotton and peppermint, though I imagined that
last part was probably just doggie shampoo. The pattern of his hands seemed burned into my cheeks, branding me. How could I have forgotten how warm human men were? It was like sliding into a bone-softening hot bath at the end of a long, blustery day, comforting and sweet. He pulled away from me and smiled. I sat stunned, watching him cross to the kitchen door.

“Just think about what I said, Jane,” he said as he stepped outside. “Give me a call sometime, even if it’s just to talk. I want to see you again.”

“I will,” I promised before I had a chance to filter my response. I seemed to be channeling the teenage Jane, who had no impulse control or loyalty to Gabriel.

Adam took care to close the door quietly, but somehow that tiny
snick
woke Nevie up and had her squalling.

I sighed and thumped my head against the counter.

By the time Mama Ginger saw fit to return, I’d changed six more diapers and spent an hour cleaning substances I’d rather not describe out of my carpet. There were suspiciously permanent-looking stains on my new couch. I was not a happy camper.

“Are you crazy?” I demanded as Mama Ginger opened my door. “What is wrong with you?”

“What?” she asked, peering into the bouncie, where Neveah dozed peacefully. “She’s fine. I knew she would be.”

“What if she’d gotten sick?” I hissed. “What if something went wrong? I didn’t know how to get in touch with you. I am covered in baby spit-up. My house smells like compost!”

“But honey, doesn’t she make you want one of your own?” Mama Ginger held up the baby like a prize cut of meat on display.

“If anything, you’ve confirmed for me that I don’t need to have children,” I said, and from the bottom of my heart, I knew it was true.

“But Janie, I only did this to show you that you need to stop playing around. Stop with this silly singles lifestyle. A different man every night. Working in some adult bookstore. You need to settle down. Stop pretending you’re happy, and just tell Zeb how you feel.”

“I’m not pretending,” I said.

“Well, I think I need to have a talk with this Gabriel character and tell him what he’s doing. He has to know he’s standing in your way,” Mama Ginger insisted. “He has to know he’s keeping you from your one true love. If it wasn’t for this boy, this Gabriel, you and Zeb would be free to be together.”

“But Zeb is in love with Jolene.”

“I don’t want to hear that, Jane. I know what’s best!” she cried, gathering the baby’s stuff and making a dash for the front steps. “You’ll see.”

“Mama Ginger, stop,” I said in the most powerful persuasion voice I could muster. “Stop it right now. You will stop this campaign against Jolene, and you will accept her into the family. You will make her feel welcome. You will never again mention the idea of Zeb and me as anything but friends.”

Mama Ginger swiped at her ear as if there were annoying insects buzzing there. I guess vampire powers
were nothing against the determination of an angry mother-in-law-to-be.

“And I don’t work at an adult bookstore,” I shouted out the door as she bustled Nevie off the porch. “I work at an occult bookstore. There just happens to be an adult video store next door.”

I watched as Mama Ginger’s taillights disappeared into the darkness.

“This is not good.”

Werewolves express many emotions through physical contact—joy, rage, a need for comfort. Prepare to be hugged, snuffled, snuggled, or possibly licked
.

—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were

“Hello?” I called, propping a delivery box against the counter long enough to get the door shut. It had been locked, which was unusual. And Mr. Wainwright never left deliveries out front. There was too much crime in the neighborhood.

“Mr. Wainwright?” I called. Technically, it was my night off. I wasn’t supposed to come by the shop, but Gabriel had called me from the Nashville airport to let me know that he’d be returning to town that night and wanted to talk. I didn’t want to be home waiting for him. Despite my protests to the contrary, I didn’t want to have whatever conversation Gabriel had planned. As unhappy as I was with his evasiveness, I knew the truth would hurt worse. So I was using work as a defensive shield.

The shop was empty, eerily so. I cast my senses out and found nothing; no vampire presence, no humans.

Around the corner of the counter, I could see a pair of brown loafers poking out from a pile of seventeenth-century manuscripts on vampire feeding patterns.

“I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t try to move anything by yourself,” I said to the feet as I set the box down.

The silence seemed to buzz in my ears, slowing my ability to hear, to respond.

“Mr. Wainwright?” My boss lay prostrate on the floor, the books covering him like a crazy quilt. His eyes were closed, his face serene, as if he’d just lain down for a nap on the floor.

“Nonononononono,” I murmured, my numbed fingers searching for a pulse under his cold parchment skin. “Please, no.”

I wailed, my hot tears blinding me. “Mr. Wainwright! Please wake up! Please!”

Using what little I could remember from first-aid class in Girl Scouts, I shoved several books away and tilted Mr. Wainwright’s head back. I wiped my running nose and breathed through the sobs. I blew into his mouth. I pushed down on his sternum with both hands and shrieked when I heard something snap. I’d broken something, probably one of his ribs. I continued to pump his chest, praying to bring something back.

“Please!” I screamed again, burying my face in his shirt.

“Jane, dear, it’s time to stop that. As much as I appreciate it, it’s too late.”

I looked up and locked eyes with the former
Mr. Wainwright. He was wearing the same gray cardigan and brown corduroy ensemble as the body lying on the floor, only more transparent. He smiled gently.

“Mr. Wainwright?” I whimpered. “What’s going on?”

“To a young woman of your intelligence, Jane, I would hope it would be obvious.” I shook my head, still sniffling. “I’m a ghost, Jane, have been for, oh, six or seven hours now.”

He held up his hand, examining the way the light filtered through it. “Look at that.”

