10
The best way to get over a messy break-up is to spend time with a supportive group of friends. The best way to chase off a supportive group of friends is to talk constantly about your messy break-up.
—Love Bites: A Female Vampire’s Guide to Less
Destructive Relationships
To say I had some pent-up anger would be like saying Britney Spears had minor impulse-control issues. Love Bites encouraged me to channel those emotions in a positive direction, so I decided to pay Zeb’s contractor a visit.
The minute there was enough twilight shadow for me to move unscathed to the future site of Casa Lavelle, I ran through the trees at full speed. Zeb said that Buster, who was known for high-quality carpentry work before his interest in a perpetual buzz outstripped his desire for a growing clientele, took off at exactly five P.M. every day, leaving a pile of empty beer cans in his wake.
The battered green Dowdy Construction truck was parked in the shade of a huge elm tree, where Jolene had talked about hanging a tire swing for the kids. Buster was dozing with his mouth open, his old faded Cardinals cap perched over his eyes. Long and lanky, he looked like a young Don Knotts, complete with droopy eyes and a twitchy lip.
Somehow the construction site looked even more depressing than the last time I’d been there. The place was haunted by the ghost of “supposed to be.” Chalk outlines showing where the interior framework was supposed to be situated had long since faded into pale scribbles. Sitting in what was supposed to be the living room, a roll of insulation looked as if it was molding from exposure to the rain. Frayed plastic sheeting that was supposed to be protecting the framework flapped shroudlike in the breeze.
It looked as if Buster unpacked his tools every day and did just enough to make it look as if he was working, without making any actual progress. I stared at the sleeping Buster, my lip curled back. I let my fangs fully extend. This man had kept my friends dangling for months. He’d made Jolene cry. This was not going to be a happy meeting for him.
With one lithe, soundless spring, I hopped into the back of the truck and sat on the lip of the bed. I cleared my throat and hollered, “Buster!” startling him into consciousness.
“Wha!” he shouted, sitting up. “Whassat?”
“Wake up, Buster, we need to talk.”
“Debbie?” He yawned, scratching his head and blinking in the low purpling light of the setting sun. “Honey, I told you, I’m sorry I said that about your sister—”
Buster’s eyes slowly came into focus, and he realized that I was not his angry live-in girlfriend.
“Oh, hey, Jane,” he said, yawning again. “Whassup?”
“We need to talk about your timeline for completing the house, Buster. I mean, walls painted, hardware on cabinets, light switches screwed in place, everything. What’s your ETA?”
Buster cleared his throat and tried to use his “professional” voice. “Well, it’s hard to say. So much of that depends on when I can get materials and extra guys out here to do some of the work. I’m just one person, you know.”
“Cut the crap, Buster. What month are you aiming for?”
“It’s OK, the McClaines explained it all to me,” Buster said in a conspiratorial whisper. “They want Zeb and Jolene to give up on the house by the holidays. Jim McClaine even promised me a bonus if I could get them to move back in with Jolene’s parents before her due date.”
I exhaled loudly through my nostrils. One day, when Jolene’s hormone levels were normal, we were going to have a long talk about her dad.
“The McClaines aren’t bankrolling this project,” I told him. “I am.”
“That’s not what Jim—gak!” Buster yelped as I yanked him up by the collar and pulled him out of the truck and into the barely framed house. Still holding his shirt, I hoisted him against the strongest of the wooden ribs and pinned him by the throat. Normally, I would be nervous around this much exposed, fractured wood, but Buster was too frightened to think about staking me. “Listen to me, Buster, look at me. Really look at me.”
He spluttered and coughed, taking in the too-bright eyes, the pale skin, the fading light glistening off long, sharp fangs. “Yeah, I’m a vampire. I’m a vampire going through a really rough emotional transition. And Zeb and Jolene are among the few people in my life who don’t piss me off right now, so I’d like to keep them happy. If that means checking up on you every day, beating the tar out of you to make sure you’re sober and doing the work you promised, I’m going to do it.”
I dropped him to his feet, and he promptly sank to the ground like a sack of potatoes. “But the McClaines—”
“The McClaines have told you it’s in your best interest not to finish the house. Don’t worry about that. Right now, I think you need to decide which of us scares you more.”
“I don’t do the work that I used to do,” he mumbled, rubbing at his reddened throat.
“Because of the drinking? Well, consider me your own personal recovery program. The steps are, you build my friends’ house—on time and in good condition—and then you get to keep all of your limbs. Sound fair?”
