Over My Dead Body Read online

  “It was more gentlemanly than what I was actually thinking.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better because . . .”

  Brady took my hand, and I reluctantly turned to face him. “Every time I get around you, my tongue feels thick and my brain turns to mush. I like you, Simone. A lot.”

  I stared at him. I would’ve never guessed that Brady’s gruff exterior hid a romantic soul. My mouth had gone dry, so I licked my lips. The action drew Brady’s attention. His eyes went dark and I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

  “I like you, too,” I said. My voice had gone husky.

  He grinned, and my nonexistent heart went pitter pat. I liked Brady, I really did. But I had a bad feeling about this whole thing. Maybe a tiny part of me believed I didn’t deserve another relationship. I didn’t deserve love. And hell, it wasn’t like Brady and I could be together forever. He was human. And I was vampire.

  So whatever happened with Brady was just for fun. Hmm. Maybe, for a little, itty-bitty while, I could let myself have some fun.

  “What’s the real reason you came to see me, Brady?”

  “We need your help with one of the posts. It’s being stubborn.”

  “Why didn’t you just call me?”

  He jerked his head to the left, and I looked out the bay window. The outside lights shone down on the Vulcan like it was heaven’s chariot. “I thought maybe you’d want a ride on Spock.”

  I glanced at him. Had Brady seen my longing when I’d been within reach of that sexy bike? Or was he just trying to impress me with his manly prowess? My belly squeezed in excitement. Oh, who cared! I wanted that ride more than my next breath (you know what I mean). And getting to put my arms around Brady was an awesome bonus.

  “Yeah,” I said, grinning. “Hell, yeah.”

  Chapter 4

  From the field journal of Cpl. Braddock Linden Hayes 08 APR 98

  The tattoo makes my skin itch. It feels strange, not at all like the other tattoo I got when I was seventeen. They removed that one—but not the memory of getting it, or why I put two intertwined hearts on my wrist. Shayla’s been gone for five years. I shouldn’t miss the tattoo, but I do. Just like I miss her.

  Jesus. I hope like hell no one ever reads this damned thing. Shayla always said I was sentimental. Sentimental isn’t allowed here. I’m glad for the structure, for the exhaustive training, for the way they beat the feelings right out of you.

  The new tattoo is small, a series of black concentric circles with a dot in the middle. We all got one. We’re the only five men chosen for this program. They want us to believe that the tattoo is the mark of the elite, but that’s bullshit. I know a tracer when I see one. They want to make sure they can track their pet projects.

  I guess I should stop writing my title as Corporal, though my men have yet to get out of the habit of addressing me as such. We don’t have rank and none of us are attached to any military branch. We’re invisible. Off the grid. That works for me. I don’t have anyone—not since Shayla had the audacity to die. I don’t think I’ve forgiven her yet. Who knows where I might be right now if she was alive. Damn sure not in the Nevada desert sweating my ass off.

  Tonight, we begin the last of our training program. I don’t know what else we can be taught—we’ve already learned hand-to-hand combat, weaponry, first aid, vehicular control (a.k.a. stunt driving), and survival techniques. You could drop us anywhere in the world and we’d know how to kick ass, which weed to rub in a wound and which one to cook, and how to repurpose a Volvo. “Repurpose” is the new word for “steal.” Hah.

  Fuck it. If getting marked like a stray dog, erasing my existence from the data banks of the world, and learning weird shit means we can take out the terrorizing bastards no one else can touch, then I’m all in. Shayla would hate that I joined the army and that I volunteered for this program. But I think she would also be proud of me. She said I was her hero.

  I’m damn well trying to be.

  Chapter 5

  We sped along the empty road right through town. I didn’t see a single person on the sidewalks or streets. Most folks were either in their homes or hanging out at the Consortium compound where the library and school were located.

  The Old Sass Café was about the only place that got any regular business, and even it was empty of customers. After Ralph married Libby, he quit as the short-order cook and manager. He decided that raising a were-dragon might require more than the usual parenting skills. He was currently training as a dragon handler.

