Fangs for Nothing (13 page)

He took another long drink, and again Josie Lynn got the feeling he was very uncomfortable with her line of questioning.

“So what about you?” he asked as he set down his highball glass. “How long have you lived in New Orleans?”

It was her turn to take a sip of her drink. “I actually live in Westwego.”

“That’s a bit of a trek, but not bad. Is that where you grew up?”

Yeah, it was definitely her turn to be reluctant to answer. “I grew up near Atchafalaya Swamp. My dad and brothers are fisherman and—well, you know they have some experience with gators. And some of them take tourists out to fish.”

She waited for more questions. Stereotypical questions about how it was to grow up Cajun, running wild in the bayous.

But he didn’t say anything more, he simply nodded. Somehow that felt just as awkward as more questions.

She took another sip of her wine, then added almost self-consciously, “I’m sure your life was very different from how I grew up.”

Drake made a face that Josie Lynn couldn’t quite decipher. “My whole existence in general has been very different. Although I’m certainly familiar with the bayous and rivers of this area.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“Well, because I was a pirate,” he stated, and then smiled that lopsided smile of his.

She rolled her eyes at him, but smiled, too. “Right. How could I forget?”

“Arrgh,” he said, squinting up his handsome face in a way that he clearly thought was pirate-y. “Would you like to walk my plank, matey?”

She laughed despite herself. Maybe it was the wine. “I’d watch yourself, pirate, you saw what I did to the gator.”

He chuckled, then he looked back to the stage. Josie Lynn did, too, realizing the music had stopped. Wow, had Drake held her attention so thoroughly she hadn’t noticed that until now?

“My lovely crowd,” Renee said, in a husky, sultry voice.

Josie Lynn looked around again.
Crowd
seemed a rather lavish term for the six people scattered around the room.

“I will be taking a short break. But please don’t leave us, because the stunning Clarisse Dubois will be joining you to delight with her magnificent vocal stylings. So please, sit back and enjoy.”

As Renee sauntered toward the stage exit, Drake rose and waved to her. Renee gave him a vague wave back, then recognition lit her heavily shadowed eyes. She smiled, her ruby lips revealing startlingly white teeth. She gestured toward the backstage, then raised a manicured finger to indicate that she just needed a minute.

Drake nodded and returned to his chair.

“I guarantee she will know where to find the Chers,” he said to Josie Lynn.

“Excuse me.” A male voice drew their attention away from the stage.

Both Josie Lynn and Drake turned to see a man standing behind them. From the looks of the satiny shirt, the buttons straining over his rotund belly, and the light blue polyester pants, he looked as if he hadn’t gone shopping since the seventies. He pushed at his comb-over and offered them an oddly knowing smile.

Right away the man made Josie Lynn feel uncomfortable. Something about that gleam in his dark eyes. They roamed over her, lustfully. Drake seemed to notice, too, because he moved his chair so his knee was against hers. The movement was not overt, but still a subtle sign of possessiveness and protection. Josie Lynn didn’t shift her leg away.

“Can we help you?” Drake said, his tone cool.

“You don’t remember me?”

Drake gave the man a once-over that silently stated he wasn’t likely to forget this guy, then shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Well, you two were pretty—busy last night.” The man shot Josie Lynn another lascivious look, actually licking his lips.

Josie Lynn knew she didn’t contain her repulsion.

Drake placed a hand on hers, another protective move that she wasn’t going to discourage. But the man didn’t seem to see it as protective warning. In fact, as his gaze dropped to where they touched, he licked his lips again.

Disgust darkened Drake’s eyes, and his jaw flexed as if he was clenching his teeth. But he managed to sound relatively unperturbed as he asked, “And where exactly did you see us?”

“In the back room at The Dungeon.”

The Dungeon? Had this guy somehow been in Zelda’s sex room? That idea made Josie Lynn shudder. This guy and sex toys and all drugged out of their heads. Oh. Dear. God.

“The Dungeon,” Drake said, his tone curious and apparently not as disturbed by the idea as Josie Lynn was. “What time?”

