Fangs for the Memories (7 page)

My eyes went wide. That was not what I expected.

“Ahh . . . goo-he-ber,” I stammered.

“Well, that was less eloquent than usual.” Jane giggled. “What was that?”

“I don't know, I just—why?”

“Because you have retail experience,” she said. “I know how to put books in people's hands, but I don't know about the more practical parts of running a shop. You know inventory systems and the scary financial tracking programs. You could be my assistant manager, if titles are important to you. You'd make your own hours, and we can discuss pay scale . . . as long as you're willing to handle those scary financial programs. Because I do not do math.”

I mulled that over. I liked Margie. I didn't particularly enjoy working at the gift shop, but it was stable. For all I knew, Jane could decide to close up shop next week. Then again, I had Sophie's hush money padding my pockets. Maybe it'd be worth the risk to be part of something unique and to work with my friend.

“Can you let me think about it for a few days?” I asked her.

“Sure. It took me a couple of days to decide to keep the shop open, so you take a few to decide whether you trust me with your financial well-being,” she said. “No pressure.”

“Funny,” I muttered.

“Also, just so you know, since you're still able to eat solid foods, you'd run the coffee bar.”

Once again, I had to wonder whether Jane had overheard my thoughts and latte lust. I nodded, pointing to an area of the shop currently housing an off-putting collection of anatomically correct fertility idols. I could visualize a big, beautiful dark wood bar with a shiny brass espresso machine and comfy stools. But given Jane's tendency to break nonbook valuables, I'd have to throw myself between her and the delicate machinery and demitasse cups. Frequently.

“A coffee bar is a good idea. You have to have a coffee bar if you're going to have an independent bookshop. People need a reason besides books to come here.”

Jane frowned. “That makes no sense, but I'm going to trust your judgment.”

7

Try to think of your first postrelationship date as an adventure, within reason. A key rule of thumb: Fun, sexy adventures generally don't result in emergency room visits.

—Surviving the Undead Breakup: A Human's Guide to Healing

Z
eb and Jolene's wedding was exactly the sort of spectacle you'd expect from nuptials involving a giant Styrofoam iceberg and a fourteen-table buffet. And, of course, this followed a rehearsal that had been interrupted by a penis cake, brainwashing, and threats to and from the mother of the groom involving Precious Moments figurines.

According to Jane, this was actually pretty standard for Hollow weddings, with the exception of the werewolves and vampires.

The ceremony itself was held on the McClain pack compound, in the special pasture with the cow pond and the gently sloping hill. It was prettier than it sounded. And in fact, it'd taken quite a bit of fancy talking to get passage onto the compound for the human guests. And for the vampires, it had taken a signed “no-bite agreement” from both sides.

I wished the happy couple all of the luck in the world, but I was just happy to have survived their rehearsal. And I was grateful that the fistfighting and chaos prevented any first-date jitters I might've had. Dick was a perfect—if distracted—gentleman all night, between his wedding party duties and the fact that he'd had to drop me off early so he could assist Jane in a deprogramming rescue of the groom.

It still wasn't the weirdest or worst first date I'd ever been on.

But now that Zeb was “un-whammied” and ready to get hitched, Dick was a devoted and attentive escort. He'd even brought me a white rose corsage to pin to my favorite floaty coral chiffon sundress, which warmed my pale skin and brought out the red tones in my hair. The dress also allowed me to wear a shawl that covered up the bite wounds and bruises on my neck, which were turning a lovely shade of purple-green. So far, Jane hadn't questioned my above-average use of scarves and high-collared shirts in summer. But I feared that once she was no longer distracted by Zeb's premarital woes and Mr. Wainwright's bequest, she would notice my out-of-season accessorizing. I'd have to invest in some neck makeup, the kind strippers use to cover unsightly scars and tattoos.

I was truly a classy lady.

I was a little overdressed for the wedding—compared with some of Jolene's relatives who were wearing flip-flops and cut-off jean shorts—and my gold-toned, high-heeled sandals kept sticking in the mud. But it was worth it to see the pleased expression on Dick's face when he showed up at my door. He was actually wearing a vintage tuxedo printed on a T-shirt. Between that and the corsage, it was like I was being taken to prom in 1976.

