Here Comes the Vampire by Kimberly Raye Read Free Book Online

blue ties, but I wasn’t letting him know that I knew because that would kill the first step of my fantastical plan—annoy the hell out of him.
    “Or if you like cats better than dogs,” I plowed on. “Or what brand of toothpaste you use, or whether you voted Democrat or Republican.” He gave me a look that said Seriously? and I shrugged. “Okay, so I know that.” Born vamps were money hungry moguls and so it didn’t take a genius to guess a political affiliation. “But that’s all I know. Why, you’re a virtual mystery to me oy ftery totherwise.”
    A frown pinched his eyebrows together. “Can we please do this later?” He signaled the flight attendant who appeared with another pillow. “I’m exhausted.” He stuffed it under his head.
    “Fine. If you’d rather sleep than get to know the woman you’re going to spend the rest of your after life with, be my guest.”
    “I’m not saying I don’t want to talk to you,” he adjusted the square of cotton and leaned into it, “it’s just I’ve had exactly three hours of—“
    “Forget it. I’ll just zip it so I don’t disturb your precious sleep.” I tossed the first pillow at him.
    It bounced off and rolled into the aisle, but Remy was unfazed. “We have plenty of time to talk. The rest of eternity.” He gave me a wink.
    I scowled. “Fine. Whatever.”
    He settled back down and closed his eyes. “You’re the best,” he murmured.
    He had no idea.
    I pulled out my iPod, shoved the headset into my ears and scrolled through my playlist until I found the Black-Eyed Peas My Hump . It wasn’t their latest and greatest by any means, but it was just monotonous enough for what I had in mind. I settled back in my seat and hit Play.
    And then I started to sing.

 
    CHAPTER SIX
     
    By the time the plane landed, I’d belted out two Black-Eyed Peas CDs, the soundtrack from Saturday Night Fever (What can I say? I’d had it fierce for John Travolta back in the ‘70s) and ten tracks from Now That’s What I Call Yodeling . Not that I actually knew one yodeling tune, much less ten, but Remy wasn’t privy to that juicy tidbit.
    Long story short, he glared the entire trip and practically kicked me out of the cab when we reached my apartment.
    “Aren’t you coming with?” I whined when he didn’t climb out after me.
    No, really. We’re talking a high-pitched, irritating sound that probably tormented all dogs within a ten block radius.
    He shook his head. “I’m due at the station this afternoon, so it makes more sense for me to head back to Connecticut now. I’ll call you when I’m free and we’ll figure out a joint living arrangement.”
    Before I could open my mouth, the door slammed shut. Tires squealed and suddenly I was standing on the sidewalk all by my lonesome.
    Yeah, baby.
    I’d really done it. I’d used my fantabulous vocal ability and keen improvisation skills to wiggle my way out of the dreaded commitment (and into the complaint box at the American Airlines customer service desk).
    Albeit temporarily (the commitment, not the complaint box—I’d been banned from all flights—foreign and domestic), but still.
    Score one for Vampzilla.
    I gave myself a mental high five and turned toward the renovated duplex that housed my apartment.
    It wasn’t anywhere close—not via Mapquest or property values--to the lavish Central Park penthouse my parents called home whenever they ventured into the city. Forget a uniformed doorman, a carpeted walkway and a tastefully decorated lobby. Negative on an elevator attendant waiting to buzz me up. Or a butler waiting to answer the door. Or a personal chef ready to slice open a vein and squeeze out dinner. My place was much more subtle in its appeal, relying almost entirely on je ne sais quoi .
    That’s French for cheap.
    Concrete steps. A narrow stoop. Leftover cigarette butts here and there. Glow-in-the-dark buzzer. Yesterday’s newspaper for a welcome mat.
    Wiping my feet on the singles sectionp>