Buster nodded, mute with fear. He sobered considerably as we went room to room in the shell of the house, discussing what would have to be redone, how long each phase should take. By the time I was ready to leave, Buster seemed almost excited about coming back the next day. Or, at least, excited to keep all of his limbs.
“Bright and early tomorrow, Buster,” I told him. “And if Zeb or Jolene asks, we didn’t have this conversation.”
Buster’s smile was stiff, as if he couldn’t remember how to be a “people pleaser” and was working to recall the skill. “What conversation?”
Eventually, Mama found the shop. The bad news was that Mama found the shop in time for the first meeting of the reconstituted chapter of the Friends and Family of the Undead.
The good news was that seeing that many vampires gathered in one place freaked Emery out so badly that he found an excuse for leaving just a few minutes after he walked in. Maybe we could hold the monthly FFOTU meetings every week …
The FFOTU used to meet at the Traveler’s Bowl, a restaurant featuring healthy “global” cuisine that spiraled into bankruptcy, not just because the owners tried to sell soy cheese to Hollow residents but because the police seized all of the “glass sculptures” they sold at the restaurant gift shop. It took Police Chief Don Parker several visits to recognize that they were bongs and not very complicated ashtrays. Unfortunately, it only took his son, DJ, one visit. Once you sell a bong to the offspring of a small-town police chief, it’s a pretty safe bet that anyone who so much as pauses in your parking lot will be ticketed. With their handful of customers scared off, the owners had no choice but to close.
The support group consisted of twenty or so people of all races, ages, and socioeconomic classes, all of whom were bonded through the shock of knowing that (1) a loved one had died, and (2) that loved one still walked around and sometimes had violent episodes. Plus, there’s the embarrassment and stigma that can come with being associated with the undead in a small rural town like the Hollow, where vampires still occasionally suffered household “accidents” involving pointy wooden objects. It helped new vampires and their families to be able to meet in a safe location just to talk or vent or learn that your newly turned son is not avoiding Sunday dinners because he doesn’t love you anymore but because you serve said dinners with the good silver and he can no longer digest solid food.
The group operated under guidelines that were a mishmash of Alcoholics Anonymous and PFLAG. We did not reveal our last names. Personal information revealed during the meetings was confidential. We were not required to disclose whether we were vampire or human. But after a few meetings, you figured out who was eating the snacks and who wasn’t. The common ground was that each member hurt. Each offered understanding and sympathy to the other members. Each tried to keep a sense of humor.
Zeb and Jolene actually met at an FFOTU meeting. Jolene was still recovering from the dusting of her recently turned childhood friend, and Zeb was still weirded out by my new dietary habits. Zeb brought me into the group a few months later.
The meeting started out well enough. I’d set up complimentary drinks and snacks around the “lounging area” as a sort of welcome gesture. I’d even invited Cindy in the hopes of giving her some resources to deal with her awkward family situation. I gave her the usual latte, and she sat in the back, not attempting to socialize with anyone.
All of the regulars I’d come to know were there, including DeeDee, the de facto leader of the group. DeeDee’s banker husband was voluntarily turned in the midst of a midlife crisis. Instead of buying a sports car or having an affair, he decided he wanted to stop the aging process altogether. She’d felt pressured to be turned herself, aging a little every day while her husband remained forever forty-seven. In the end, she had elected to remain human, and her husband left her. She was now dating a very nice accountant who fainted at the sight of blood. But she stuck around to help other people through the transition and welcomed new members to the group. And the newest addition to the group was my mother.
Stupid grocery-store community board.
I turned my back for two seconds, and there was Mama, carrying a plate of brownies and wearing a black T-shirt with the vampire rights logo on it. And a name tag that she’d brought from home that said, “Hello, my name is: Jane’s Mama!”
Was it too late to change my name?
I turned on my heel, hoping to escape the room, possibly get as far as Borneo, before I heard, “Janie! Baby! It’s Mama!”
Cringing, I turned back to where Mama had DeeDee in an arm-lock and was dragging her over to me.
“Now, DeeDee, this is my daughter, Jane. She was turned last year! This is her shop, isn’t it wonderful? I’m just so proud!” Mama cooed. “Jane, this is DeeDee.”
“I know, Mama, I’ve known her for a while,” I whispered. “Miss DeeDee, would you please excuse us for a second?”
DeeDee winked at me and made her way to the bar to get a free latte.
“I love your little shop, honey!” Mama cooed, walking me around the lounge area like a show dog and mouthing a breathless hello to every person we bumped into. “I just love what you’ve done with it. The colors and the chairs and all the pretty little knickknacks. Did Andrea pick all this out?”
