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Chapter 1
Working Girl
VANESSA
“I am successful. I am confident. I am powerful. I am strong.” I chant the same words over and over while staring at myself in the mirror, accepting and loving the woman I see in front of me.
The dryer buzzes, causing me to jump and bang my elbow on the counter. “Damn it,” I mutter, turning in the tiny washroom and yanking the door open. I pull out my costume and hold it up to the light. Wrinkle free!
I put it on, tugging it into place, muttering my lines as I lean into the mirror while applying makeup. “Hi, my name is Lucy. I’m a friend of…” I check the card balancing on the edge of the sink. “I’m a friend of Gail’s from work.” I pause, waiting for the other person to speak, then say, “I’m a software engineer. And you?”
Once I finish with my makeup, I turn a critical eye to my hair. It always looks the same, long, straight, and red. Not the pretty auburn red, but the fire engine, carrot-top red. Still, I’m loath to change it. My mother loved it like this and keeping it as it is makes me feel closer to her.
I run a brush through the locks and step away from the mirror, trying my best to get a sense of the full picture in a square frame that only has the capacity to show about a fourth of me.
“It’s not going to win me an Oscar, but it might get me there one day,” I say to myself in the form of a pep talk, but it makes me feel more depressed. I’ve been in Los Angeles for eight years and this re-occurring gig is the only thing I’ve managed to land besides a few commercials and some minor modeling work.
Glancing at the time on my phone, I rush out of the bathroom, snatching up my keys and purse before heading out the door. I live on the fourth floor of a four-story apartment building that was built sixty years ago and never updated. The door won’t close when I try to lock it behind me and I have to put my weight into tugging on the handle while bracing my feet against the floor. Finally, the door aligns and I’m able to slip the lock into place.
Worried I’m going to be late and get a bad review, I cannon down the stairs, apologizing to a startled Mr. Bowerman who’s forced to leap out of my way as he passes me with an armload of groceries.
I burst through the front doors of the building and rush into the parking lot, yanking open the door to my beat-up 2006 Volkswagen Jetta hatchback. It’s past its prime, but it belonged to my mother and I can’t bring myself to get rid of it. I’ll drive it until it dies then I’ll turn it into a monument in my living room.
Before I can climb in the car, intuition has me freezing as my heart picks up. Someone is watching me.
I swing my head around, trying to catch the peeping Tom, but there’s no one. There never is. This has been going on for most of my life. My mom used to tell me it was my imaginary friend watching out for me, but that never made sense. Shouldn’t I be able to see my own imaginary friend?
I refuse to believe I’m paranoid but decided to move into an apartment building where I’d be surrounded by other people. The ramshackle building I’m in is all I can afford, but the locks work. Most of the time, anyway.
Still, it’s hard to shake the eerie feeling of being watched. I slide into the driver’s seat, my eyes scanning the lot. I glance at the time as I turn the car on.
“Damn it, I’m going to be late. No more daydreaming, Vanessa.”
I wave at a pedestrian as I pull the car out of the lot and settle into traffic, heading toward the posh Brentwood area of Los Angeles. Most of my murder-mystery gigs are in upscale neighborhoods where the host can afford to hire an actor.
It’s steady income for an actor and that’s hard to come by so I try not to mentally diss the work. It’s no blockbuster film, or a leading role in the next big streaming show. It’s money in my pocket. A semi-steady paycheck whenever a client needs a red-headed woman as their victim.
“Not so bad,” I say unconvincingly to myself. “And this time you absolutely won’t point out that their Monet is a knock-off. Because, as we learned that one time, just because you know your 19thcentury Impressionists, doesn’t mean they want to know that they’ve been duped.” I nod decisively. “All you have to do is go in, eat some pretentious food, talk to some pretentious people, die horrifically, and pick up your paycheck on Monday.”
I park my car up the street, so my Jetta doesn’t embarrass the wealthy hosts. After all, I’m supposed to be the friend no one’s heard of. I have to fit in with the other guests, so no one suspects I’m actually a down-on-her-luck actor with $23.47 in her bank account.
I look at myself in the mirror and apply a dramatic deep red lipstick, using the nail on my pinky finger to tidy the line. I press my lips together, then blow a kiss at my appearance.
“Showtime,” I mutter, shoving the tube back in my purse and reaching for the door. It’s going to be a long night.
* * *
KEENAN
She freezes, standing next to her car, her gaze sweeping the lot. She can’t see me. She’s never seen me, but she’s sensed my presence from the moment I began stalking her. The concern in her gaze makes my heart ache, but its’s a dance we’ve been caught in for two hundred years. Not that she knows anything about it. This reincarnation of my mate is only 27.
A shudder runs down my back and a familiar panic threatens to overwhelm me. I can’t help her if I don’t keep my shit together.
She climbs into her vehicle and starts the engine, pulling out of the parking lot. I cringe as she cuts off an elderly gentleman with a walker. He waves his fist at her and shouts obscenities while Vanessa smiles and waves back, unaware of her near miss.
If I were to claim her as my mate, the first thing I would do is hide her driver’s license.
I follow as she weaves her Jetta in and out of traffic with reckless abandon, keeping my Jeep Wrangler a few cars back. It goes against instinct to track prey in a vehicle instead of on foot in my wolf form, but people are bound to notice a wolf shifter sprinting through LA traffic. We’re supposed to keep a low profile while the King works on improving shifter-human relations. I have a personal investment in his success; my mate is human.
