Just One Bite by Kimberly Raye Read Free Book Online

work night. So much so, that by the time I powered off my computer and killed the lights, I’d stopped worrying altogether.
    Everything would work out.
    Carmen would fall madly in love with Vinnie and his mother. Remy would turn out to be gay and my mother would give up trying to fix me up. Barney’s would extend my credit line. Ty would show up with an engagement ring the size of a third-world country. Brad would come to his senses, dump Ang, reunite with Jen, and they would live happily ever after.
    Hey, it could happen.
    I locked up, let myself out the back door into the alley, and closed my eyes. A little concentration and I started to feel weightless. The flutter of wings echoed in my ears and just like that, I went from fantabulously dressed matchmaker to megalicious pink bat (I wasn’t hitting the pavement in my bare tootsies any more than I absolutely had to).
    By cab, my apartment was about ten minutes away in a renovated duplex on the east side of Manhattan. Via bloodsucking creature of the night, I made it in a minute flat.
    I flapped my way around the side and landed behind a large green dumpster. The smell of cat litter (my neighbor Mrs. Janske was a widow with about a zillion cats) and old newspapers (the accountant down the hall from me had an addiction to the Wall Street Journal ) burned my nostrils.
    A tingling swept over me and the rhythmic whap whap whap faded into the beat of my own heart. The cold of the ground seeped into my feet and something wet and sticky squished between my toes (I so needed to work on my landing skills).
    I ignored the urge to look down and proceeded around the side of the building. Climbing the front steps, I keyed in the security code and slipped inside.
    If apartments were retailers, my place would be a dollar store in the burglar-bar section of Brooklyn. Obviously a huge step down from the flagship Neiman Marcus—aka my parents’ Park Avenue penthouse—where I’d crashed prior to asserting my independence, but still the best move I’d ever made.
    Having my own digs was primo. I could prance around in my thong, drink my dinner straight from the bottle, and leave my lingerie hanging all over the bathroom. There was no one telling me what time to be home or how to decorate or what pretentious born vamp I should boff (all right, already, so my ma was still doing this, but she did it via nagging cellphone messages rather than live and in color).
    Still, in all fairness, living with my folks hadn’t been a total nightmare. There had been a teensy, tiny sliver of sunshine in an otherwise overcast sky.
    Two words. Maid service.
    I ignored a faint niggle of regret and took the stairs toward the fifth floor. I was halfway down the hallway, humming the latest Fergie tune, when I spotted the small gift-wrapped box sitting on my LIFE IS A BEACH PARTY mat.
    My heart stalled and I froze. My gaze zeroed in on the trademark Tiffany blue box.
    Ty.
    It was the first thought that popped into my head.
    All right, already. My first thought was holy shit, but Ty followed right on its heels.
    A notion that was too ridiculous even to contemplate, of course. I was an ultra-hot born vamp. Jessica Simpson and Carmen Electra and Jenna Jameson all rolled into one. We’re talking sexy, seductive, irresistible.
    I thought of all the cab drivers and newsstand attendants and Starbucks clerks I’d smiled at over the years.
    And then I thought of the average salary of a cabbie/newsstand attendant/Starbucks clerk.
    Okay, so maybe Ty wasn’t that far out of the realm of possibility. Capturing criminals was dangerous work. Surely it paid megabucks.
    My heart started beating again, shifting into overdrive as I knelt and retrieved the box sitting on my faded palm tree.
    Excitement zipped up and down my spine, along with a rush of pure joy. I was definitely tipping the scales toward crazy. It wasn’t like this was it. The right guy. The right time. The beginning of the rest of my afterlife as a committed