The Trouble With Hairy, page 43
part #2 of West Hollywood Vampires Series
Burman looked like she’d been punched in the stomach.
“Will you get outta the way, Pamela?” Becky said, and pushed past the city manager into the room. “Holy…” she began and plunged one hand into her purse to pull out a fruit pie. She tore the wrapper off and took a healthy bite while watching, wide-eyed, the interplay between Louis and the bloody body on the floor. Clive, still kneeling at Guy’s side, fortunately blocked her view of the killer’s face. Guy finally exchanged his growls for a series of low whimpers. He propped himself up onto his elbows and, with a look of hatred at his cousin, craned his neck backwards exposing his throat.
Becky was about to dive into the strawberry goody once again when Louis, without ceremony, leaned down with a small shimmer, fixed his teeth in the soft flesh underneath Guy’s chin and, with a sharp jerk of his head, ripped out his cousin’s throat.
Unfortunately, when Clive moved and Louis commenced his onslaught on Guy’s throat, Becky was able to get her first clear view of the face of the body spread out before her. The color drained from the coroner’s face. She took one look at the strawberry filling oozing out of the pastry’s end and, without a word, dropped it onto the floor.
“Well,” said Burman, white-faced herself, “that’s one way to make sure you stay on your diet.”
Becky stood frozen, her mind momentarily refusing to accept that the man she knew as Grant Chambers was really Guy Chartreuse.
“Oh shit,” she whispered. Suddenly, she felt nauseous and her head was spinning at the thought that less than three hours ago… Becky began to tremble involuntarily.
Louis chewed and swallowed. “Captain…?” he began.
“He’s eating him,” Clive said expressionless. His forehead was dotted with sweat that threatened to turn from dots into rivulets. “He’s actually eating him.”
“Not a pet,” Louis repeated quietly, meeting Clive’s eyes. “It’s our way. Would you mind getting rid of the silverware?”
Clive nodded mutely, sweat dotting his forehead, as he knelt to comply, his hands trembling as they came closer to the bloodstained corpse on the floor.
“There’s silver inside him, too,” Troy sniffed, his tear streaked face now beaming with pleasure. He turned to his lover and announced proudly, “Having the umbrella plated was my idea!”
Louis nodded, matter-of-factly.
Unnoticed by the others, who had their attention firmly fixed on the grisly tableau before them, Chris moved away from Troy and sidled up to Becky. “What’s wrong?” he whispered. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”
“Nothing,” she managed to croak out quietly. Her throat was suddenly dry and her head was spinning. Chris took her face in his hands and turned her toward himself but she refused to meet his eyes.
Oblivious to Chris and Becky behind her, Burman started to step toward her ward and, seeing the rivulets of gore spattered across the hardwood floor, decided to stay where she was. After all, she rationalized, these are my favorite slippers.
“What are you doing?” Pamela demanded of Louis.
“Getting rid of the body, of course,” Louis replied, and as Clive removed the first of the silverware, his head darted forward and he took another bite.
“I’m such a fool!” Becky suddenly croaked aloud. The others turned to look at her in time to witness the coroner’s eyes rolling up into her head. Without further warning, Becky’s legs collapsed from under her. She toppled sideways, knocking Pamela off balance and causing her to step into the blood after all.
“What the fuck…?” Burman began. But her outburst was interrupted by the sound of Becky hitting the floor with a tremendous crash.
Becky swam toward consciousness, drawn out of her swoon by an irresistible smell. Unfortunately, the first thing she heard was Troy’s voice which inspired an almost overwhelming desire to return to oblivion.
“I knew that would do it!” Troy exclaimed, pleased with himself about something.
“What the…?” Becky mumbled, confused. The last thing she remembered was seeing her lover, lying on Shanda’s living room floor, punctured with cutlery, with Louis devouring the wreckage of his throat.
“Relax,” Chris said gently. “You’re going to be fine. We carried you into the bedroom.”
“And quite a job it was too,” Troy griped. “I think I sprained a triceps.”