“Oh, I’m not sure. Late.” Again the man eyed Josie Lynn, and she found herself squeezing Drake’s hand. God, this creeper made her skin crawl.

“Can you tell us who was with us?”

“A tall, very attractive woman in nothing but a bra and panties and thigh-high boots.”

Oh, dear God, he was describing Zelda. He had been in the sex room with them.

“Another woman in some sort of black leather catsuit and high heels.”

Zelda and that woman Drake had been using Josie Lynn to get rid of. At least that seemed like to the two most likely women.

“And,” the man added with any unnervingly excited grin, “your lady here was not happy with the catsuit gal. They got into quite a shouting match.”

Josie Lynn gaped at Drake. She’d got into a fight? With that woman? Why?

Drake’s expression wasn’t one of shock, but rather intrigue.

“Really? What did they fight about?” he asked the man.

“Well, your lady here didn’t like that Catsuit was hitting on you,” the man said, then looked at Josie Lynn. “In fact, you can be quite a spitfire when angry. The bouncer made the woman in the catsuit leave.”

Bouncer? Oh, wait, the man was talking about a Goth bar called The Dungeon just off Bourbon on Toulouse. But Josie Lynn’s relief that this man hadn’t been in Zelda’s sex dungeon was short-lived, as her gaze inadvertently fell on his weirdo polyester-covered crotch, which was unfortunately at eye level with where she sat.

She made a small, appalled noise and shifted her gaze to Drake, although his expression wasn’t any more comforting. He looked highly amused.

She squeezed his hand again, this time very tightly.

Drake chuckled. “Oh, she is definitely a little spitfire. You should see her wrassle a gator.”

“Really?” The man looked even more titillated, although she didn’t check his trousers to see how much more so. Damn Drake.

“Oh yeah,” Drake said with feeling. “So my cupcake here didn’t like the other woman’s attention, huh?”

Josie Lynn shot Drake a dirt look. He was enjoying this far too much.

“Not at all,” the man said. “In fact, she popped the woman. Probably blackened her eye in good shape.”

This time, Josie Lynn’s mouth dropped open. She’d punched that woman? No. No.

Beside her, Drake laughed out loud. “Wow. Popped her, huh?”

The man nodded, grinning, too. “Socked her good.”

Drake chuckled again.

But Josie Lynn managed to gather herself. “What happened after—I hit her?”

“The tall woman in her bra and panties left with the catsuit woman. You wanted to follow them, but your man here found some other ways to distract you.” The creeper licked his lips again.

Josie Lynn tried not to vomit in her mouth, and definitely not about what she might have done with Drake, but because this freaky dude had watched them. Probably not unlike he was watching her now.

“Did anything else happen?” Drake said, his tone sharp and thick with warning. He clearly didn’t care for this man’s look either.

“Then the bra-and-panties woman returned. She was upset about something. I’m not sure what. But you all left together.”

“Donald.” Another voice snapped from the other side of the table, startling Josie Lynn. “Stop pestering the guests.”

Josie Lynn turned, relieved to see the person they’d come to see had finally joined them.

Renee posed before them, in all her primped and painted glory. She’d changed from her peignoir and robe into a glittery gold evening gown. Josie Lynn’s first thought was that she was much taller and more intimidating up close.

Clearly Donald agreed, because he immediately backed away from their table.

“I wasn’t pestering, Renee,” he said, his tone somewhere between wheedling and worshiping. “I was just talking.”

“Well go talk somewhere else,” Renee said, clearly unimpressed with his sycophantic behavior.

The man didn’t say anything more as he scurried away.

“Sorry about that,” Renee said, collapsing dramatically into one of the worn, red velvet chairs. “Donald is a regular here. Such a strange little man. He’s relatively harmless, but his attention can become a bit too much. Even for me.” Then she smiled.

Then her heavily made-up eyes shifted to Drake, clearly done with the topic of Donald. She leaned forward to give Drake an air kiss on either cheek. Drake accepted the greeting comfortably, which Josie Lynn found kind of cool. Many men would not be comfortable with another man dressed as a woman being affectionate—even in such an affected way.

