Hannah Jayne - Under Suspicion

I swung my head to gape at Vlad over the seat back. He looked slightly sheepish as he angled himself away from a lone shaft of sunlight. “That one fizzled, for obvious, we-burn-in-sunlight reasons.”

Will leaned forward toward me, pressing himself into the front seat. The stubble on his chin brushed my ear, giving me a completely inappropriate little thrill.

“This bookstore we’re headed to have an adult section?”

“You’re disgusting,” I muttered.

“I’m only human, love,” Will said, winking.

I gritted my teeth, clamped my knees together, and tried to focus on the San Francisco streets racing toward us and the bits of my life flashing before my eyes. I almost took a bite of the dashboard when Nina spied a parking spot the size of a postage stamp and attempted to wedge her car into it. My heart was pinballing against my rib cage as Nina made her way into the spot, “tapping” the bumpers before and behind us because “that’s what they’re there for, silly.” Once she had parked, Nina killed the engine and went to work smoothing her hair.

“We’re here!” she crowed joyfully. “How’s my hair?”

“Great.”

I slammed the car door behind me and watched Vlad beeline to a group of vampires, all similarly attired as Count Chocula, all looking distressed and sullen.

Behold the bastions of Hell: a group of immortal teenagers decked out with hair gel, black nail polish, and toothy protest signs.

The VERMers were huddled together in some sort of fang-tastic motivational meeting. I half expected them to pile all their pasty hands together and then do one of those bouncy, inspirational cheerleader yells: “Vampires, vampires, vampires, YEAH!”

Will was doing an almost imperceptible bounce from foot to foot and I put my hand on his arm. “Don’t worry. The VERMers talk about empowerment, but they still get their blood from bags. You should be fine.” I smiled warmly.

“And I suppose you consider that the kind of pep talk that should be comforting?”

I rolled my eyes and yanked Will after me as I tried to keep my eye on Nina, who was elbowing her way through glamoured teenagers. The teens eyes were glazed, their breathing slow; it is this “glamour” that gives vampires their instant allure and constant access to willing necks.

I pointed to a particularly affected girl. “Remind me to get after Vlad for using glamours.”

“Isn’t that kind of their,” Will made air quotes, “thing?”

I mimicked his quotes. “Their “thing” is like shooting fish in a barrel. Now come on.”

When we finally got through the double glass doors of Java Script, the crowd was thinner, but not by much. I realized I was still gripping Will’s wrist, so I let it go. My fingers brushed his and he paused; then he laced his fingers through mine and little pinpricks of heat shot through my body. The gesture might have been completely platonic and under the guise of guardianship, but there was something about the way our hands fit together that gave me pause.

“I think they’ve set the author up over here,” Will said, letting go of my hand.

I followed him and Nina through the stacks of polished hardbacks, best sellers, and reader recommendations to a life-sized cardboard cutout of Eliza Draconie. Eliza stood one-dimensionally six feet tall, looking smug in head-to-toe leather and shoes to die for. Plumes of orange and pink smoke were painted behind her, to give the “just stepped out of a cheery, fashionable Hell” look.

If only.

Nina whipped around Eliza and stopped dead; Will and I, in turn, rammed into each other.

“ That’s Edie Havenhurst?” Nina gasped.

I don’t know what I expected from a woman who spent her life writing about fictional vampire fashionistas, but Edie Havenhurst was not it. And judging by Nina’s slack-jawed expression, Edie didn’t meet her expectations, either.

Edie was sitting behind a table stacked with pink-spined paperbacks that reached to her shoulders. The elegant blond waves that were a shoulder-sweeping halo in her “About the Author” picture stuck out in random arches now, with black roots giving way to brassy blond streaks that made her thick eyebrows look even darker, dwarfing her already small brown eyes. She wore no makeup, and rather than the selection of haut couture that Eliza Draconie sported, Edie Havenhurst wore a nondescript turtleneck sweater and pants suit.

“She’s wearing sneakers!” Nina hissed.

Underneath the table Edie’s legs were crossed at the ankles, the hem of her pants rising enough to show off thick white sport socks and those roundy boat shoes that are supposed to tone your thighs and firm your ass just by virtue of lacing them up.

“I expected Steve Maddens, at the very least.” Nina shook her head disappointedly.

“Nina, if you love her books, you shouldn’t—”

“Judge a book by its cover?” Will said with a satisfied grin.

I linked arms with Nina and guided her through the crowd. “We’re here. You might as well get your book signed.”

We stopped in front of Edie’s table and I felt Nina stiffen, heard her let out a tiny yip. Her eyes were Disney cartoon wide, and her small chin hitched upward, with lips slightly parted. I started to panic.

I knew this look.

I loathed this look.

I followed Nina’s laser-sharp gaze and gave a little yip myself.

He was beautiful. He was hunched over, with one perfect, large hand resting on Edie Havenhurst’s shoulder. Even in this crouching state you could tell that this man was tall, commanding; he wore his confidence as well as he wore his relaxed Chinos and his smart blue button-down shirt. His eyes—an amazing cross between golden wheat and burnt sugar—were focused wholly on Nina.

The bookstore din seemed to fade and I realized I was trapped inside Nina and Mr. Perfect’s lovestruck bubble. I stepped forward and gave Nina a hard, for-her-own-good shove. She pitched forward, breaking the mesmerizing stare, throwing her copy of Fendi and Fangs forward so that it hit poor, unsuspecting Edie smack between her too-small eyes.

While Edie rubbed vigorously at the red spot that the book had left, I noticed that her fingers were short, her nails stubby and bitten to the quick, and that I had likely lost Nina forever.

“Oh geez,” I breathed out.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want my best friend to find true love. I did. For years I lived vicariously through Nina’s never-ending parade of well-muscled party boys and San Francisco power brokers. She brought home millionaires and dukes, and they almost always left with all their blood. But when her eyes went wide and her lips pursed like that, I knew there was going to be trouble—and I was the one usually up to my neck in it.

“Oh, are you okay?” His smooth voice matched his burnt-sugar eyes.

“I’m fine.” Nina’s voice came out soft and breathy—like a sex kitten or Michael Jackson. “I’m Nina.”

“Harley.” The man held out that perfect hand and Nina grasped it; the whole exchange happened just above Edie’s dark roots.

“I’m Sophie and we were just leaving.” I thanked Edie for politely ignoring the Taylor Swift video going on above her, jammed Nina’s now-signed copy of Fendi and Fangs into my purse, and pushed Nina away from the signing table.

“Harley.” Nina was mouthing the word, her tongue snaking over her lips. “I think I’ve found my Prince Charming.”

“Oh, not again,” I groaned.

Before I could suck in a breath, Nina shook me off and disappeared back into the crowd of gawkers and vampire fans. She pushed her way through them with purpose and I knew—with a sickening, sinking feeling—that she was headed back toward Prince Charming, in search of her happily-ever-afterlife. The people around me seemed to close in, their voices churning around me, and I could hear the vague pulse of the VERMers’ protest cries outside. I felt myself being jostled and tugged by the crowd moving toward Edie. Sweat started to bead at my hairline as panic gripped my chest.