“Chris,” Becky croaked out hoarsely. The vampire leaned over her prostrate body, his face etched with concern.
“Please get him the hell out of here,” Becky pleaded weakly.
Chris immediately straightened up and pointed toward the bedroom door. “Go,” he commanded.
“I was the one who thought of the Caramel Praline Crunch!” Troy protested. He stood his ground briefly, and recognizing the adamant expression on his lover’s face and not wanting to be drawn into another quarrel so soon after their recent reconciliation, he turned and shambled toward the door, concentrating on presenting the image of hurt feelings and abject despair. He paused in the doorway and turned, waiting silently until he managed to force alligator tears into his eyes and raised his head, prepared to speak. His eyes met Chris’ glare.
“Don’t even think about it, monkey,” Chris said, gently, but the warning in his voice was clear.
With regret, Troy abandoned the artfully witty comment he’d been about to utter and fled back into the living room with Clive, Louis and the corpse.
“He’s gone,” Chris said, turning back to Becky.
“Thank God,” she breathed. “I just can’t deal with him right now. Where’s…?” She gasped and suddenly felt dizzy.
“In the living room cleaning up,” Chris said. “It’s just us girls. Can you sit up?”
“The living room…?” Becky repeated, dully. She thought of Grant’s smile, now contorted into a dead grimace of rage and pain. She thought of what was happening to his body, the one that she had, not so very long ago, caressed so intimately. In her mind’s eye, she could see Louis fangs working as they ripped the flesh from her lover’s bones. And amidst her gruesome mental visions, somewhere, in the back of her mind, a little voice whispered, You silly fool! He was just using you! How could you possibly have thought that someone like him could have ever really been interested in someone like you?
The color drained from her face and she felt tears of shame coming to her eyes.
“Oh shit,” she gasped. “I’m gonna be sick.”
“Not on the rug!” Shanda had time to blurt out. But it was too late. She watched and resigned herself to the total loss of her security deposit as Becky was violently ill onto the carpet.
“You know,” Burman commented, looking a little green herself. “With all the chocolate and crap she eats, you’re never gonna get that stain out.”
“Feel better?” Chris asked.
Becky looked up at him, perspiration spotting her brow, and began to nod. Unfortunately, at that instant, another bout of nausea seized her, and to her horror, she vomited again, barely missing Chris.
“Is she through yet?” Pamela asked, having clenched her eyes tightly closed.
“I think so,” Shanda replied, softly. “And so are the Armani sheets you gave me last Christmas.”
“I think,” Burman said quietly, after a moment’s pause, “that I’d better go find the little City Manager’s room.” With halting steps, Pamela stumbled into Shanda’s bathroom and closed the door firmly behind herself. A moment later, the three people in the bedroom heard the sound of water running.
“Poor Pamela,” Shanda commented absently while she silently wondered where in West Hollywood she was going to find a dry cleaner who could work a minor miracle on the bed linen.
“I suppose you won’t be wanting this,” Chris said to Becky, as he prepared to place the quart of ice cream they’d used to revive her onto the nightstand.
Becky’s stomach churned at the sight of the ice cream. She recognized the flavor as one that she had introduced to Grant and that he had instantly adored.
“No,” she whispered. But then she remembered the warm feeling she always got whenever she popped a particularly luscious goodie into her mouth, a feeling almost as intense as those she had felt when she was with Grant. Unable to stop herself, she felt her arm reaching for the container of ice cream.
After all, she rationalized silently, as she took the ice cream from the surprised vampire, the way I feel right now, I could use some cheering up.
She hesitated only an instant, vaguely troubled by what she was about to do and not knowing why. Then, she plunged the spoon into the container and scooped out a mass of creamy caramel.
Expecting the familiar comfort of the sweet ice cream melting on her tongue, she was surprised at the taste of slight sourness.
“Uggh,” she said, and then added with resignation, almost as if she’d expected it, “Freezer burn.”
“Well, excuse me!” Shanda said, still miffed about the linen and the rug. “Some of us diet occasionally. Lucky for you I didn’t just throw it out.”
