Semi-Human (Harper Hall Investigations Book 2) (4 page)

Wow, she could actually
feel
her blood pressure going up. That couldn’t be good. “Second place isn’t funny either!”

“Yeah, well, bygones. Anyway, listen, I have something huge to tell you. Seriously,” Harper added. “Biggest. News. Ever.”

“Uh huh,” Mischa muttered, wondering if Harper wrote little notes in the memo lines of all her accounts payable.

“That’s all I get?” Harper asked dryly. “A bored, half-assed ‘uh huh’?”

Mischa opened up last month’s bank statement on her laptop and pulled up a few pictures of checks Harper had sent out. Sure enough, the check Harper had written to the power company had “for hookers and blow” written on the memo line.

Damn it. Was she going to have to apologize to the power company on Harper’s behalf? That’d be embarrassing. In fact, she’d probably quit right now if she didn’t love Harper like a sister.

The rotten bitch.

“Seriously, that’s all I get?”

Mischa sighed again, feeling like a little piece of her soul escaped each time she did so. “Well, Harper, this isn’t exactly the first time you’ve come to me with the
biggest news ever
. The last time was when you told me the McRib was back.”

A pause on Harper’s end of the line. “I really like the McRib,” she eventually grumbled.

“Everyone likes the McRib. That’s why they keep bringing it back. But that’s not the point. The point is that you tend to overreact, which is why I don’t hang on your every word when you say you have the
biggest news ever
.”

Harper sniffed indignantly. “I do
not
overreact.”

No, overreact was probably too gentle a euphemism for Harper’s level of…enthusiasm for life. Drama was pretty much always her co-pilot. “Remember the time you saw Jon Bon Jovi at the airport?”

Another loaded pause on Harper’s end. “I didn’t
overreact
. I was maybe just a little too…
fervent
for his liking.”

Mischa rolled her eyes. Fervent. “And how many feet does the restraining order say you have to stay away from Jon Bon Jovi?”

“Fifty.” Harper blew out a sharp breath. “Touché.”

“Uh huh,” Mischa said, closing the online bank statement and pulling her glasses off to rub her weary eyes. “So what’s the big news you have?”

“Riddick and I are getting married. The weekend after next. In Vegas.”

The glasses fell from her fingers to the desk. “Shit! Are you kidding me?”

“Nope,” she said, making a popping sound on the “p”.

“Oh my God! That’s the biggest news ever!”

She could practically hear Harper’s triumphant smile on the other end of the line. “This is what I’m saying.”

The conversation degenerated from there into a lot of squealing and giggling, but Mischa eventually got all the details out of Harper and gave her best friend in the world—her only friend, really—her blessing to run as far away from her family as she could to get married. After all, she was pretty sure she still had a little scar on her forearm from the fight that broke out at Harper’s Aunt Sylvie’s wedding.

The takeaway of that experience for Mischa was never intervene when a drunk bride threatens her new sister-in-law with a broken bottle. The takeaway for the sister-in-law was never insult a drunk bride’s choice of table runners and centerpieces.

Yeah, she couldn’t imagine the ever-antisocial Riddick lasting too long at such an event.

By the time they ended the call, Mischa was starting to feel a little…

Well, she had no idea what she was feeling. Sure, she was happy for her friend. Harper and Riddick adored each other and had fought hard for their happy ending. They deserved it.

But then there was this
little
part of her…a selfish, totally
bitchy
little part of her, buried-deep, that wondered: why her and not me? Why does she get to be happy, and I’m all alone?

Because even though she knew a happy ending wasn’t in the cards for her, having someone to go home to every now and then sure would be nice.

All Mischa had waiting for her at home was an overweight beagle mix, several recorded episodes of
Game of Thrones
, and a boyfriend who required charging every week.

She’d named her battery-operated boyfriend Antonio, but even he wasn’t keeping her as satisfied as he once had.

If you want someone to go home to, all you have to do is call Hunter
, her lonely lady parts reminded her.