There was something to be said for old-fashioned manners. When Dick opened the passenger door of his El Camino for me, he handed me in like he was helping me board a horse-drawn carriage. When I was negotiating the pasture in my heels, he held my elbow to help me keep my balance. And though his duties as groomsman kept him up front with the rest of the wedding party, he scanned the groom's side every few minutes to check on me, to make sure I was OK. And though I knew I was perfectly capable of opening doors and paying my own bills, having someone show that sort of consideration for me made me feel safe—cherished even.

But I'd never admit this to Jane, as she and her feminist sensibilities would mock me forever.

The ceremony was lovely. Jolene was, of course, breathtakingly beautiful, because her genes aligned in a way that was completely unfair to all of the other two-legged creatures on the planet. And the bridesmaids' dresses that Jane and her cousins were forced to wear—the “Ruffles and Dreams”—defied description . . . because describing them would be mean, so very mean.

It wasn't the most comfortable wedding I'd ever attended. The fact that I giggled at Jolene's cousins while they wore the dresses—and the fact that I was in no way related to her family or the circus of crazy that was Zeb's family—meant that I sat by myself.

But Dick was handsome in his tuxedo T-shirt, staring at Jolene and Zeb with this sort of wide-eyed wonder you normally saw in baby shampoo commercials. I swore I saw just the tiniest bit of tremble in his bottom lip when the vows were exchanged.

Dick Cheney was a true romantic . . . and it was sort of adorable. OK, it was completely adorable. As was the grin on his face as he walked Jane down the aisle during the recessional.

I waited for him at a table a safe distance from the buffet, because you did not get between were-creatures and food. Even if they were less than enthusiastic about the wedding, werewolves were always eager to get to Swedish meatballs.

“I brought you something,” Dick said, handing me a club soda with lime.

“Thanks. I didn't see club soda behind the bar. And by ‘bar,' I mean the back of Jolene's dad's pickup.”

Dick snickered. “I know, I dropped it off earlier. I know you like it, and I didn't know if it'd be a good idea for you to be drinking alcohol so soon after nearly being drained dry. It can really mess you up when your electrolytes are out of balance.”

“And if I wanted to drink anyway?” I challenged him. “If I wanted to drink all of those fuzzy navel wine coolers currently being iced in a galvanized metal trash can?”

“I would gladly hold your hair back as you threw up,” he said. “Or possibly drive you to the emergency room when you eventually passed out from alcohol poisoning. But either way, I'd support you in your terrible, needlessly defiant choice.”

“Rather than try to stop me from drinking?”

“Yes, because you don't respond well to people who try to control you, and you might drink more just to spite me.”

I smirked at him. “Oh, I wish you knew me less.”

“I'll never be perfect,” Dick told me, leaning in slowly for a friendly peck on the lips. “I'll leave that to you.”

“Better and better,” I told him, murmuring against his mouth. I gave him a longer kiss, making him grin happily when we parted. “But I'm not perfect.”

“No, but you're as close as it gets. This should probably go without saying, Andrea, but I like you. So much. It feels silly to put it like that, but I know I don't love you yet. I don't know you well enough to be able to say that and have you believe me. But I could love you so easily. And I want you to love me, too.”

I kissed him, even harder this time.

“The T-shirts are going to have to go,” I said.

“Some of the T-shirts,” he agreed.

“Around seventy-five percent.”

“Sixty,” he countered.

“Done.”

Just as he leaned down to kiss me, we heard someone scream, “I'M KING OF THE WORLD!” We turned to see Zeb and Jolene standing on top of the Styrofoam iceberg in the classic Jack and Kate stance, arms raised, while one of Jolene's male cousins piloted the craft across the pond with the trolling motor attached to the back.

“You know, at any other wedding, this would be weird,” I said, nodding.

“They're happy,” Dick said. “Ridiculously, crazy-in-love happy. So you gonna be my girl?”

“No, but I might let you be my vampire,” I said as his lips brushed against mine.

“I do love your sass.”

“Good, because you're in for a pant-load of it,” I told him.

And with that, I was kissed very thoroughly by the vampire Dick Cheney.

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