“Nope, that would be me. I did this,” I informed her.
“Well, it’s lovely, but I probably would have gone a little lighter on the wall color. You know, Jenny says if you paint a room too dark, it’s like losing ten percent of your square footage. You might have called her and asked her advice.”
“Well, since my lawyer has advised me against speaking to her without a transcriptionist present, that might have been difficult,” I said, smiling sweetly.
“Oh, now you’re just being silly.” She sighed and then saw Jolene and Zeb come through the front door. Zeb saw Mama and turned on his heel, trying to usher Jolene out for a quick escape. But there was no escape. This was the Thunderdome of parental intrusion. “Zeb! Oh, honey, come see what Jane’s done with the shop!”
“Mama, he’s seen it,” I told her. “He’s been here before. In fact, he helped me paint. I appreciate that you’re being so supportive, but could you be a little less, I don’t know, forceful about it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Mama sniffed and then launched herself at an unsuspecting Jolene for non-consensual belly rubbing.
Andrea smirked at me. I glared at her. “Am I naked? Normally, when I have this dream, I look down and I’m naked.”
“I know, it’s terrible. I’m sorry,” Andrea said, barely able to control the twitching corners of her mouth.
“You don’t look sorry.”
“I’m terribly, terribly sorry,” Andrea promised, a snicker escaping when she turned her back to fetch a bottle of hazelnut syrup.
“You’re just humoring me because I sign the checks, aren’t you? I would say I don’t need your pity, but obviously, that’s not true.”
Zeb joined me at the bar, having abandoned his wife to Mama’s pregnancy interrogation, the coward. Zeb gave me a sympathetic shoulder squeeze. “I meant to tell you. DeeDee put ads on bulletin boards in the supermarkets, Walmart, the events calendar in the newspaper …”
I groaned. “I knew this community-involvement thing was going to come back and bite me on the ass. You know what we could do instead? An awareness crusade for vampires who use sunless tanner. Nothing’s as obvious as an orange vampire.”
“It’s good for business,” Andrea told me. She shot a fierce look at Zeb as she hefted a king-size tray of fruit, veggies, and cheese cubes. “I’m going to go rescue your wife with a plate of nutritious, baby-building snacks, you weenie. Jane’s mama doesn’t scare me.” She cleared her throat. “Much.”
Zeb chuckled, watching as Andrea managed to insinuate herself between Mama and a grateful Jolene.
“So, how’s the house coming along?” I asked.
Zeb’s face flushed with an incredulous smile. “Great. Buster actually started putting up interior framing this week. He’s got a crew coming out to do the roof soon, and he said we might be ready for Sheetrock before next month. And when Jolene’s dad came out yesterday to give Buster the stink-eye, Buster just kept his head down and worked his butt off. Even Lonnie had to admit that Buster was doing good, solid work. We might actually be moved in by Christmas. Can you believe it?”
“Wow,” I intoned, trying to sound appropriately impressed. I kept my eyes wide and innocent. “You must have really put your foot down with Buster.”
Zeb puffed his chest out a bit and tried to sound nonchalant. “If I’ve learned anything from my scary in-laws, it’s all about tone of voice.”
As everybody circled to start the meeting, I scrambled to sit next to Mama, so I could control … um, introduce her. Mama had apparently taken the time to memorize the Pledge, a collection of five truths the group repeated before every meeting, and was louder than the rest of us combined as we promised: “I will remember that a newly turned vampire is the same person with new needs.
“I will remember that a loved one’s being turned into a vampire does not reflect on me.
“I will remember to offer my vampire loved ones acceptance and love, while maintaining healthy boundaries.
“I will remember that vampirism is not contagious unless blood is exchanged.
“I will remember that I am not alone.”
Before DeeDee could stand up to introduce herself, Mama bounced to her feet. “Well, hello, everybody! I’m Jane’s mama, Sherry. I’m just so happy to be here!”
“Hi, Sherry,” the group chorused, despite my attempts to pull Mama back into her seat by her sleeve.
“I’ll admit that I went through a bit of bad patch after Jane came out, but I’ve come to accept that I cannot change what Jane is,” Mama said, her voice quavering. “And I need to do whatever I can to make her feel accepted and loved by her family. Even if she tries to avoid spending time with us. And isn’t speaking to some of us.”
“That’s my Mama,” I conceded.
“Well, Sherry, it’s refreshing to see a parent so vocally supportive of her child after they come out,” said DeeDee.