  Phoebe Tate, who used to be the café’s only waitress, had taken over as cook and manager. Marybeth was the new waitress. She was a Turn-blood, too—the daughter of Linda Beauchamp Michaels. Lorcan was her Master. He actually Turned Marybeth on purpose, at the behest of Linda. Look, it’s a long story, okay? The point is that the Old Sass Café was under new management and the only viable business—other than mine—still operating on Main Street. The hope was that Broken Heart would become a real town again, populated by supernatural beings. I heard that there were a few paranormal towns in Europe, but none in the United States. ’Cept for us. And we weren’t much to fuss about.

  My arms were happily clenching Brady’s muscled waist, my cheek pressed against his back. I heard his heart rate increase as he kicked up the speed another notch. He was enjoying the adrenaline spike, and so was I.

  Heat slapped at us, punishing us for finding any sort of breeze in the sullen night air. I closed my eyes and pretended like I could breathe in the faint scents of honeysuckle and fresh-cut grass. The only thing missing was a big dose of sunshine. I loved to feel the sun warm my face. It’s true. I liked baking my skin. When I was a teenager, I’d put on my bikini and slather on the baby oil. I didn’t care about the sweat or the heat or the bugs, so long as I got to bask in the sun’s rays.

  Trading off the ability to tan, to breathe, and to eat probably wasn’t much to give up for all that vamp mojo. Getting Turned was better than getting dead—of course it was. I just missed being a human. I wondered how long it would take to feel like a total vampire—or if I ever would.

  Too soon, the ride was over. Brady took the bike over the field and stopped a few feet away from the damaged post. I hugged his waist a smidge longer than necessary. He held Spock, and I scrambled off. I removed the helmet, the one Brady had insisted on, and left it on the bike. Damian, Doc Michaels, and a few vamps from the build team stood around the post.

  Doc was studying a component, flipping the piece over and over. Damian squatted next to the post and studied the side. He frowned as his fingers traveled from the top to the bottom.

  “Hey, y’all,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “Sabotage,” said Doc. He handed me the fragment. Whoa. The electronic parts were fried.

  Damian shot Doc a look of frustration; then he stood up and faced me. “Maybe you have another theory?”

  I knelt next to the post. It was cracked and both sides of the fissure were scorched. “Did you check the nearby posts?” I asked. “Are they the same?”

  Damian shook his head. “Just this one.” He glanced at Doc. “The damage does appear . . . strange.”

  Yeah. Like something had zapped it. I leaned down and peered at the bottom, then followed the jagged line to the top. The damage originated there. I displayed the piece Doc had given me. “Was this on or off?”

  “Off,” said Damian. “About two feet away.”

  The piece had once been part of the hinged lid. I looked inside the chamber; überelectronics should’ve glowed green. The rest of the components were also charred. Whatever had happened, it toasted the whole thing.

  The Invisi-shield was designed to operate even if some of the posts went down. Brady said it could function at 75 percent capacity, but only for a few hours. The plan was to fortify each post with additional techno-security and Wiccan protection spells. But every single post had to work to get the system up and running. None of the extra protection measures could be p
ut into place until they were all operational.

  I looked inside the damaged cylinder again. I didn’t really know what I was looking for—inspiration, I guess. Then I saw a speck of light at the bottom. I heard a faint buzzing noise.

  Vamp vision was great, but I couldn’t make out what was causing the yellowish light or the faint sounds. “Let’s get it out of the ground and get it to the shop. We’ll have to put a new post here.” Although all the poles were ready to install, and yes, I’d made some extras, I still needed to figure out what had killed this one. We needed to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.

  I stood up and walked to Brady, who had stayed by the bike. His gaze made my pulse stutter (and hell, I’m dead). He took my hand and kissed my knuckles.

  “Brady,” I said, both pleased and embarrassed. “What are you doing?”

  “Keeping a rein on my self-control,” he said. “Do you know how sexy you looked . . . um, examining that post?”

  “If you make a joke about me examining your post, I’m going to punch you.”

