Your Coffin or Mine? Read Free Page B

electronics. The big-screen television sat like a huge cave filled with dangling wires and broken components.
    My throat burned as my attention shifted to the kitchen. Once upon a time, that is.
    The refrigerator looked as if someone had taken a baseball bat to it. More glass littered the floor courtesy of several shattered bottles of O positive. The rich smell still lingered in the air. Dark, dried splotches stained the wood where the liquid had pooled.
    I know, I know. I’m such a bitch. Here I’d been accusing the guy of slipping his fangs into any and everything in a thong when he’d really been bottling it.
    Because he couldn’t stand the thought of drinking from another woman who’s name didn’t start with an L and end with an il ? Well, yeah. That’s what my heart chanted and hope blossomed in my chest. Guilt nipped at my heels as I made my way over to the far corner where the bedroom had once been.
    The bed frame lay in a broken heap on the floor, the wood splintered. One of the mattresses had been flung against a nearby wall; the other sagged against the dresser. A deep sapphire-blue comforter lay in a shredded pile on the floor next to several dark red stains.
    Hope and guilt disintegrated into a rush of fear.
    Crazy, I know. I’m a vamp. I shouldn’t be afraid of anything, right?
    At the same time, I shouldn’t have a mad, bad crush on Brad Pitt (he’s a human, for Damien’s sake) or get calls from bill collectors I can’t pay (all born vamps are loaded), or do half the things I do on a daily basis, such as bring my human assistant Evie her favorite latte, slip five bucks to the local homeless guy, or rank a male BV’s smile higher than his fertility rating (it’s a vamp thing.)
    Word up, I’m not your average vampere.
    My hands trembled and my skin prickled as I toed my way through a pile of scattered clothes toward one of the dried puddles.
    I knew even before I drank in the rich aroma that it wasn’t the imported stuff splattered all over the kitchen. The stains were much larger, the color richer. And the smell…
    The smell was too ripe.
    Too potent.
    Too Ty.
    I tried to swallow, but suddenly my throat refused to work. My heart stalled. The air lodged in my chest (not a good feeling since it wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place) and my primo blood ran cold.
    As cold as the tip of the gun that was suddenly pressed between my shoulder blades.
    “Fair’s fair,” came the equally frosty voice. “He’s dead now, and so are you.”

Four

    D on’t panic. Do. Not. Panic.
    It was just a man with a gun making death threats.
    No biggie.
    At least when it came to the gun and the death threats. I am a vampire. Translation: I can dodge bullets and leap tall buildings in a single bound. Wait a second; that’s Superman. Oh, well, you get the idea.
    Gun? No problemo.
    Death? Technically, been there, done that.
    It was the man part that was making my head spin and my nerves tingle.
    He stood directly behind me, a solid mass of muscle and warm flesh that made my undead heart skip its next beat. He pressed closer, and his body seemed to grow hotter, until I felt like a marshmallow dangling over an open campfire.
    I know, I know. What kind of a ho am I to even think of melting over this guy? I’m standing in the middle of Ty’s apartment, smack-dab in the middle of what could only be a major crime scene, and I’m getting all ooey gooey over another man.
    A human on top of that.
    At least I was pretty certain he had the whole living, breathing thing going on. My nostrils flared and I drank in his scent. Definitely more Ivory soap than Krispy Kremes.
    FYI: Born vamps give off a rich, sugary-sweet scent detectable only by other born vampires. The scent was unique to each individual vampire, and ran the gamut from cinnamon rolls to Key lime pie, crème brûlée to cherries jubilee. The fantabulous moi ? Cotton candy.
    No sweet scent meant either human, made vampire, or an Other. Others included