I rolled my eyes. Can we talk about the fact that her “bad patch” involved force-feeding me pot pie and trying to give me a tan? I sulked through DeeDee’s discussion of the pain and confusion of new vampires adjusting to a human world and through her preplanned talk on subconscious conversational slips that can be highly insulting toward vampires. I couldn’t help but think this last topic was directed toward Mama, and I was all for it. But she was so caught up taking notes and beaming beatifically at DeeDee that I’m pretty sure the clue sailed right over her head.
The group broke up to socialize, which was usually my favorite part of the meetings, but this time, I was dodging my mother with a sudden, extremely urgent search for coffee filters in the stockroom.
“Jane?”
“Gah!” I cried, jumping and whacking my head on a shelving unit.
“Are you all right, hon?” Mama asked, cooing over my new contusion.
“No, no, I’m not,” I grumbled, rubbing my forehead.
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to catch you in private,” she whispered. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing, you know, since Gabriel broke up with you. Your daddy and Jolene said you took it awfully hard.”
“Wha—G-gabriel did not break up with me. I broke up with him. And what is Jolene doing talking to you about that? If she thinks she can deflect belly questions by baiting you with information about me, well, that’s just evil and brilliant, actually. I don’t think I give her enough credit …”
“Oh, you’re so silly. Now, I’d like to talk to you about your grandma’s birthday,” Mama said breezily. “Your grandma Ruthie wants to make sure you apologize to Wilbur so we can all enjoy dinner without any unpleasantness.”
“Hmm. Unpleasantness like bringing up the fact that Wilbur tried to stake me with his cane the last time I saw him?” I asked. Mama made a “disappointed” face.
Sometimes newly turned vampires are only given enough blood to enable them to wake from the death sleep. They have none of the vampiric strength or speed … or charm. They’re called ghouls. I only know this because my grandma Ruthie almost married one of them earlier this year. Despite the fact that Wilbur looked like Skeletor and may have bumped off several of his wives to sustain his endless after-death retirement, he and Grandma Ruthie decided to keep dating. After he tried to dust me with his cane.
It turned out that Wilbur and Ruthie were a perfect match. After all, Grandma Ruthie’s four husbands and previous fiancé all died under equally suspicious circumstances, involving a speeding milk truck, a brown recluse bite on the inside of the throat, a previously unknown allergy to Grandma Ruthie’s famous strawberry-rhubarb pie, a golf-related lightning strike, and a miscalculation of Viagra dosage. Wilbur and Grandma Ruthie seemed very happy together, though I guess when you never know when your lover might facilitate your release from your mortal coil, it’s important to keep up the appearance of happiness. Frankly, I was glad they were still so lovey-dovey. For me to win the “dead pool” with Zeb and Dick, either Wilbur or Grandma would have to meet a grisly end in a botulism outbreak next spring.
“No. Absolutely not. You all can just celebrate without me,” I told Mama. “I do not apologize to people who try to kill me. It sets a bad precedent.”
“Oh, but your grandma Ruthie will be so hurt if you don’t show up!” Mama protested.
“No, she won’t,” I told Mama. “You know she won’t. She’ll be much happier, and things will be a lot less tense without me there. In fact, that will be my gift to her this year, not showing up.”
Mama looked resigned but unhappy, which was generally how we both felt when negotiating the logistics of family gatherings. “Sometimes I just don’t understand the things that come out of your mouth, baby,” Mama said, pushing my hair back from my face.
“I hear that a lot,” I told her.
Mama chuckled, rolling her eyes. “Now that we have that out of the way, how are you doing, really?”
“Other than spending an unhealthy amount of time faking answers to magazine quizzes so I get better scores, I’m fine,” I told her. “The shop is doing well. I have sweet, patient friends with a high tolerance for whining. Zeb and Jolene keep me involved in their never-ending baby-name debate. Dick is the older brother I never really asked for. Andrea wants to start a belly-dancing class next month. My life is very full.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mama asked.
“No, I do not.”
“Honey.” She sighed, tipping my chin toward her. “I know it hurts right now, but whatever Gabriel did, I’m sure he’s sorry. And if he’s not, maybe Adam Morrow is still interested …”
“No. Mama, I love you. I love that you’re being supportive and that you want to put me back up in the saddle. But trust me, trust me, you don’t want me dating Gabriel … or Adam. I’m better off alone right now.” I kissed her cheek. “But I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she said, squeezing my cheeks. She let out a cleansing breath and returned to her normal cheerful tone. “Maybe it would help if I invited Adam’s mama to the meetings. You know, maybe if she learned to be a little more open-minded like me, it would make it easier on the two of you if you just happen to start dating.”
