Fangs for Nothing (5 page)

Josie Lynn glanced back toward the kitchen door, wishing Ashley or Eric would come back so she wouldn’t be alone. She was probably being too dramatic.

She jumped as the back door shook under another knock.

Or not.

She hesitated a moment longer, then reached for the doorknob. The truth was, she didn’t have time for another distraction, and she needed to get rid of this one, too.

She jerked the door open, preparing herself for an unruly wedding guest, or maybe a vagrant coming to beg for food. She even considered someone shadier. So she wasn’t at all prepared for . . . Cher.

Five Chers, to be exact. And to be more exact, they were five transvestites dressed as Cher in different stages of her career. At least, Josie Lynn thought they were transvestites. She had to admit they looked pretty good.

“Can—can I help you?”

The one closest to her was dressed as Cher from the sixties with long, straight hair, a fur vest and red, orange, yellow, and green striped pants.

She flipped her hair and said, “Hi. Sorry to interrupt you, but we have a favor to ask.”

Wow, she/he even spoke like Cher.

“Okay,” Josie Lynn said uncertainly.

“We are friends of the bride,” Sixties Cher said.

“And we wanted to come in through the back to surprise her,” said Half-Breed Cher.

Sixties Cher glared at the Half-Breed one, clearly not appreciating the help explaining. Half-Breed Cher shrugged, the feathers of the elaborate headdress she wore bobbing, and Believe Cher blew one of the errant feathers out of her face.

“We wanted to come in through the back to make a dramatic entrance,” Bob Mackie Cher added, the thousands of sequins on her evening gown glittering in the light from the kitchen.

Josie Lynn looked at If I Could Turn Back Time Cher’s huge, curly hair, studded leather jacket, stockings and garters, and a mesh and V-shaped bodysuit that just barely covered her breasts and vajayjay. Did she/he have a vajayjay? And how on earth was she/he hiding the additional . . . junk, if she/he still had it? Either way, all these Chers couldn’t help but make an entrance no matter where or how they entered a room.

“We would be happy to pay you for your help,” said Sixties Cher. Bob Mackie Cher ran a pointed tongue over her top lip in signature Cher style, then pulled something out of her cleavage. She held it up. A hundred-dollar bill.

Josie Lynn frowned. Why would they feel like they had to pay her to be allowed in? Especially if they were friends of the bride’s?

Believe Cher seemed to see her concern, because she quickly said, “We know you’re busy working and just wanted to pay you for your time.”

“After all, we are all working girls here, right?” said Believe Cher, using an index finger to brush her black-and-red highlighted hair away from her face.

Josie Lynn hesitated, looking at the money. Then she thought about the sushi that had ended up on the floor. That money certainly would help with the loss of that. And given what she’d seen of the wedding guests, a gaggle of Chers certainly seemed like a natural fit as the bride’s friends.

“Okay,” Josie Lynn said as she took the money. She stood back opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

* * *

DRAKE SIGHED AS
he walked back into the reception. It looked as if there would be no distraction tonight. Cupcake was not only a spitfire, she was tough. He’d seen that there was no way he was going to charm her into going out with him. Much less fall into his bed for the night.

“Which just blows.”

“What blows?”

Drake turned to see Obsidian beside him. He couldn’t convince Cupcake to give him a chance, and apparently he couldn’t convince the persistent maid of honor that he was not interested. But at least now she no longer carried her riding crop. Instead she held two champagne flutes of the wretched-looking punch.

She offered one to him and he accepted, seeing no way to deny her—at least if he didn’t want her to head back and retrieve her crop.

She lifted her glass in salute. “Yo ho ho, blow the man down.”

Drake lifted his glass in return, but didn’t take a sip.

“I have to say, your girlfriend surprises me.”

He frowned, just briefly confused by her statement. Then he understood whom she was talking about.

“Oh? Why is that?”

Obsidian pursed her dark red lips as if considering the right answer, which he highly doubted she needed to. He was certain she’d formulated her opinion about the caterer right away.

“She seems a little too—pedestrian for you.”

Pedestrian? Really? Were they looking at the same woman? He considered asking this woman—who as far as he was concerned was trying far too hard not to be pedestrian and was only managing to be a bit of cliché—how she had come to that conclusion, but he realized she would answer him. And he didn’t feel like hearing it.

So instead he simply smiled and said, “Don’t let the ruffled shirt and breeches fool you, I’m a pretty average guy myself.”

She raised a dark, thinly arched brow. “I don’t see that.”

He found it hard to believe she saw much of anything with the amount of black eyeliner she had caked around her eyes.