Becky turned beet red, and at first Chris thought she was simply blushing with embarrassment. But he was wrong.
Rage overtook her. For the first and only time, she had a slight idea of the anger Guy must have felt toward his cousin.
“If I hear one…more…fucking…word about my weight…” Becky shrieked viciously, “I will personally tear the tits off…”
Shame overtook her anger and surpassed it. She collapsed back onto the bed in tears. “What have I done?” she cried.
“Shanda,” Chris interrupted, equally concerned and intrigued by Becky’s uncharacteristic behavior. “Excuse us a minute? Don’t worry. I’ll clean up in here.”
“Oh be my guest,” Shanda sighed, waving her hand tiredly. “It’s been one doozy of a night. I just need to chill out before I become the total Bitch Queen from Hell.”
She walked toward the living room and turned to Becky just before she left. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean…” Shanda paused, uncertain of what to say. “We’ve all been under a lot of stress. You just have a good cry and yell if you need anything.”
A moment later, Chris and Becky were alone.
“How about,” Chris said carefully as he perched on the corner of the bed next to her, “if you tell me what that was all about?”
“Nothing,” Becky replied, petulantly. “I fainted, that’s all. Maybe it was the blood.”
“Bullshit,” Chris told her with a kind smile. “I’ve seen you pick pieces of bodies up and put them back together like a jigsaw puzzle,” he said reasonably. “I watched you polish off an entire pineapple and chili pizza during the autopsy on that vagrant they pulled out of the storm drain over on La Brea. I repeat. Bullshit.”
Becky set her chin, stubbornly. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Her lower lip trembled as she fought back tears once again.
Chris examined her expression for a moment, thinking.
“There’s too much at stake here,” he told her gently. “If we overlooked something — anything — the risk of discovery is tremendous. Guy wasn’t nearly as discreet as Rex Castillian was.”
“I said,” Becky almost snarled, “that I do not want to talk about it!”
“Still,” Chris mused sadly, resigning himself to do what he felt he had to do. “I wonder what it is you found out that you’re not telling me.”
All the anger drained from her face to be replaced with a look of exhaustion. “It’s not important,” she said, dully. “Nothing is.”
Chris leaned forward and looked deeply into her eyes. “I’m sorry, Becky,” he said, with a look of ineffable sadness, “but I have to know.”
She was about to retort and tell him to mind his own business when she felt an odd tingling sensation in her mind. She realized with horror that Chris was probing her mind with his, searching for the information that he wanted. She struggled against it, feeling violated and betrayed but her efforts were to no avail. Slowly, she relaxed and the memories of her time with Grant flooded through her brain.
Becky’s face went slack as Chris looked deeply into her eyes. The two of them sat, poised in tableau for a long five minutes. At times, Chris’ eyes widened with surprise. Once, he looked unspeakably sad; several times he smiled affectionately. But Becky’s expression never changed. Finally, he broke the contact and Becky looked up at him, blinking.
“Well,” he commented, almost to himself, “that explains a lot.”
“You son of a bitch,” Becky said softly and burst into tears.
“If it’s any consolation,” Chris told her gently, with a sad smile. “I’ll carry your secret with me to the grave.”
“Very funny!” Becky was livid at the invasion into her privacy, more angry than she could ever remember.
“How dare you…!” she started to explode, but her thoughts were tumbling so quickly she couldn’t manage to form the words. Finally, she recovered herself sufficiently to meet Chris’ gaze once again and said with the hatred of betrayal, “You…you raped me!”
“Louis said it before,” Chris told her gently. “I’m not human either. You can’t always expect me to behave as if I am. I care deeply for you, Rebecca O’Brien. But there are larger considerations at stake.”
The expression of pain in Chris’ eyes was indescribable and Becky was almost moved to relent, to seek an explanation that would justify his actions and possibly to eventually forgive him. But then she thought of the intimacy he had forced her to share with him, the secrets he had stolen from her and she gathered her anger around herself working herself into a greater fury. She struggled to her feet, prepared to storm out of the house, leaving Chris and their friendship behind.