I thought about making a smart comment, but for the sake of this newfound bridge of mother-daughter understanding, instead I said, “Maybe we shouldn’t make more connections with the guy who has a fuzzy perception of personal boundaries?”
“Oh, you’re so strange sometimes,” Mama said in that tone of voice that always left me unsure of whether she was going to pay attention to what I said.
The gears in my brain whirred, searching for any activity that would keep Mama occupied and safely away from Adam Morrow’s mama. When all the machinery clicked into place, a wide smile spread over my face.
“Mama,” I said, putting my arm around her. “How would you like to throw Jolene a baby shower?”
I received a “reminder” e-mail from Head Courtney that I had yet to submit a progress report on my collections for the prize committee. She was giving me three demerits and told me to meet with Jenny to “better implement a synergistically creative approach” to my begging freebies before a progress meeting with the Courtneys. I was going to find the person who sold Head Courtney her copy of Who Moved My Cheese? and smack them.
With an obvious expression of disdain, Jenny strolled through the shop’s front door with her hand sanitizer at the ready. She seemed surprised by what she saw. She even smiled, just a tiny bit, at the fanciful little pottery dragon grinning at her from a table by the front window.
“How can I help you?” I asked, smiling pleasantly to the point that it was hurting my face. “We just got a shipment of self-help books. Can I interest you in a copy of How to Stop Being a Raging Bitch in 30 Days ?”
Jenny’s lip curled back, and I could practically see the acid response forming, but she bit her lip and exhaled loudly through her nose. “This is a nice place,” she conceded. “Good light, nicely arranged. Probably not a color scheme I would have chosen.”
“I’m sure.” My teeth were grinding as I led her to the counter. I didn’t offer her coffee or a scone, despite the fact that they were arranged temptingly under a nearby glass dome. This was not a social visit. This was business. OK, fine, fine, Jenny had been making me feel unwelcome for years, and now I was having a tiny bit of revenge.
She smiled sweetly, or what passed for sweetly when you’ve had enough Botox to paralyze an elephant. “Mr. Wainwright must have been fond of you to have left you all this.”
“Here we go,” I muttered.
Jenny shrugged, her eyes wide and not-quite-convincingly guileless. “I’m just saying, it must be awfully nice—”
“You think I like the fact that Mr. Wainwright died?” I asked coldly. “Do you think I wouldn’t rather he was here right now?”
Technically, he was there at the moment, hovering over his favorite copy of From Fangs to Fairy Folk: Unusual Creatures of Midwestern North America . But I wasn’t about to tell Jenny that.
“I think I’ll pop out to see how your aunt Jettie’s doing,” Mr. Wainwright whispered.
“Coward,” I muttered. I turned back to my sister. “Why did you come here, Jenny?”
Jenny tried, and failed, to look surprised by my line of questioning. “Courtney told you. We have to go over our collection plan before the meeting. I wanted to talk to you about getting some of the car dealerships in town to offer some detailing packages. I think I might have an in with the owner of Nelson Ford.”
I searched Jenny’s face. I even thought about peeking into her thoughts, but past experience with Grandma Ruthie had shown me that only prolonged the argument, it didn’t help me win it. Fortunately, I’d known my sister long enough to discern the acquisitive, gleeful look in her eye when she was bordering on social triumph. And if she was really going to forge some sort of tenuous connection with the largest auto dealership in town, she would have been dancing some uptight little jig.
My eyes narrowed. “No you didn’t. We could have handled this whole thing by e-mail. That’s how we’ve done it so far, why change now?”
“Fine. I want to talk to you about the house,” Jenny said, sighing.
“No!” I threw up my hands. “My lawyer said I’m not supposed to talk to you about the house or its contents without him being present. That’s why we’ve been handling this frustrating yet not at all rewarding task over e-mail!”
“Jane, I think we can settle this without the lawyers.”
“How do you figure?”
Jenny actually had the good grace to look slightly timid, twisting her wedding band around her finger as she said, “Well, your situation has changed. You need to stay close to town now that you’re running the shop. And besides, you don’t need that big old place, all by yourself—”
“If you finish that sentence, I’m going to punch you in the head.”
“Don’t you threaten me,” she said, shoving my shoulder.
“Don’t you tell me what I need,” I said, shoving her back, sending her chair scooting across the floor.