“Yes, well in some cases, looks can be deceiving,” he stated, then without thinking, took a swallow of the disgusting-looking punch.

Holy shit, it tasted even worse than it looked. He forced the slimy, sort-of-clumpy concoction down, even though he really wanted to spit it out on the ground. Dear God, he needed a real drink more than ever.

“Will you excuse me?” he said to Obsidian, not managing to keep the disgust off his face, and frankly he didn’t care if she thought it was directed at her or the drink.

He registered that she again raised an eyebrow at him, but she said nothing as he walked back toward the kitchen.

Drake knew Cupcake wouldn’t be any more impressed to see him back than Obsidian had been to see him leave so abruptly, but he had to see if the little caterer had any sort of alcoholic beverage.

Tonight really had him out of sorts, and at this point even a few swigs of cooking sherry might take the edge off this weird feeling inside him. And truthfully, as he headed back to the kitchen, weaving through the crowd of guests, he felt even stranger.

But he ignored the almost dizzying feeling, blaming it on the circus sideshow feel of the wedding—the crazy clothing, the decorations, and the bizarre dance that many of the people were doing that looked like they were pretending to ride horses while spinning invisible lassos over their heads.

So weird. So almost surreal.

He just wanted to get to the kitchen. And hopefully get some booze. He’d grovel to Cupcake if he had to.

He giggled—yes, actually giggled. So not pirate-y. It was funny, because he suddenly felt kinda—good. Well, loose at least.

When he entered the kitchen, the light was glaringly bright, more so than he’d recalled from the last time he was in there. He paused, leaning against the doorway, having to blink several times to get his bearings.

Then he saw Cupcake, God she was so sexy. He was going to go tell her so, again, right now. But then he noticed she was holding the back door ajar and she was talking to . . . he blinked again, his vision seeming to swim in front of him. He gained a little control and squinted, trying to see clearer.

She was talking to several . . . Chers? He blinked again, and actually rested his head against the doorjamb. Was he seeing double? Or would that be multiple? There were a lot of Chers.

He giggled again. Funny, he didn’t usually giggle.

Damn, he felt weird. What was happening? He took a few steps into the room, then had to catch himself from stumbling on the edge of the counter. From his vantage point, now he couldn’t fully see the people she was talking to, and because of this odd underwater-type feeling, he wondered if he’d just imagined that.

But she was talking to someone and as he watched, still bracing himself on the counter, he saw Cupcake reach for something. He squinted again, the wooziness in his head growing. But he could still make out what she’d taken. Money.

Yes, money,
he thought, proud that he’d had enough focus to make out that. But the lightheadedness intensified. The kitchen started to feel as surreal as the courtyard.

Maybe he should go find the others. Something was really wrong with him and he needed to find Cort or Wyatt. Even Johnny.

Johnny would probably tell him just to go with it. Saxon, too. Maybe he should; it wasn’t unpleasant exactly.

He set down the glass he still held, not even realizing he had, until he slid it awkwardly onto the stainless steel. He looked back over to where Cupcake stood, debating if he should just call to her.

No, he’d already made a terrible impression on her. Acting like this would really convince her he was a loser. Not to mention, she’d probably just think it was some lame ploy to get her attention.

He had to find the others. He staggered back to the doorway, stopping again to catch his balance. He glanced back at Cupcake once more to see her opening the back door wider and allowing the Chers into the kitchen.

He stumbled back into the dim light of the courtyard, only making it a few feet, then he decided he couldn’t face that crazy room of strange people. He turned to go back to the kitchen, and that was the last thing he remembered.

* * *

JOSIE LYNN WATCHED
the Chers ready themselves for their grand entrance, adjusting their clothing and fluffing and flipping their hair. She looked down at the hundred-dollar bill still clutched in her hand, that same sinking feeling deep in the pit of her stomach.

Maybe she shouldn’t have let them in.

But as If I Could Turn Back Time Cher gave her a wide smile and a salute, then turned her thong-exposed ass toward her as they all left the kitchen, Josie Lynn decided it was too late to worry about that now.

She had to worry about finishing this party with a bang.

Bang, bang, he shot me down.

Wasn’t that a Cher song? Well, she sure as hell wasn’t getting shot down. She headed back to the counter and her work. The turnovers should be almost done.

When she approached the workspace, she noticed a glass of punch that hadn’t been there earlier. Had Ashley or Eric brought it for her? She looked at the frothy, oddly colored mixture, hating to admit, because she’d made it, that it looked awful.

She tucked the money into the pocket of her black work pants, then reached for the glass of punch. Maybe it tasted better than it looked.

She took a tentative sip, then grimaced.

