Your Coffin or Mine? Read Free

what we can do to help you out right now.” I reached out and cupped John’s gym socks.
    “I need you.”
    The words echoed through my head and I stiffened. “Listen, buster. This is strictly professional.” I squeezed and juggled. “Don’t take my interest personally. I just can’t stand to see a pair of decent sling backs go to waste. When it comes to footwear, you’re not doing half bad. It’s all the rest. You need to stand up straighter, hold your chest out more. You’re loud, you’re proud, you’re a woman. Carry yourself like one.”
    “I really need you.”
    “I mean it.” I frowned at John. “Just because I’m adjusting your boobs doesn’t mean I have any romantic interest in you. I have my own boobs if I want to cop a feel. And if I want more, I have a significant other.” Okay, so I’d had a significant other. For about six hours—six and a half, tops. That still didn’t mean I was desperate enough to jump the first guy who let me feel his boobs. Particularly since he was human. Sure, humans were great for sex and feeding, but it wasn’t as if you could take them home to the folks. At least not my folks. Already, my mother was debating between arsenic and a sharpshooter to take out my youngest brother’s human fiancée—
    “Dammit, would you listen?”
    The deep, stirring voice cut into my thoughts again and drew my undivided attention. My hands froze mid-squeeze and my heart stalled.
    “I don’t have much time, Lil. You have to listen to me. I need you. I’m in…”
    The words faded before the sentence ended, but it didn’t matter. My gut clenched and my throat went tight and I knew.
    I hadn’t been hallucinating before when I’d heard the first unmistakable “ Help me.”
    It was his voice, right?
    The one and only Ty Bonner. The jerk-off-made-vampire who’d given me the brush-off.
    And he was in trouble.
    Deep, deep trouble.

Three

    Y ou shouldn’t be doing this.
    The warning echoed in my head for the trillionth time since I’d left the television station, but I was too busy breaking and entering to pay much attention.
    I stood mid-block on Washington Street in the heart of the meatpacking district. While the rest of the area had fallen into the hands of New York’s trendsetters, the art galleries and the chic restaurants hadn’t crept this far south.
    It was early evening, barely eight o’clock, but the large warehouse that housed Ty’s third-floor loft loomed dark and quiet against the moonlit sky. Shadows clung to the large steel door. The surrounding motif was classic gangsta. Orange and blue graffiti cut across the fading red metal and splattered the surrounding brick. The remains of a lightbulb hung overhead and tiny particles of glass shimmered from the cracks in the sidewalk.
    The only light drifted from the apartments across the street. Not that I needed any. My gaze sliced through the darkness and zeroed in on the small buzzer that sat next to the massive door.
    Back when I’d been wanted for murder, Ty had aided and abetted and we’d been roommates. I knew firsthand that he had neighbors on the first and second floors, so I pressed the button and waited.
    And waited.
    Then again, maybe the neighbors had moved out. Particularly the guy on the second floor. I know I would have taken a hike if two vamps (one of them wanted for slicing and dicing) had dropped through my ceiling while I was doing the nasty.
    My fingers closed around the door latch and turned. Hardware groaned and the lock soon gave. I flattened my palm against the metal and pushed. Wood cracked and splintered. The door swung inward. I stepped into the narrow hallway and made my way to the freight elevator at the far end.
    I hooked one finger under the massive gate and pushed. The iron mesh slid upward like nails grating on a chalkboard. Stepping inside, I punched the button for the third floor. The engine groaned, wheels turned, and the contraption started to move north.
    I wasn’t sure what I