“Jane, you have so much stuff! I don’t understand why you need everything the family’s handed down! You’re all alone. No one even sees all those beautiful things. They won’t be appreciated in your house like they would be in mine.”
“I’m not having this discussion with you again,” I told her, pushing back from the table. “Let’s just get through this carnival from hell, I’ll find a way to fake my death and escape from the chamber, and you can fight Head Courtney to the death for her position as queen of the evil hive. And then we never have to see each other again. You can pretend I died or something.”
“You did die,” Jenny said, rolling her eyes.
“So it should be easy for you.”
“Why can’t you just discuss this with me like a rational adult?” she demanded.
“Why? Are you going to behave like a rational adult?” I shot back.
She grunted and tossed her folder of chamber materials across the bar at me. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this, which is all the time . I’m going.” She huffed and puffed while she slung her purse over her shoulder. “But this isn’t over, Jane. You’re going to have to deal with this sooner or later.”
Jenny blew back out of the shop like a bitchy hurricane, leaving a trail of scattered prize committee papers in her wake. And when she’d tossed her folder at me, she’d knocked a huge stack of mail off the counter.
Perfect.
I ran around the shop, picking up sheets of paper detailing Jenny’s campaign to wheedle free floral arrangements and colonics out of the Hollow’s business community. I also cursed a rather impressive blue streak that eventually began to rhyme and was soon coming out in iambic pentameter.
Andrea had enrolled us in a poetry seminar.
And when I finally managed to assemble the papers on the bar, I was confronted with the envelope. I’d been avoiding the mail for the past couple of days. Frankly, between the creepy Jeanine letters and my Visa bill, the U.S. Postal Service wasn’t exactly bearing me good news lately. But I couldn’t ignore today’s note, the creamy linen envelope stuck between humdrum bills and catalogues.
I seriously considered tearing it up without reading it. Insight into my sire and his crazy possible ex’s relationship didn’t exactly make me happy. But the more I read, the more I wanted to know. Whoever this woman was, Jeanine knew exactly how much information to reveal, how much to play close to the vest, to keep me confused, wound up, and coming back for more. She should have been a mystery author or maybe run for Congress.
I took a deep yoga breath and prepared myself for whatever obsessive looniness the letter had in store for me. And as I scanned the page, one word jumped out at me: “whore.”
I really hated it when people called me that.
“ I saw you. I saw you with him, rutting in an alley like some common whore. I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. What do I have to do to make you understand that you have to stay away from Gabriel? Do I have to do something drastic to get my point across? You have no one to blame but yourself now.”
“Oh.” My hands trembled, and the letter fluttered to the counter. My stomach pitched, pushing the salty-sweet remnants of synthetic blood into my throat.
The fact that someone had watched me engage in intimate acts in an alleyway seemed far more pressing than the fact that she was threatening to “do something drastic.” Personally, I thought the drive-by fruiting of my front porch was pretty drastic. But she’d seen us? Someone had watched Gabriel and me having sex behind the shop? She’d seen my sex faces? Heard the noises I made? Watched when Gabriel dropped me on my ass? I felt as if I’d been doused in ice water. What if she’d taken more pictures? What if she sent them to people I knew? Posted them on the Internet? What if that’s what she meant by having no one else to blame?
I tried to imagine explaining nude online pictures to my mother. If she thought me becoming a vampire was embarrassing, how would she react to “accidental amateur porn star”? I leaned my forehead against the counter. “Oh, not good.”
What do you do in a situation like this? I certainly wasn’t going to the police, who weren’t exactly helpful in cases where vampires were concerned. I’d probably pressed Andrea’s and Dick’s nerves to the limit with my “erotomania” talk and the relationship hysterics. Zeb didn’t need to be dragged into this, what with his procreative worries. That left one person, one man who would understand the situation, my feelings of paranoia and guilt and revulsion.
And I wasn’t talking to my sire at the moment.
My computerized calendar alarm sounded from the register. Andrea had set it so I wouldn’t conveniently forget my scheduled progress meeting. It was being held at Puerto Vallarta, the only restaurant in the Hollow that served Mexican food without a drive-through window. The theory was that the planning committee would build better connections and work more creatively in a social setting. Basically, it was an excuse for the Courtneys to get knee-walking drunk off half-priced margaritas on a weeknight. And because Nice Courtney wasn’t a committee head, I wouldn’t even have her as a social shield.
“Forced bonding time with inebriated Courtneys in a restaurant, where I’m going to have to hide the fact that I don’t eat,” I groaned, flopping my head onto the counter. “Peachy freakin’ keen.”