Nope. No better. It was sweet and slimy. With a strange, bitter aftertaste.

Oh well, she couldn’t take the blame for that one. She’d made it to the groom’s specifications.

She set the glass aside, smacking her lips again in aversion, then reached for the mixing bowl of yogurt sauce. But she misjudged and stuck her hand right into the white dip.

“Oh my God,” she muttered. What was wrong with her?

She extended her clean hand toward the paper towels, but when she was sure her fingers should connect with them, they grabbed air. Frowning, she really focused her eyes on the roll and tried again. Again she missed them.

What the hell? She moved her gaze from the towels to the rest of the room. The whole kitchen seemed to swim before her eyes. She felt instantly dizzy and had to steady herself against the counter.

Panic filled her chest, making it hard to breathe. What was wrong with her? She needed to get help. She started to head toward the courtyard, but paused to lean heavily against the counter again. She couldn’t go out into the wedding weaving and confused. That would be the end of this job for her.

But she needed help. She forced her disobedient fingers into her pocket and tugged out her cell phone only for it to slip out of her hand and to the tile floor. She gripped the edge of the table to steady herself as she bent down to pick it up, but just as she would have fallen face-first on the floor, someone caught her.

She looked up at her savior. The pirate. Damn, he was so good-looking.

“You are so good-looking.” Crap, did she just say that aloud? She thought she had. The words might have been thick and slurred in her mouth, but she did think she’d said them. And he understood, because a big, almost lazy smile turned up his lips.

“So good-looking,” she repeated as if she couldn’t control herself.

She couldn’t control herself. She leaned heavily against him. His arms moved tighter around her.

“Thank you, gorgeousth,” he said, his words sounding as slurred as her own. She felt his hands on her back, sliding downward. And his lips on her neck, warm and wonderful.

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, loving the feeling of him against her, kissing her. She opened her eyes, focusing just briefly on the industrial fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Then everything swirled and blurred, except the pirate’s pleasurable touch. Then she drifted, lost in a confusing haze.

Chapter Five

DUNGEONS AND DRAG QUEENS

D
AMMIT,
Drake thought, did these bitches have to wake him up the same way every goddamn morning? He was really tired of getting a boot to the ass as a wakeup call. And this kick was particularly forceful this morning. Not to mention whoever did the kicking had an unusually large foot and one sturdy boot.

He groaned, letting his head fall to the side as he struggled to stay asleep, willing his body to just move with the sway of the ship. The longer he slept the less he had to deal with his situation. He made another noise low in his throat. His shoulders and wrists ached from the manacles. But even worse than that was his head—it throbbed, an almost crippling pain ricocheting around his skull. Probably from dehydration and lack of sleep.

But none of this was new; he’d existed like this for . . . he’d lost count of the days. Being held in the dank hold, surrounded by stench and sickness, the days and nights running together. All he knew for sure was it felt endless.

He let his head loll to the side. More aching muscles. More pounding in his head. But even through the pain, he did register that the hold didn’t smell as awful as usual. Nor did he hear the customary coughs and retching of the other prisoners. Why?

It didn’t matter, really. He still felt wretched and he was still restrained. A state that had gone on for an eternity with no end in sight.

Eternity. Eternity?

The word joined the pain in his head, bouncing around, causing no agony, just questions. Why did that word seem so significant? He wished he didn’t feel so miserable and he could focus. Eternity.

Then slowly the explanation came back to him like a floodgate had been jimmied open, and memories rushed in.

The captain of this prison ship was female, and she was . . .

“A vampire,” he said aloud before he could stop himself.

Another kick landed against his backside—this strike even harder than the first.

Shit, had one of the crew just heard him? Did they think he intended to reveal their secret? He knew that would mean certain death, and he had no intention of letting the truth about his captors be known. He didn’t want to die. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be a vampire either. But all he knew at this moment was that he did not want to die.

He needed to be sure whoever heard him knew that. He wasn’t a thief, even though that was the accusation that had brought him to this hideous state. Nor was he a traitor. He’d vowed to the captain he would never expose the crew’s secret if she spared him. Was that why it was quiet down here? Had the crew fed on the other prisoners? Shit, he had to scramble to make sure his confused slip of the tongue wouldn’t be his undoing.

He opened his eyes, expecting his gaze to meet darkness. The fact that it didn’t was almost as disorienting as the complete blackness. He blinked, trying to get an idea of where he could be. In the Captain’s quarters? On deck?