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“Well, you were right about my not moving boxes by myself. I knew there was something wrong the moment I picked it up. I had all of the classic signs—shooting pains in the left arm, crushing sensation in the chest, shortness of breath. I just keeled over.”

“I’m so sorry. I should have been here.”

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t blame yourself. I was an old man, and I lived a good, long life. And you made me very happy during my last months. You’ve become very dear to me, Jane. I hope you know that. I was never meant to have children. But I like to think that if I had a daughter, or a granddaughter, she would be like you. Good Lord, is that really what my hair looks like?”

“Focus, please, Mr. Wainwright. Why are you still here? Do you have unfinished business or something?” I asked.

“No, no, I’m just not ready to cross over. There’s too much happening in the world right now. And my friendship with you, it’s so exciting. I want to see what happens next.”

“But don’t you want to see what’s, you know, on the other side?”

“I’m not afraid of crossing over,” he said. “I’m just not ready to go. As soon as I am, I will. As a wise man once said, ‘To the highly organized mind, death is just another adventure.’ “

“That’s from
Harry Potter,
” I said. “Dumbledore said it in the first book.”

“Trust you to know.” He smiled. “Everything’s going to be fine, Jane. Don’t you worry.”

“But what’s going to happen?”

“Who knows?” He shrugged, grinning wildly. “That’s the best part.”

“But what about—”

“Jane, I think you’d better call nine-one-one, dear, to pick up my body,” he suggested.

I nodded. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Not for a while yet,” he promised.

I thought about calling Dick, but I knew the mix of Dick and the authorities—human or otherwise—was not a good thing. Even though Mr. Wainwright’s death was natural, the 911 dispatcher apparently went to church with my mama and notified the responding paramedics that I was a vampire. And I guess they asked for a police escort. Also, when vampires cry, the tiniest bit of blood streaks through in their tears, so when the police arrived, my face was covered in red stains. Needless to say, questioning took a while.

“How long have you worked here, Miss Jameson?” Sergeant Rusty Bardwell asked as he scribbled in his
little notebook. A tall, dark-haired fellow with a no nonsense set to his jaw, Rusty did not trust me. In fact, he kept a free hand on his gun for most of his visit. Pointing out that using it on me would be useless didn’t seem wise.

“Rusty, we’ve known each other since third grade. You threw up on me on the field trip to Mammoth Cave. Just call me Jane,” I said irritably as I sniffled into a tissue.

Rusty’s level gaze didn’t waver. “How long have you worked here, Miss Jameson?”

“About six months,” I said, my voice flat and annoyed.

“And how long have you known the deceased?”

“About six months,” I said.

Mr. Wainwright watched as the paramedics loaded his mortal coil into a body bag, then waved cheerfully as he was packed into the ambulance. I shook my head at him.

“And you were recently promoted to manager.”

“No.” I frowned.

“The deceased left a note on his desk,” Sergeant Rusty insisted, digging into an evidence envelope.
“Note to Self: Have ‘Jane Jameson, Manager’ plaque engraved for Jane.”

“Aw, Mr. Wainwright.”

Mr. Wainwright ducked his head. “You deserve it, Jane. You’re going to be running the store now, anyway.”

Annoyed at my lack of attention, Rusty cleared his throat. “And you found the body?”

“Yes. I told the dispatcher that when I called nine-one-one.”

“And you performed CPR?”

“I did, but I think he’d been gone for a while at that point.”

“I thought vampires couldn’t breathe,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me.

“I don’t have to, but it doesn’t mean I can’t,” I told him. “Do I need to call a council representative? I’m allowed to under the Undead Civil Rights Act of 2002.”

“We’ll let you know,” Rusty said. “For right now, let’s just say that you’ll probably be hearing from us again.”

Rusty cleared out of the shop as if his polyester pants were on fire. The ambulance crew drove away with the body—I couldn’t think of it as Mr. Wainwright. I was alone. And it was suddenly so quiet. Numb, I sank into a chair behind the counter and stared at a ledger next to the register. I could make out Mr. Wainwright’s chicken scratch, a reminder for me to reorder a book called
Life on Loch Ness
. I ran my fingers over his indented scrawl, leaned my head against the counter, and cried.

I’m not sure how long I sat there. The next thing I remembered was Gabriel striding through the shop door, calling for me. I couldn’t seem to look up, to put together the words to respond. The smallest movement took too much effort.

“I’ve been calling you all evening,” he said, coming behind the counter to check me over for obvious contusions and stab wounds. “Normally, there’s a reason for your ignoring me. What’s going on?”

“Mr. Wainwright’s dead,” I said, tongue slow and heavy. I held myself together for a total of two seconds before
bursting into hysterical tears again. Gabriel wrapped his long arms around me, and I suddenly didn’t care where he’d been or what he’d done. The important thing was that he was there, at that moment, when I needed him.

“Was it one of us?” he asked.

“Oh, no, completely natural. It was a heart attack,” I said, my eyes welling up again. “He was an old man. He said he lived a good life …”

Gabriel pressed me to his chest and let me sob there, until the front of his shirt was soaked. “Better?” he asked.

“No,” I said, wiping at my nose. “I must look a mess, which is really the least of my concerns right now. I’m not one of those women who are beautiful when they cry.”

“No, you’re not,” Gabriel agreed.

“So rude.” I smacked him.

“See, you feel better now that you’ve hit something.”

“I don’t know why I’m crying so much.” I sniffled. “It’s not as if I lost him. I mean, he’s happy as a clam, staring through his hands. He’s thrilled that he’s dead. Why do I feel this way?”