You don’t need the vampire
, her practical brain insisted.
Forget about him
.
Once and for all.

Yeah, and cure cancer and convince the Kardashians to retire from reality TV while you’re at it,
her lady parts retorted.
That’s probably more likely
.

Her brain was silent.

She blinked. Had she just lost an argument with her vagina? That didn’t exactly scream “mental stability,” now did it?

Who cares about your mental health when you haven’t gotten laid in…shit, has it really been nine years?

Damn, her vagina made a sound argument.

Yep, it had really been nine years, she realized after doing a little quick mental math. It had been a desperation lay back in her Sentry days. He’d been a watcher like her, and they ran into each other at Clary’s Pub by chance. He was handsome and she was a little drunk, not to mention incredibly lonely, and hadn’t yet purchased Antonio.

He’d driven her home and she’d dragged him to her bed. In the end, the drive to her apartment had lasted longer than the sex, and while he achieved his happy ending, she was denied hers. Needless to say, the experience did little to satisfy her hunger for physical contact or loneliness.

Now that she thought about it, could something that one- sided really count as the last time she’d had sex?

Since then, she’d mostly been able to keep the loneliness at bay, and generally, she’d rather spend her free time with a warm bath, a good book, and a quality romp with Antonio here and there.

Except for that one time last year when she’d thrown caution to the wind, and in a fit of reckless self-pity, almost did something colossally stupid.

Only it hadn’t
felt
stupid at the time.

Memories of smooth, taut, sun-browned skin sliding against her own assailed her. His strong hands cupping her jaw, gliding down over her shoulders, thumbs brushing her nipples. Long, silky ebony hair tangling around her fingers as their tongues mated, breath mingling, her heart beating a frenzied rhythm against her chest.

His heart…not beating at all.

She wished she could say it was Hunter’s lack of heartbeat that had slapped her back to reality and made her run from him that day. But it wasn’t.

The truth was much more pathetic than that. The truth was, she didn’t deserve a happy ending. Especially not with him.

And the sooner her lonely lady parts—and her heart—realized it, the better.

A week later, Harper and Riddick joined the mile-high club in an airplane bathroom on their way to Vegas, which always looked easy in the movies, but in actuality, was very tricky. Harper still had a kink in her back to prove it. Not her best—or classiest—idea, to be sure.

The shower in their hotel room was very good to them, though.

Hot water + naked, soapy Riddick = an incredibly satisfied (and clean) Harper.

After that, they wandered into one of the restaurants on the hotel’s main floor, where Harper proceeded to eat her body weight in surf and turf. Good thing they weren’t having a traditional ceremony, because too many meals like that would ensure she’d never fit into a wedding dress. But here in Vegas, she could get married in her yoga pants (i.e., her Thanksgiving pants) and no one would care.

Following dinner, much to Riddick’s chagrin, Harper dragged him into the casino, where she parked herself in front of a nickel slot next to a scary old lady with purplish hair who smelled like boiled cabbage, and whose bloodshot eyes suggested she hadn’t left her machine in days. Harper had been sitting there for over an hour, feeding her machine with Riddick hovering protectively behind her.

Harper wobbled on her stool a little, and she giggled as Riddick’s hand shot out to steady her.

“Whoopsie,” she said, clinging to the front of his t-shirt.

He smirked down at her. “Had a few too many?”

She nodded, then rested her forehead on his chest when the room started to spin. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Note to self: just because the tequila is free, you don’t have to keep drinking it.

Riddick signaled a waitress who practically tripped over her high heels in an attempt to get to him quickly. Harper barely resisted the urge to hiss and snarl at the little hussy, who’d been eyeing her man all night.

“Can I get a bottle of water for her, please?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she answered, a little too enthusiastically for Harper’s liking. “Right away.”

Harper lifted her head off Riddick’s shirt and pointed a finger at the girl, who looked all of twenty years old. “He’s marrying
me
, you know, so there’s no point flirting with him.” She smacked herself in the chest with an open palm.
Ow
. “I’m his sunshine.”