“So why are you here, rock star?” Renee said, lounging back against her chair.

“Do you know of a group of female impersonators who dress as Cher through the decades?”

Renee rolled her eyes, disdain very clear in her face. “Cher. So cliché. All female impersonators imitate her at some point in their career.” Then she acknowledged Josie Lynn for the first time. “Not me, mind you. I was always too old to imitate her. But then you know I never went for the easy applause anyway.”

Josie Lynn found herself nodding, although she didn’t really understand why it was any easier to dress up as Cher than any other female. In fact, Cher seemed like she’d be pretty hard to imitate. God knows, she couldn’t pull off that “If I Could Turn Back Time” getup. That took some serious balls and a really great tushy. Not to mention, in reality, Cher couldn’t be much younger than Renee.

“So you don’t know of any impersonators working together,” Drake said, trying to keep Madame Renee on track. “There would be five of them.”

Renee sighed. “Not working together, per se, but I do know several here and there. But if I had to guess what place might be doing a Cher Extravaganza, it would probably be the new club down on Royal. Queen Mary’s.”

Queen Mary’s on Royal, there was something apropos about that.

Although it was clear Renee did not think highly of this new place. Probably because it was competition. Josie Lynn glanced around, not that any place would have to be much to be competition for this place.

The waitress who’d been helping them came over and placed a three-olive martini in front of Renee, who didn’t even acknowledge the gesture. Apparently when you were Madame Renee, it was assumed your needs would be met without having to ask.

She took a ladylike sip, her ring-clad pinky extended, then she patted her ruby-red lips with a hankie she discreetly—or what she thought was discreetly—pulled out of her cleavage.

“The thing about these new, flashy nightclubs, my darling Drake,” she said, settling back in her chair as if she planned to give a long diatribe on the matter, “is that there is no appreciation for the subtlety of our art.”

Subtlety
wouldn’t exactly have been the word Josie Lynn would have used.

“These nightclubs are all about flash and glitz, not about appreciating the intricacy of being a true lady. And performing like a true lady.”

Drake nodded, appearing to be listening with rapt attention, then Josie Lynn noticed he was inconspicuously patting his pockets, looking for his wallet, only to realize he didn’t have it. And Josie Lynn was willing to bet there was no money squeezed into those shiny, turquoise pants.

Damn, now they were really stuck listening to Madame Renee lament the days of true burlesque.

But to Josie Lynn’s surprise, Drake seemed to feel something and managed to squeeze his fingers in the tight pocket. Miraculously, he pulled out a twenty. He subtly waved it under the edge of the table for Josie Lynn to see.

“You know how it was in the day,” Renee was saying. “The talent, the delivery, the elegance, those were the things people came to see. Not just some rote imitation of someone else’s expressions and moves. Any tranny with a mirror and a record player could practice those things until they were passable. True talent is original. Unique.”

“I know,” Drake agreed emphatically. “It really is a shame.”

“A shame? My dear boy, it’s a crime.”

Drake took that segue to place the twenty on the table. “You are so very right, Renee, which is why we have to try to find these Chers. We have every reason to believe they were involved in some illegal activity.”

Renee perked up, leaning forward in her chair again. “Nefarious deeds?”

“Yes. So you will have to forgive us for not staying for your second performance.”

Renee nodded instantly. “Most certainly. I understand if you must go.”

Drake leaned down and kissed the woman’s rouged cheek. “Thank you for your help, Madame.”

“Ah, Drake, I’m happy to help any way I can. You know our kind must stick together.”

The older woman caught his hand and squeezed it briefly, more in a gesture of some unspoken camaraderie than affection.

Our kind? What did that mean?

Okay, Drake had been dressed as a pirate when she met him. And now he wore skintight vinyl pants that belonged to a dominatrix. And there were, of course, the assless chaps, but she still didn’t get any vibe from Drake that he was normally a cross-dresser.

Drake finished his good-bye and Josie Lynn mumbled her own, then followed him back through the narrow bar.

Once they were back on Bourbon, she asked him over the cacophony of people and music, “What did she mean when she said
our kind
?”

