“I don’t know much about him. I’d love to know more. If I’m going to ask him stuff anyway, I might as well get a show out of it.”
“Just knowledge and entertainment, then? No ulterior motive?”
“Well, more like stories. Vampires have the best stories. That’s why I wanted to talk to you—I never would have expected a vampire to work as a stripper. Most of them are so … private. Or what’s the word I’m looking for…”
“Elitist?”
Nailed it. “But here you are, and the Family approves. So what does the Family get out of having one of their own working as an exotic dancer?”
Her smile shined. “It’s not always about the Families, Kitty. Sometimes there’s no secret agenda, no conspiracy. Not even much of a story. Sometimes there’s a stripper who just happens to be a vampire. A radio host who happens to be a werewolf.”
She might have had a point. I’d been trying to unwrap Roman’s conspiracy for so long, I’d started to see everything as a thread leading back to it. When your only tool is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.
“And Angelo really is just a guy who was unexpectedly put in charge when he’d rather sit the whole thing out.” She shrugged, neither confirming nor denying.
“So you think he’s a nice enough guy,” I said, not sure I trusted her opinion on the matter.
“To tell you the truth, I miss Rick. But Angelo’s not a bad guy.”
And that had to count for something I supposed.
We came back on the air, she answered another round of questions. All in all, this show was turning into one of my better efforts.
During the next break, she unfolded from her chair. “This has bee
n fun, but I really need to get going. Thanks for inviting me.” She offered her hand, and I shook it, and she gave me a charming little wave before stalking out of the studio.
Matt had to knock on the glass to get me to notice his countdown. On the air in five, and me without my guest. Right. Seat of my pants, here we go.
“All right, welcome back to The Midnight Hour. A little change of plans. My guest, Colette, has turned into a bat and flapped away. Not really, vampires don’t really turn into bats. They only want us to think they do. Never mind. But I want to thank her for stopping by and giving us some insight into her world. But this has brought up an issue I’d love to discuss next. So, a question for the peanut gallery: Once they turn sixty-five, how long should working vampires be able to collect social security? The rest of their lives, like the rest of us? Are you a vampire collecting social security? I want to hear from you…”
Chapter 4
BEN WENT back to work, too, which meant making the business trip to Wyoming. The house was very big and quiet without him around.
This was purely psychological. I’d spent plenty of time in the house alone, when he was out working or whatever. Then, I didn’t think about it, because I knew he’d be back soon, or he’d call to let me know where he was. He’d still be in Denver, in our territory. I could listen for the sounds of him returning home.
Now, I listened for sounds that weren’t there. The walls seemed to creak, and every car engine or barking dog set my hair on end. I waited for the hum of his car turning into the driveway, a sound I knew I wasn’t going to hear. Maddening.
I kept music on to fill the space.
At night, lying in bed alone, the quiet grew much worse. I left the music on, turned low, to provide a background noise to distract the part of my mind that kept listening for cars, or kept convincing me that an intruder was in the kitchen making off with the silverware. I slept on Ben’s side of the bed, my face buried in his pillow, so I could breathe in the scent of him. I berated myself for being soppy.
The next afternoon, I sat on the floor of the office, much as Ben had found me the day before, papers and books piled everywhere, thinking. Pretending to think. I was leaning against the desk, looking at the sky through the window, enjoying the winter sun blazing through, and if someone had asked what I was thinking about in that moment, I wouldn’t have been able to say.
While thinking I would work more when I had the house to myself was a nice idea, I’d known all along that it wasn’t going to happen, because not having enough time, space, or quiet to work wasn’t the reason I hadn’t finished the book. I had the problem of too much information, and no clue how to tie it together. I had entire chapters written, and no idea what order to put them in. Did I arrange stories chronologically, geographically, thematically? Biographically, with a framework about how the stories related to me personally? All equally valid approaches. I kept changing my mind.
When my cell phone rang, I jumped like it was a fire alarm, scattering papers and sliding shut the book I’d been pretending to read. I needed a minute of scrambling before I could actually reach the phone, and was surprised when the caller ID showed it wasn’t Ben. I shouldn’t have been surprised; he’d called last night to say he’d arrived in Cheyenne okay, and I wasn’t expecting another call from him until tonight.
This call came from Tom, one of the werewolves in our pack. I may have sounded a little surly when I answered.
“What is it?”
“Um, hi?” Tom was one of the bigger males in the pack—one of the tough guys, the kind who actually made you think of werewolves when you saw him. That he could sound sheepish talking to me usually made me smile.
I settled down. “Hi. And how are we today?”
“Actually … we may have a problem.”