He blinked again. This was not the eighteenth-century prison ship he had been brought to Louisiana on. Unless his captors had miraculously turned the ship into a houseboat, because this was decidedly a house. He glanced around him to see an assortment of what appeared to be sex toys and restraint devices on the faux-marble walls. Okay, it was a strange house, and although he couldn’t say exactly where he was, it was definitely not the ship. He looked down at himself. He wasn’t manacled to the beams above, and the reason he thought he’d felt the rocking of the vessel was that he was dangling in the air. His ass was in a swing of sorts with his arms cuffed together above his head and to the swing itself.

What the hell?

But he was quickly distracted from his own predicament when a small person seemed to scramble out of nowhere, screaming. Really, really loudly. A very cruel joke when he couldn’t get his hands free to cover his already-sensitive ears. The caterwauling certainly wasn’t helping the pain in his head. But more than anything, he hated the fact that he was restrained, bad memories still clinging to him. He tugged at the cuffs binding his wrists, his movements erratic and panicked.

Only when he glared back at the woman, whose screams were not helping his situation, did everything completely fall into place.

“Cupcake?”

The woman stopped looking frantically around and stared at him, then her gaze dropped to what she was wearing. His puffy shirt. Her already-pale face turned ashen, and for a moment she looked as if she might pass out. Then her wide-eyed stare returned to him, roaming down over his body. Her eyes stopped and grew even rounder when she reached his crotch.

He looked down also, and saw that he wore nothing but chaps. And his Old Chap was lying against his thigh for the whole world to see. Or at least for Cupcake to see. Amazingly, her gray pallor turned pink almost instantaneously.

But with her reaction, a sheepish averting of her eyes and the realization that he wasn’t back on Captain Morgan’s Floating Ship of Bloodletting and Doom, he actually chuckled. Being in a sex swing with his Happy Jack swinging in the breeze was not the worst thing he’d ever experienced.

Especially when it was having such an interesting effect on Cupcake, who still averted her eyes—mostly. He noticed she took quick glances every now and then. Which was making old Happy Jack all the happier.

“I don’t suppose you could help get me down?” he finally asked when it became clear that Cupcake had no intention of saying anything first.

She hesitated, shooting another quick glance at him, this one directed at his face. Mostly.

“Presumably you are the one who trussed me up here. So shouldn’t you be the one to get me down?” he said pragmatically.

“I did not—truss—you up there.”

He gave her an amused look.

“Well, I have to admit I don’t remember. Unfortunately. But since I’m wearing no pants . . .” He glanced down at himself. “Well, virtually no pants. And you are wearing my shirt, I’m thinking something happened between us.”

She cast a look down at herself, too, then crossed her arms over her ample chest as if that would somehow nullify the fact that that was his shirt . . . ruffles, lace, and all.

“Some help,” he prompted again.

She hesitated a moment longer, then dropped her arms and let out a sigh. Apparently she saw no other way around helping him, for which he was thankful. His shoulders and arm were killing him. Still, she only took a few steps closer to him, clearly trying to decide what would be the best strategy to get him down.

“You’re not going to be able to avoid getting up close and personal,” he said with a grin, then spread his legs so she could move between them and reach the cuffs.

Her cheeks grew redder, but rather than move between his legs, she placed a hand on his leather-clad knee and shoved it toward the other one, closing his legs. She still had to press up against his outer thigh and side of his chest to reach the lock.

“Or you can do it that way,” he said wryly. It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that one of her very full, very perky breasts was still right there in his face, but decided against it.

He didn’t know Cupcake well, but he knew her well enough to know she’d just leave him hanging if she got pissed off.

“How long have I been up here?” he asked, trying not to think about how amazingly tempting that breast was—so close to his face. His mouth.

“I have no idea,” she said absently, focused on undoing the lock. “Don’t even know where we are or who those other people are, for that matter.”

“Other people?” He tried to look around, but his position made it impossible. The deeper meaning of her words hit him and his gaze shifted to her face. “Wait, you mean you don’t remember either?”

Her fingers faltered and her face grew redder, if that were possible. “No.”

He was silent for a moment. “Shit. Not again.”

This time her hands dropped completely from the cuff and she gaped at him, her eyes huge and startlingly blue.

“What do you mean, ‘not again?’”

He gave her a pained look. “Well, this memory loss thing . . . it happened another time, too.”

* * *

WAS HE FREAKING
kidding? He’d had this happen before? Because Josie Lynn could absolutely assure him this had
never
happened to her before. Waking up in some sort of sex room? Wearing only a men’s shirt? With other scantily clad people passed out around her? Yeah. This had never happened. Ever. Frankly, she couldn’t recommend it.

And of course it would be the sexy pirate she would wake up with . . . well, sort of with. She was wearing his shirt, so clearly she’d been with him for a least part of the time that she couldn’t remember. Very possibly
really
been with him.

