Free Your Coffin or Mine? by Kimberly Raye Page B
Authors: Kimberly Raye
easy. I’ll see you in an hour,” I told her and quickly hung up.
I eyed Killer, who’d crept out of the bathroom to stare up at me with bright green eyes. “Do it again,” I warned him, “and we’ll forget all about the rabbit and go for a cat.”
I smiled evilly and he actually stepped back. I wasn’t much when it came to hands-on annihilation, but I could bluff with the best of them.
Eleven
I showered and changed and left Killer with my downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Janske, who owned two dozen cats and three birds. I promised her a case of air freshener (too many mothballs + too many pets = one stinky apartment) and she promised to call if he misbehaved or missed me (her words not mine). I headed off to work with minimal guilt.
The second I stepped out onto the front stoop, I knew Gwen the private investigator/schoolteacher/ depraved divorcée was on the prowl again.
Click, click.
The sound ticked away in my head as I headed around the corner and up the block.
Click, click, click.
I made a mental note not to do anything vampy—no shape-shifting or sinking my fangs into the cute guy who worked the newsstand. I was just going to act normal. That, and give her several decent pics to take back to her mother. Proof that I was just like every other New Yorker headed off to the daily grind.
I paused every few minutes to give her a good shot.
Me checking my watch.
Me buying the latest issue of Vogue.
Me vamping the newsstand guy because I forgot to go to the ATM to get money to pay for the Vogue —oh, shit.
Me prying the guy’s hands off my ankles and getting the hell out of there before he tried to tackle me and declare his undying love.
Me on the next block checking my shoe for fingerprints and not looking the least bit winded.
Me retouching my lipstick.
Me flipping my hair.
Me flipping off a cab driver who hit a pothole and sprayed water on my shoes. (We’re talking new Delman cotton wedges—I’d decided to go for the feminine, floral look. So now, especially with my embroidered Lulu Guiness clutch, a daisy quartz necklace, and a chiffon Moschino dress.)
Me fighting down a raging vamp temper as I watched the yellow blur disappear up the street. I came this close to hauling A after him and curing him of his discourteous driving once and for all.
I had a feeling that flaying a hardworking citizen would be frowned upon by the city council, so I walked into Dead End Dating instead.
Evie had already left and Word was hard at work on the docking station in my office. Since I couldn’t look at him and not think about poor Thumper, I quickly stocked up on business cards and answered all life and death e-mail. Nina One, aka Nina Lancaster—daughter of hotelier and ancient vampire Victor Lancaster, who owned, among others, the Waldorf Astoria, where she played hostess to feed her designer clothes addiction—wanted my opinion on her latest accessory acquisition. Meanwhile, the other half of the Ninas, Nina Two—of sanitary products fame—wanted my opinion on a birthday present for her commitment mate.
I quickly typed in Love it! Send. And Forget the lingerie and wrap yourself in a spreadsheet. Send. Word up: Nina One had fabulous taste and I coveted her every purchase. Nina Two was committed to Wilson the financial guru who got off watching the stock reports on CNN.
I ignored the three latest messages from my mother and headed out the back door. (Gwen was still parked out front with her camera.)
The smell of vitamins and carpet cleaner enveloped me as I stepped out into the small alley that ran behind the building that housed my business, a CPA, a mom-and-pop vitamin shop and a small interior decorating firm. I contemplated vaulting over the back fence and using my preternatural speed to run the several blocks to the television studio. So not happening with these shoes, I quickly decided. I wiggled my toes and zings of pain vibrated up my calves. Ouch!
I closed my eyes and focused. After a few
I eyed Killer, who’d crept out of the bathroom to stare up at me with bright green eyes. “Do it again,” I warned him, “and we’ll forget all about the rabbit and go for a cat.”
I smiled evilly and he actually stepped back. I wasn’t much when it came to hands-on annihilation, but I could bluff with the best of them.
Eleven
I showered and changed and left Killer with my downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Janske, who owned two dozen cats and three birds. I promised her a case of air freshener (too many mothballs + too many pets = one stinky apartment) and she promised to call if he misbehaved or missed me (her words not mine). I headed off to work with minimal guilt.
The second I stepped out onto the front stoop, I knew Gwen the private investigator/schoolteacher/ depraved divorcée was on the prowl again.
Click, click.
The sound ticked away in my head as I headed around the corner and up the block.
Click, click, click.
I made a mental note not to do anything vampy—no shape-shifting or sinking my fangs into the cute guy who worked the newsstand. I was just going to act normal. That, and give her several decent pics to take back to her mother. Proof that I was just like every other New Yorker headed off to the daily grind.
I paused every few minutes to give her a good shot.
Me checking my watch.
Me buying the latest issue of Vogue.
Me vamping the newsstand guy because I forgot to go to the ATM to get money to pay for the Vogue —oh, shit.
Me prying the guy’s hands off my ankles and getting the hell out of there before he tried to tackle me and declare his undying love.
Me on the next block checking my shoe for fingerprints and not looking the least bit winded.
Me retouching my lipstick.
Me flipping my hair.
Me flipping off a cab driver who hit a pothole and sprayed water on my shoes. (We’re talking new Delman cotton wedges—I’d decided to go for the feminine, floral look. So now, especially with my embroidered Lulu Guiness clutch, a daisy quartz necklace, and a chiffon Moschino dress.)
Me fighting down a raging vamp temper as I watched the yellow blur disappear up the street. I came this close to hauling A after him and curing him of his discourteous driving once and for all.
I had a feeling that flaying a hardworking citizen would be frowned upon by the city council, so I walked into Dead End Dating instead.
Evie had already left and Word was hard at work on the docking station in my office. Since I couldn’t look at him and not think about poor Thumper, I quickly stocked up on business cards and answered all life and death e-mail. Nina One, aka Nina Lancaster—daughter of hotelier and ancient vampire Victor Lancaster, who owned, among others, the Waldorf Astoria, where she played hostess to feed her designer clothes addiction—wanted my opinion on her latest accessory acquisition. Meanwhile, the other half of the Ninas, Nina Two—of sanitary products fame—wanted my opinion on a birthday present for her commitment mate.
I quickly typed in Love it! Send. And Forget the lingerie and wrap yourself in a spreadsheet. Send. Word up: Nina One had fabulous taste and I coveted her every purchase. Nina Two was committed to Wilson the financial guru who got off watching the stock reports on CNN.
I ignored the three latest messages from my mother and headed out the back door. (Gwen was still parked out front with her camera.)
The smell of vitamins and carpet cleaner enveloped me as I stepped out into the small alley that ran behind the building that housed my business, a CPA, a mom-and-pop vitamin shop and a small interior decorating firm. I contemplated vaulting over the back fence and using my preternatural speed to run the several blocks to the television studio. So not happening with these shoes, I quickly decided. I wiggled my toes and zings of pain vibrated up my calves. Ouch!
I closed my eyes and focused. After a few