Chapter Eleven

ROCK YOU LIKE A HURRICANE

J
OHNNY
remembered when he reached the front door of his apartment that Lizette had changed the locks after he had gone in and taken his drum kit. Or more likely Dieter had. But either way, his key wasn’t going to work. See what happened when you let a woman into your life? She locked you out of your apartment. Okay, so maybe Lizette had locked him out because he’d faked his own death, but the point was, he didn’t like his world being disrupted. Even if he was the one who had started it.

Damn it. Feeling aroused and annoyed all at once because he was having emotions he didn’t entirely understand, he was fully prepared to break a window to get in, but Lizette held up a key.

“My apologies for the inconvenience,” she said politely, because Lizette was always polite. When she wasn’t yelling at him. Or letting him kiss her.

He wondered what she had been like in bed. If she had screamed or if she had been silent in her pleasure. Here was to finding out. “Thanks. I was just going to break the door down.”

She gave a cluck of disapproval that made him laugh. He pushed open the door, having a momentary fear that the place looked like crap, then realizing it didn’t make any difference. Lizette knew everything he owned, right down to his last pair of underwear. There was no impressing her at this point. Still, he was a little self-conscious about the fact that despite quitting smoking a month ago, there was still a stale lingering aftereffect of the cigarettes in his apartment. The drapes were drawn tightly closed, but he led her across the floor and pulled them open, wanting to see the moonlight spilling into the living room.

“Make yourself at home,” he told her. “Clearly Saxon isn’t here, and there is no sign he was.” The room was still and everything was undisturbed. Apparently Dieter put things back the way he found them as he check-listed other people’s shit. What a douchebag job.

“I suppose we should have realized that Saxon wouldn’t be able to enter the apartment,” she said, pulling the sweater off her shoulders one-handed.

“He would have just broken in if he wanted to crash here,” he reassured her, then realized that probably wasn’t reassuring to a woman like Lizette.

“There is a lot of breaking and entering going on,” she said, shooting him a long look.

“Being a vampire does have it advantages.” Lizette looked like she wanted to sit, but he desperately wanted a drink. He suspected he was still dehydrated from the night before. “Can I get you a drink? Have you had a hurricane yet? They’re the local classic.”

“No, I have not. What is in one?”

A crapload of alcohol. “Rum. It’s a sweet drink.” He was a rum kind of guy, though he usually didn’t add fruit juice to it. Drake always gave him a hard time about it, given that it was the guitar player who had been the pirate, not Johnny. But rum had a smoother flow to it than whiskey, and gin tasted like lighter fluid. Every man had his drink, but Lizette looked like she needed some pineapple juice added to her booze to take the edge off.

“Sure. I am thirsty.”

“How many rules are you breaking by being in here with me?” Johnny asked, moving into the kitchen and pulling ingredients out of the cupboard.

“More than I care to consider.”

“I’m sorry that you got wrapped up in all this, Lizette, I honestly am.” He was. He didn’t dig that they’d been drugged. He could only imagine how she must feel.

“Thank you. Though you aren’t ultimately responsible for what happened at the wedding reception.”

“It was my fault you were there. You were tracking me down.”

“Good point. So you need to make it up to me.” She leaned on the counter, the front of her blouse gaping a little, her tongue slipping across her lush lower lip.

Holy hell, she was flirting with him. He liked it.

“I can forward your vibrator to you when it arrives.” Johnny grinned, pouring rum into two glasses while Lizette blushed. “But that’s for next week. Tonight, I can think of even better ways I can make it up to you.”

“Is that so?” She propped her chin up with her hand and gazed out at him from under her thick lashes. “You will need to prove it to me.”

She had no idea who she was challenging. Johnny may not have been well educated or rich, but there were three things he prided himself on—his boxing, his drumming, and his sexual skill. Since he had no intention of punching Lizette and he was off work for the next three nights, he would have to make sure the final one counted. “I can do that.” He lifted the drink to her mouth. “Take a taste.”