In the silence that followed her pronouncement, Harper blinked. God, that had sounded
so much
better in her head.

Riddick chuckled, and the waitress eventually said, “Um, okay,” before scurrying off.

“I have to pee,” Harper announced, probably too loudly, and jumped off the stool.

Riddick caught her as her legs gave out. “I’ll take you.”

“No, no, no,” Harper said, pushing away from him, straightening her shirt. “You have to watch my machine. It’s hot right now, and this one’s been eyeing it all night.” She jerked her thumb toward the purple-haired old lady.

Riddick frowned. “Are you sure? You’re a little wobbly.”

“’S all good,” she slurred. “I got this.”

He looked skeptical, but he crossed his arms over his chest and sat down on her stool, watching her.

She turned back to the old lady, pointed at her own eyes with two fingers, then at the old lady’s eyes with the same two fingers. “I’m watching you, sister,” she said, putting as much menace into her tone as she could muster.

The old lady blinked owlishly back at her over the tops of her Sophia Loren glasses.

Satisfied that her message had been received, Harper weaved her way to the ladies’ room.

Against all odds, she managed to make it to the bathroom and pee without hurting herself or falling in the toilet. But as she was washing her hands, her luck ran out.

A strong arm snaked around her shoulders and a large hand clamped over her mouth.

No good ever came from free tequila, was her last thought before the world went black.

***

Few things woke a girl up faster than realizing she was tied to a chair.

Sadly, Harper knew this from experience. She wouldn’t say that in her line of work this kind of thing was
common
…but, let’s just say this wasn’t Harper’s first rodeo.

Lifting her head gingerly—
ugh, damn tequila
—she took stock of her situation.

She was sitting on a metal folding chair, hands zip-tied behind her back, in the middle of what looked like an abandoned mechanic’s garage. The smell of old sweat and motor oil and dust was thick in the air. A poster of a Cindy Crawford from at least two decades ago was hanging onto the concrete block wall by nothing more than a sliver of duct tape and memories. The only light in the place was coming from a bare bulb, screwed into the ceiling above her head.

The ties around her hands were secure, but not tight enough to hurt her. And her legs weren’t bound. Either her kidnapper was an amateur, or he didn’t really want to harm her. Either way, she could use it to her advantage.

She was pretty sure something had crawled into her mouth and died, and she could practically feel her hair frizzing, but hey, at least she wasn’t chained to the floor this time around. And even better, there wasn’t a single psychotic vampire in sight. (Yeah, that’d happened, sadly.)

“Oh, there’s my girl. Glad you’re finally awake, darlin’,” an all-too-familiar Southern drawl intoned from behind her.

Harper groaned and closed her eyes. It couldn’t be.

As the owner of the deceptively charming Southern drawl moved and knelt in front of her, Harper realized she’d almost rather face a psychotic vampire.

“Romeo Jones,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

He shoved a hand through his dark blond, shoulder-length hair and grinned at her. “Aw, you remember. I’m touched.”

Time seemed to stand still. This was one of those moments, Harper realized, that could define her as a person. Could she forgive Romeo for screwing her over, allowing them both to move on with their lives without bitterness and anger?

A good person would.

With that in mind, Harper did what she knew was right in her heart.

She smiled at him warmly. He leaned in to tuck a loose curl behind her ear.

Then she head butted the bastard.

After all, being a good person was
totally
overrated.

Riddick couldn’t breathe.

If he didn’t find Harper soon, he was going to completely lose his shit and start tearing the casino apart brick by brick.

It was all his fault, damn it. Why the hell had he let her go to the bathroom alone in her condition? She could be hurt. Scared. Anyone—or anything—could have taken her.

“Riddick! Are you even listening to me?”

He stopped pacing the sidewalk outside the casino and loosened his grip on his phone to avoid shattering it. “What?” he snapped.

“I traced her, using her phone, which is still on,” Mischa said way too calmly for Riddick’s liking. “You were right to call me. This would’ve taken the police too long and there would’ve been too many questions.”