She shot a quick glance past him to the couple only a few feet away. Had she also been with that guy? At least she recognized the pirate, but this other guy . . . oh dear God. And the woman. Then she realized another woman lay on the floor, still unconscious. Or at least she hoped the woman was unconscious.

She had to be. Josie Lynn didn’t want to contemplate other alternatives. Nor did she want to think about what they had all done in this room together. What if they’d had an orgy . . . ?

Oh, this could be really bad.

“Okay, you kind of look like you might pass out again,” the pirate said, drawing his attention away from the others. “So could you get me down before you do that?”

Josie Lynn gave him a dirty look. “I love the concern.”

“I assure you, I’m very concerned,” he told her. “But I’m also a little concerned that I have no feeling in my hands, too.”

Begrudgingly, Josie Lynn supposed that was an understandable reason to be worried and set back to getting him unlocked. This time, maybe because she just wanted some answers, then out of here and away from all of these people, she managed to unfasten the locks without too much struggle.

“Thanks,” he said, wincing as he lowered his arms and flexed his fingers.

“So you said this has happened before?” she said, ignoring his gratitude. “How many forgotten orgies have you had, exactly?”

The pirate stopped rotating his shoulder and looked at her. “Whoa now, who said anything about orgies? Why would you think we had an orgy?”

She lifted her hands and looked around the room, ending her tour on him and his lack of attire.

He shrugged. “Okay, I can see where you would conclude something sexual happened last night, but if we all did have a forgotten orgy, it would be my first.”

“So what happened again?”

“I think someone must have drugged us.”

“Drugged us?”

How could he stand there, his penis hanging out for all the world to see, and calmly tell her that he thought they’d been drugged?

“And do you and your friends get drugged often?”

“No,” he said with the same nonchalance. “But it did happen once before.”

Josie Lynn stared at him, trying to stay calm. “And do you know who did it?”

“The first time?”

She nodded slowly, starting to wonder if he could possibly be serious, or if maybe he was just nuts.

“Yeah, we know who did it the first time,” he said, again amazing her with his matter-of-factness. “But I highly doubt he’d do it again. It was an accident.”

Okay, yeah, nuts seemed like the most likely explanation here, but before she got the chance to tell him that, the other man, who thankfully had clothes on, called to him.

So this other guy knew the pirate. And, she realized as she looked closer at both the man and woman, they were handcuffed together.

Of course they were handcuffed together. Yeah, this was effin’ nuts.

* * *

LIZETTE WAS HAVING
a rather pleasant dream of riding in a hot air balloon over the French countryside after the Parisian World’s Fair back in 1889, when she had the sensation of being tugged, accompanied by an irritating rattling. She wanted to suggest to whoever was creating the ruckus to please cease, but she was alone in the balloon.

Then a scream cut through the air, ripping her balloon and sending her basket plunging to the ground and her certain death.

If she wasn’t a vampire, that is, and if she wasn’t dreaming.

Lizette jerked awake and shot her gaze around the dim room, not recognizing her hotel room. This was not the Royal Sonesta. This was not her room. Where on earth was she?

She realized what had woken her up was a woman she did not recognize screaming at the top of her lungs as she stood in the middle of the room, looking down at her rather unusual outfit, which consisted of a puffy blouse and nothing else. Lizette frantically looked down at her own attire, and while she was still wearing her skirt, her jacket was gone, and her blouse was unbuttoned almost to her navel. Her bra was showing.

Letting out a little squawk herself, Lizette moved to rebutton it.

But when she pulled her right hand toward her breasts, a man’s hand came with it.

Lizette swallowed hard and stared in bewilderment at the faint dark hair on the back of the callused hand, not entirely sure what she was looking at.

Hand. Metal. Oh
my.

Her sluggish brain processed the fact that she was handcuffed to a man. The silver ovals encased both of their wrists, and his hand was now flopping on her lace bra. This was not a good sign. Her gaze shot to her right as she shook her hand, trying to force the man’s hand off of her, which as much as she would like it to be, was not in fact dismembered.

It did belong to a living vampire, possibly the last vampire she would like to be chained to in a dark room that she didn’t recognize.

Oh dear. It was Johnny Malone who was handcuffed to her.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” he said with a half smile.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“I have no idea.” Johnny swept his free hand through his short hair. “I was actually hoping you had some idea of what happened last night, because I don’t. Never once have I blacked out, and yet . . . nothing.”

She didn’t remember anything either, and frankly, that was terrifying. “I don’t remember a thing! This is awful. Where are we?”