Most women would insist on taking the glass from him, but she didn’t. She let him tilt the glass and she opened her mouth willingly, tilting her head to let the drink easily slide back down her throat. Johnny waited for her to hold her hand up or move her head away, but she didn’t, so when the glass was half empty he pulled it back, impressed. She licked the moisture off her lips.

“Mmm,” she said. “That’s tasty.”

“Let me see.” Johnny reached out and flicked his tongue across her bottom lip, the sweetness of the juice and the tang of the rum light notes to the heavy syrup of the blood he had added. It was delicious. Just like her.

He took a swallow straight from the glass, then offered her the rest. She willingly drank it.

“It’s making me warm,” she told him.

Her cheeks had gained color instantly, going from the smooth marble of her vampire complexion to a more human peachy cream. She was still alabaster and unflawed, but with a hint of color to her cheeks and her neck. The tops of her breasts, which were revealed when her blouse shifted with her movements, looked warm and healthy, a vein visible and pumping her sweet blood with hypnotic vigor.

“Where are you warm?” he asked her, taking his finger and tracing it across that blue trail beneath her flesh.

“It seems to be settling in my hands and between my thighs.”

Again, he had to say he loved her honesty. Johnny’s cock tightened in his jeans. “Not a bad place to feel warm.”

“Not at all.”

Johnny kissed her, still letting her rest on her hand while he took her mouth, his eyes drifting closed. She sighed against his lips. When he pulled back, she stood up and dropped her hands from her chin.

“Is this going to be a challenge with these handcuffs on?”

“No.” In fact, he found it arousing.

“I suppose I cannot remove my blouse.”

Oh, no. He was not about to settle for Lizette half-dressed. He wanted to see every inch of her bared out for him. “I can fix that.” Reaching back, he pulled a knife out of a drawer. He didn’t use it for cooking, but the apartment had come furnished and sometimes it came in handy. Like right now.

Her eyes widened. “You cannot be serious. It will ruin my blouse.”

“Your blouse is already ruined. There is no way you’ll be able to dry-clean the blood out of it.”

“But what will I wear after?” But then Lizette shook her head. “Never mind. I did not say that. I’m going to be spontaneous. I am going to enjoy the moment and not worry about the consequences. It will be good for my soul, yes?”

She looked so earnest, so nervous, that Johnny leaned down and kissed her gently, his own emotional response a little puzzling to him. How was it that he could want to protect Lizette and pound the hell out of her with his cock all at the same time? It seemed weird to want to have rough sex with someone and yet cuddle with her before and after. But that was how he felt, and she was clearly experiencing her own sense of mixed feelings and anxiety.

“Yes,” he told her. “It will be good for your soul and your body.” He brushed her hair back off her forehead. “It’s going to be good for mine, too, you know. You make me want to be less of an idiot. More respectable. That’s no small feat.”

She gave a soft laugh. “You make me want to relax.”

“Win-win, baby. Now hold still so I don’t cut you.” It was just a matter of slicing down the one sleeve, then letting her slip out of the other, and Lizette was free of the bloodied fabric, her black lace bra displaying her small breasts damn well. She had a slender body, and the skirt she was wearing accentuated her narrow waist. Johnny had never thought he had a particular type with women—if he did, it was for big-breasted, ballsy blondes. But Lizette was nothing like that, and yet, there was something so intensely feminine about her that he decided she was definitely the most beautiful woman he had ever met. The delicacy of the bra, the hourglass waist, the smooth pale arms, and the red nails that matched her red lips, it was all turning him on a whole hell of a lot.

Time seemed to be standing still, and there were no distractions, no noises from outside, no light to take away his focus from her. There was just a moonlit room and a beautiful woman who was crazy enough to get it on with him. One who was not wearing panties, if he remembered correctly.

As they kissed again, he let his hands wander, up her soft back, over her shoulder, to where he peeled her bra strap off, then back down to her waist. The hands that were still cuffed together were clasped, fingers interwoven for ease, and her free hand splayed across his chest. She seemed as intrigued about exploring his body as he was about hers, though neither of them was in a particular rush. Johnny didn’t want to wham-bam her. He wanted to take his time, ensure she was enjoying herself, stretch it out as long as possible so that he would really have something to remember her by.

