Dead and Dateless Read Free Page A

well-cared-for wardrobe.
    To say my apartment was small would be paying it a compliment. It was more like minuscule compared to my parents’ elaborate Connecticut estate and Park Avenue penthouse.
    All right, already. It was minuscule compared to most other apartments in Manhattan, or the free world, for that matter. While small, it did have separate living and dining rooms in addition to the kitchen, bath, and single bedroom. Five microscopic rooms, complete with heavy-duty window blinds, and they were all mine. Meaning I didn’t have to see my parents day in and day out.
    Not that I don’t love my folks, mind you. But they’re my folks and, naturally, they make me C-R-A-Z-Y.
    Or rather, they had. Until I’d moved out.
    A single lamp burned from the one end table I’d managed to wedge next to my couch. I shut the door and rushed into the bedroom. I barely resisted the urge to fling myself on the king-size bed that took up most of my bedroom and bury myself beneath the covers and cry.
    Cry?
    Vampires do not cry, at least not in public. Besides, I figured I had, at the most, five minutes (the average cab ride between my apartment and Dead End Dating headquarters) before the cops pushed their way into my apartment. I didn’t have time to shed any big ones. I needed to…to what?
    I’d never been arrested for anything in my entire life. Except that little incident at Mardi Gras a few years back. But it wasn’t like I meant to flash my tooties at that cop. They’d just sort of fallen out when I’d climbed up onto Nina One’s shoulders to catch that handful of beads. And that’s all I’m saying about that.
    I was now on the run for murder .
    Who? When? Where? Fashionably dressed victim or one in desperate need of a personal shopper? I didn’t know. I just knew that the police were coming. For me . The sirens blared in the distance, growing closer with each passing second.
    My survival instincts kicked in and I did what any wanted, fashion-conscious vampire would do: I rushed toward the closet to snag a new pair of shoes.
    Okay. Maybe I snagged an outfit, too (my shirt and blue jean mini were totally rumpled and still smelled like the alley, and so didn’t match the lizard and suede Sergio Rossi boots that I pulled on), but I was fast.
    I changed and managed to stuff half the contents of my closet, complete with cosmetics and this totally smoking rhinestone choker, into two suitcases before I heard the squeal of tires in front of my building. Car doors slammed. Footsteps thundered up the front walk.
    I snatched my pillow from the bed and hauled my stuff toward the nearest window. Pulling up the blinds, I pushed at the glass, but it wouldn’t budge. Talk about a fire hazard. I was definitely subtracting ten percent from next month’s rent. Maybe even fifteen—
    The thought shattered as the elevator door whoosh ed open on my floor. I gathered my preternatural strength and shoved. Wood creaked and splintered, and the whole frame sort of came apart in my perfectly manicured hands.
    Maybe I’d just take off five percent.
    Shoes slid and squeaked and stalled outside my apartment. The doorknob turned and the door shook just as I straddled the windowsill. I glanced down at the dark, empty alleyway below me and hesitated.
    Like, I knew I was a badass vamp and all. But I was a spoiled, pampered, badass vamp, and I wasn’t really used to leaping into dark alleys while running for my life. Besides, we’re talking three-and-a-half-inch stiletto heels on the Rossis. Not exactly ideal for leaping tall buildings in a single bound.
    “Do it.” A deep voice slid into my ears a split second before something big crashed into my apartment door. Wood cracked. The hinges gave.
    I gathered my stuff, closed my eyes, and leapt.
    I landed with a loud squish that echoed in my ears and filled me with as much dread as the “I see her!” that thundered overhead.
    Almost.
    Glancing toward the open alleyway, I turned and headed for the