Page 24 of Bumpy, the Gargoyle Slayer

“Slushy?” I can’t help but laugh.

He shrugs before offering his arm. “Come on, Bumps. Let’s go put on the show.”

Once we’re in the car, he sits as far from me as possible, except when Jean-Luc corners onto a side street and I fall into him. And, okay, I want him to take me onto his lap and kiss me senseless, but he simply sits there like stone as I draw my hands along him to regain my balance.

What can I say? I get off on making him hard.

“Are you ready?” he asks quietly, finally acknowledging me when we pull to the curb. “This can be a lot.”

“The paparazzi, you mean?” My nerves begin to jangle. Outside the town car, camera flashes light up the street. I don’t know who they’re photographing right now, but it’s going to be me in a minute.

I’m not the kind of woman who worries about her physical faults. That’s so yesterday. If I worried over my second toe that bends like a candy cane, a too-short waist, and a freckle that looks like a wart under my eye, I’d never leave the house. But just now all I can think is how I’m not tall enough, or model-thin enough, to be the object of Alain’s affections. I’m not up to the standards of a billionaire, and frankly, if I hadn’t tried to stake him, he never would have noticed me.

Alain places his hand on my thigh, just below my skirt that rides so high, it’s probably illegal in forty-eight states. “I would have noticed you, Bumps. A man would have to be blind not to, and even then…” He leans into me and places a kiss on my cheek before whispering, “Even then, I’m sure his cock would point in your direction like a magnet finds north. Some things just are.”

Guess I stated those worries out loud.

He slides out of the door Jean-Luc holds open and extends his hand for mine amidst a clash of blinding, flashing lights. I reach for him anyway. I feel, somehow, like I’ll always reach for him and find him.

Don’t be stupid, Bunny. Please don’t be stupid. There’s no way to have a real relationship with a monster who’s already told you he’s not interested in one with you.

“Miss Winters, over here.”

“How long have you been dating Mr. D’Ange? How did you meet?”

“Miss Winters, what scene were you acting out on national television?”

“Miss Winters, who are you wearing?”

I shield my eyes as Alain hunches over me, keeping me in a protective shield against his body as he battles through reporters like a football player with a football. Except, he takes his time. He’s intentionally milking this.

Fine. Two can play at this game. I turn my face into him and pretend to be a weak, helpless creature. Since that’s probably not too far from the truth, I go with it.

Until a scream sounds. It’s bit off. Just a yelp really, but I hear the panic in it. The terror.

So does Alain, apparently. His head shoots up and he gazes all around the crowd. I can’t see over all the taller heads.

I slip out of Alain’s embrace and manage to skirt through the throng. I’m just in time to see what looks to be a vampire dragging a woman into an alley down the block.

Without thinking, I begin to sprint until my heel turns. Taking only a second, I remove my shoes and then race barefoot towards the danger. My heart pumps. I don’t have my stake. Alain took my weapons, and even though he gave me back my messenger bag, I left it in the room. All I have in my tiny wristlet is lipstick and a ten-dollar bill.

“Hey, meathead,” I shout, rolling to a stop about five feet into the alley, and about ten feet from where he has the woman pinned against the wall. “Pick on someone blonder.”

The vampire turns and hisses at me.

Great. He’s one of the Nosferatu types, the kind of undead who think they have to sleep in coffins. Most vamps own cushy apartments, stock portfolios, and mega-corporations. Only drama queens like the one hissing at me do the whole cape thing. At least, that’s what Morrie tells me.

So, good. Should be an easy slay… if I just had a stick.

I launch my heels at him instead, one at a time, hoping the stiletto points will poke out his eyes. Unfortunately, they go flying over his head. We both watch them clump against the far wall.

With a snicker, he turns back to his easy meal, a sixty-ish woman with a bad haircut, flats, and suit from two decades ago. Secretary, maybe. She’s so terrified that her screams are silent but for an anorexically-thin whine.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, Deathbreath.” I reach down and pick up the tire iron that happens to be lying at my feet. Why are there always tire irons in alleys? It’s one of the world’s biggest mysteries.

It won’t kill him, but it will make him think twice about his life’s choices. Or his death’s, I guess.

With a shove, he flings Bad Haircut aside, sending her flying into the shadows. Both of us ignore the clatter and subsequent whimper. With a growl, he begins to advance upon me. Damn, he’s big, nearly as big as Alain.