Once Lizette went back to Paris, he most likely would never see her again, and he wanted to savor the moment. He stripped his T-shirt off as much as their cuffs would allow and let it dangle, wanting his skin on hers, wanting to be as close to her as possible.

It felt like they were dancing, Lizette thought. Like they were engaged in a sensual tango in a dank basement a hundred years ago. Though she would have never done something like that. Since the death of Jean-Baptiste, she may have had sex rarely, but she had never been intimate. She had never taken the physical and the emotional exploration of a man and blended them together the way she had Johnny were doing here. His eyes were glassy in the moonlight, and he looked at her like he thought she was beautiful. She felt beautiful. She felt not reckless, but confident in her capitulation. Maybe it was lack of quality sleep, or having been drugged and the knowledge that she had already slept with Johnny even if she didn’t remember it, but she didn’t feel nervous. She didn’t feel tense or awkward.

She felt aroused, eager, languid. It was a glorious feeling, and as his hands wandered over her flesh, she explored his as well, admiring the muscles in his chest, his shoulders, his biceps. There was evidence in the muscular strength of his mortal days spent in the boxing ring, and she tried to imagine him sweaty and intense, bouncing on his feet. Never would she have imagined she would be attracted by that thought, but she was, and she had been intrigued when she’d read his history in the VA dossier. Running down his arms, she gripped the belt loops of his jeans as he slipped his tongue inside her mouth to mate with hers. The thrust and retreat made the warm ache between her thighs grow more urgent, and she shifted restlessly, well aware of her lack of panties. There was no protective barrier between her desires and the cool rush of air-conditioned air.

Johnny seemed to pick up on her subtle nonverbal cue, because suddenly his hand was strolling up her leg beneath her skirt as he kissed her, and she instinctively turned her knee out to give him access. It was forward for her, but she never even hesitated. If she were going to have sex with a case subject in an apartment he was not allowed access to, she was damn well going to make the most of that decision. That way, when she removed herself from the case, she would at least have gotten the pleasure for the pain of stepping down.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his hand pausing on her inner thigh, charming her with the thoughtfulness of his question.

He clearly wanted to make sure they stopped before the point of no return if she wasn’t sure, and she appreciated that. But she had no intention of denying herself at this point.

“Yes, please continue.” Lizette tilted her head back, then gave a little moan when he simultaneously cupped her sex while nipping at her ear. It wasn’t a bite to draw blood. It was a questing, teasing gesture, possibly to test her tolerance, or maybe just because he wanted to play. Whatever the reason, Lizette enjoyed the foreplay, her body humming with anticipation, moisture deep within her spreading over Johnny’s finger as he stroked inside her.

“I don’t mourn the loss of your panties at all,” Johnny murmured into her ear.

“At the moment, I don’t either,” she said, her voice sounding breathless to her. His forearm pressed against her, trapped between them, and Lizette found herself moving her hips, matching his strokes with a rhythmic rocking, so she increased the impact. It wasn’t something she normally would have done, but it felt so obvious, so natural, that she just went with it.

“That’s it,” he said, his tongue trailing down her neck and finding the slight swell of her breast above her bra.

Then he bit her, without warning, sinking his fangs right into the plump flesh, causing her to cry out in ecstasy.

“Oh,
mon cher
!” she said, without thought, the endearment slipping out purely meant as appreciation for the way he made her feel. “That feels wonderful.”

No man had bit her before during sex. It wasn’t entirely proper, as vampires didn’t feed off of each other, but she had heard it was a highly erotic experience that many indulged in. But Jean-Baptiste had thought it crass, common, and since his death, there had been no man she had trusted enough or let go enough with to allow such a thing.

She hadn’t allowed Johnny so much as he had just taken, but she couldn’t believe what the sensation of his fangs puncturing her skin had done to her. It was like having an orgasm, only better. It made perfect sense to her why vampires indulged in biting each other, because it was like he was drawing pleasure up out of her on a pulley, each suck dragging from every inch of her body a tense, wiry ecstasy. She felt it everywhere.