  He grinned. “I would never say such a thing.” He leaned close and his lips grazed my earlobe. “Unfortunately, I’m a guy, so I can’t help but think it.”

  I laughed. God, he was incorrigible. He let go of my hand. Then he turned and picked up my helmet, handing it to me. “Hey, Damian, can you make sure the post gets to Simone’s workshop?”

  “Yeah,” said Damian. “You coming back?”

  “If you were with the most beautiful girl in the world,” said Brady. “Would you come back?”

  “Brady!” What had gotten into the man? He never really smiled, rarely joked, and wasn’t the talkative type. Now he was flirting with me, bragging about me to his friends, and acting all . . . happy. It was really freaking me out. In a good way. No, a bad way. Okay, a bad-good way.

  Crap.

  I put on the helmet and climbed onto the bike, wrapping my arms around Brady. He revved Spock (showoff), and the Vulcan roared as we took off. I yelped, then laughed and held on for my undead life as we sped across the field and back onto the road toward town.

  Brady parked on the driveway, but he stayed on the bike as I wiggled off. I removed the helmet and shook out my hair. Then I extended it toward him. He lifted his visor.

  “Keep it,” he said. “For next time.”

  I clutched the helmet and stopped short of yelling, “Woo-hoo!” Instead, I smiled and said, “Okay.”

  “We’re still on for tomorrow night?” he asked.

  “It’s Sunday,” I said.

  He tilted his head.

  “I spend all day with the fam. Gran cooks a big dinner and then we play Yahtzee. I try to work on little jobs around the house. Gran usually has a long to-do list for me.” I nibbled on my lower lip, feeling nervous. “So . . . um, can you come around nine?”

  “Sounds like the perfect date.”

  “Good.” What the hell was I doing? Having fun. Yeah. Fun. Anxiety skittered through me. I liked Brady a little too much to attempt casual and lighthearted. Besides, I’d never been the just-have-fun kind of girl. The only man I’d ever slept with was my husband. And before Jacob, I had rarely dated.

  Brady slapped the visor down, then gave me a little salute. The Vulcan’s engine revved, and that sexy roar vibrated right through me. Woo-hoo! I watched him take off, admiring both him and the bike. After he zoomed out of sight, I turned around and headed into the garage.

  I couldn’t believe I’d agreed to date Brady. I felt discombobulated. Okay. Wait. No need to feel that way. I pressed a hand against my chest and tried to suck in a steadying breath. Ouch.

  Okay, so I couldn’t steady my nerves. I’d learned my lesson about trusting too easily. I wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. All I had to do was guard my heart.

  While I waited for Damian to deliver the damaged pole, I tinkered on an old toaster. I thought the heating element was the problem, but it still didn’t operate after I replaced the Nichrome wire coils. There had to be another reason the electrical circuit wasn’t working. Hmm. Maybe something with the bread carriage or the spring—

  “Simone?”

  “Ahhh!” I jumped a foot (literally!) at the sound of a female’s hesitant voice. I whirled around, wide-eyed. Sheesh! Had my vampire senses turned off? This was the second time in the same day I hadn’t heard someone approach.

  Darlene Clark stood behind me.

  “Sorry, hon. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She smiled at me, but since her fangs were showing, I wasn’t exactly comforted. She was my height, though she tended to wear ankle busters that made her three inches taller. She had blue eyes, curly black hair, and even before she was a vampire, skin like cream. I’d never seen her in anything but dresses—and none of those were Wal-Mart specials. Darlene was a blood- sucking Snow White.

  “Can I help you with something, Darlene?”

  “It’s my water,” she said. She looked embarrassed. “The pipes are busted in the kitchen.”

  “Again?” I grabbed a wet wipe from the tub I kept on the worktable and cleaned my hands. In December, Darlene’s kitchen pipes had frozen over and then burst. Her home was one of the oldest in town, right along with the LeRoy house, which had been relocated to the compound, the Silverstone mansion (the queen’s digs), and the McCree farm. I helped plug the leak, fix the pipes, and then clean up the mess. Like I said before, the ol’ water woo-woo came in handy now and again.