“I’m so deeply sorry,” Chris said, and the sorrow in his voice stopped her for a moment as she spun around to glare at him.
“You should be!” she snapped and met his gaze evenly.
Chris’ eyes captured hers once again. Her anger was instantly quelled and her face went slack once again. The vampire led his unprotesting friend back to the bed and settled her comfortably, his eyes never leaving hers. Finally, he spoke.
“Sleep, Rebecca O’Brien,” he commanded gently. “Dream about him and remember only the good times. Savor them for, when you wake up, you will forget. Do you understand me? Forget…”
“Forget…” Becky whispered and her breathing evened out.
When Chris left her, a few moments later, a beatific smile remained on her face.
CHAPTER 22
The wedding went off with nary a hitch. Burman used her not inconsiderable influence to convince the city clerk to remain on duty after hours so that Chris could comfortably attend, and on the last Friday night in September, Carlos and Louis tied the knot.
Pamela had called a temporary halt to her long-standing feud with Daniel Eversleigh, having decided that he should officiate at the signing of the domestic partnership agreement. The mayor protested, coming up with excuse after excuse, eager to thwart Burman in any way possible; but, Pamela had made up her mind, and eventually Daniel had no choice.
Chris volunteered to pay for the reception, and true to his word, no expense had been spared. The Great Hall of Plummer Park was filled to capacity with city hall employees, community activists and general lookie-loos, all three hundred of them eager to see the wedding between the city manager’s assistant and her “adopted” son.
There were even a few people who Pamela didn’t know in attendance. She’d asked Chris and Troy what they were doing there, prepared to throw out any uninvited guests. But, she’d been informed that they were “friends of the groom’s.” Recalling what Chris had told her earlier about the mass migration into West Hollywood, she hadn’t wanted to ask further details. Still, she couldn’t suppress a small frisson of apprehension each time she saw one of the unfamiliar guests, talking to one of the city residents. Troy, never one to pass up an opportunity for harmless mischief, saw her unease and amused himself by describing the non-human guests by species and trait. To Burman’s discomfort, Troy took positive glee in stressing those habits most calculated to set her nerves on edge. It wasn’t until he’d introduced her to his friend, Scotty, and unnecessarily discoursed on his dietary requirements, that Chris stepped in, assuring her that she could ignore the possibility that some of West Hollywood’s most prominent citizens would end up as items on the buffet at the wedding reception.
She’d relaxed a bit after that, but occasionally throughout the evening, she was still thrown off balance. The first time was when Louis proudly insisted on introducing her to an excruciatingly handsome, stocky, dark-haired gentleman with a hint of attractive gray at the temples. He wore a suit that, although tailored to fit, was waging a losing battle with the impressive musculature of the old gentleman’s chest, arms and shoulders. This, Louis had told her — in awe that the man had deigned to show up at his wedding — was Hercule Legrande, a living legend among werewolves. His wife, Lillian, was a stout, rather plain woman of late middle age who Burman couldn’t help liking, even though Pamela knew she was far from what she seemed.
The city manager suffered some slight emotional discomfort when Hercule graciously kissed her hand, his grasp on her wrist lingering slightly, accompanied by an interested glance from under his bushy eyebrows. Burman blushed — for some reason the old werewolf reminded her of her beloved Harry — and surreptitiously glanced at Lillian to see if she’d noticed her husband’s inordinate attentions. Lillian merely smiled, kindly, in response.
As Louis dragged Hercule away to meet the other guests, Lillian turned to Burman and commented, companionably, “Men! No matter what species, they’re all dogs of one sort or another!” She smiled and followed her husband off into the crowd.
But the introduction that most impressed Burman was made by Chris. His friend, Sylvia, was a ravishingly beautiful woman with a luxurious head of long black hair. Burman, who’d thought she’d been quite a looker herself in her youth, was unaccountably envious. But the woman’s poise and obvious graciousness quickly made Burman’s jealousy seem cheap and unworthy of her.