  “I fitted you with new copper pipes. What in the world could’ve happened?”

  Darlene nibbled her lip. “I don’t really know.”

  Everyone in Broken Heart had the Oklahoma drawl, but Darlene’s was thicker than most. Mine had been diluted by living in Nevada, but every now and then it crept into my words.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll meet you over there.”

  “Oh. Well, I have the car. You could just hop in.” She smiled again, but her gaze skittered away.

  Unease wiggled through me. “Why didn’t you just call?”

  “I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. Marissa’s playing with Jenny over at Jessica’s house. I wanted to get it fixed before she got home.”

  Marissa had just turned seven; she was a year older than Glory. Her hair was a darker blond and her face more oval-shaped, but they looked a lot alike. Marissa must’ve taken after her father, whom Darlene had divorced a couple years ago, because I couldn’t see anything of the mother in the little girl. Except maybe the propensity for fancy dresses and shiny accessories.

  “I’m sorry, Simone.” Her hands fluttered around her face. “I just get so scatterbrained.”

  “Looks like you skipped eating, too.” I eyed her fangs. I always met my donor before I headed in to work. His name was Rick. He was twenty, working his way through med school, and was so matter-of-fact about the process, I didn’t feel so . . . icky about the whole thing. I don’t care how sexy the movies make it. Sinking my canines into the neck of some willing victim gave me the heebie-jeebies. But that’s what vampires had to do to survive—and to tell you the truth, I’d done worse to ensure I’d live another day.

  Darlene ran her tongue over her teeth. Her gaze fastened on my neck, and I flinched. Unease jack-rabbited right into freaky-deaky. I grabbed a wrench off the table, and her gaze lit up.

  “Oh, good! You’ve decided to come with me.”

  No, I’ve decided to bash your skull in if you point those fangs in my direction. Darlene always was one brick short of a full load. Becoming a vampire hadn’t given her any extra IQ points.

  Darlene wandered toward my worktable. I scooted away, but kept the wrench in my hand. I was really popular today. I glanced at Darlene, who was studying the scattered tools with a disturbing intensity. Despite having daughters only a year apart, we lived now the way we had as humans—saying hi now and then, unless something needed fixing. Neither one of us had ever tried to arrange a play date. Most folks knew Glory didn’t talk, and she didn’t really like socializing with an
yone.

  Come to think of it, neither did I.

  Okay. All right. Maybe I was overreacting to the tension. Or maybe there was no tension. And yet, my inner alarm was clanging. I’d learned to listen to my instincts—and damn it, they were screeching like a cat in the grip of an affectionate toddler.

  “Darlene?”

  Her vacuous blue gaze met mine. She was pushing on one of her fangs and staring at me.

  “Maybe you should go eat,” I suggested again. “And I’ll be at your house in, say, twenty minutes?”

  “But the water . . .” She drifted off midsentence, her gaze meandering. As the seconds passed, she seemed to drown in her own thoughts. Then she finally said, “I suppose if you can’t get there any faster, it’ll do. I mean, I may need a whole new kitchen in twenty minutes.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I swallowed the thorny knot of anger climbing up my throat. “On second thought, I suggest you call a plumber,” I said sweetly. “I think the Consortium has one or two on staff.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “Call. A. Plumber.”

  Her mouth dropped open and her eyes lost their vacant look. “My goodness, Simone! There’s no need to snap at me. Just call me when you’re ready to pop by, okay?”

  She spun around and left the garage, her high heels clicking disdain across the concrete floor. I had worked really hard not to lose my temper around folks. But I was beginning to wonder why I should be peaches and cream all the time, especially to people like Darlene, who didn’t seem to know I existed unless she needed my skills.

  I faced my worktable and tossed the wrench onto it. Anger beat a tempo at the base of my skull. I don’t know why I felt mad. No reason to be, not really. Darlene’s visit and dealing with the so-called sabotaged pole had just put me off-kilter. And . . . well, maybe my growing feelings for Brady figured somewhere into the mix, too.