Muy commanding.”
“You did? I’ve never given a formal speech in my life.”
Oh. That had been a dream. Right.
“Well, you’d be very commanding if you did.”
“They’re flying people in from the West Coast and Midwest, so this could run late into the evening. I hate to leave our own matters hanging.”
“Such as . . . ?” I began, still wondering how I could explain my freaky mirror-trek to California and a maybe-vampire mother.
“Dealing with Snow’s astounding offer of sponsorship, what’s best for the Silver Zombie, and how much danger raising her put me in from Vegas bigwigs will just have to wait,” Ric said impatiently.
I yawned. He didn’t know I’d been to the West Coast and back already that very early morning. “I agree. We don’t want to jump on Snow’s bandwagon without plenty of research. It’s okay, Ric. We’ll check in tomorrow.”
Besides, Snow wasn’t the only one worried about Ric.
We cooed our good-byes and I rolled over to sink into that most luxurious of feelings, a long nap in a sunny room.
I should have been wondering what was up with Ric and his government contacts, but my mind was on a maternal vampire—mine!—and recalling how I’d stumbled to find mother substitutes in my early years.
Discovering an apparent vampire mother also ramped up my growing anxieties about Ric, worries about his soul I’d buried under a white-knuckled dedication to his physical survival.
When an unadoptable orphan—whose closest thing to a mother most of her life was shared with Mr. Spock (and look how he turned out)—is all grown up and has an intimacy “issue,” who’s she gonna call on?
As usual, I was more comfy with film people than the real “family” folks in my life . . . like some hard-hearted group home supervisor.
Spock’s human mother, as played by Jane Wyatt on Star Trek, was formerly the mother on Father Knows Best, so she had to put up with a lot of male domination in her day. She remained my model of mature sweet reason. God knew I could use such a woman in my life.
The vamp in California was not my role model.
Our life was way simpler when you were still a virgin early last spring and had nil intimacy, much less other issues, Irma popped up to remind me. So who’s our go-to gal now? Helena Troy Burnside has my vote. She’s only a long-distance phone call away, or we could video conference.
“No Skype,” I told Irma. Helena had spotted only Lilith lurking in my psyche. “If she finds out about you, I’ll be certifiable in her book and no fit, uh, partner for her foster son. You are not going share any screen time with me. Who do you think you are, Irma . . . Lilith?”
Come on, Helena’s an open-minded lady.
“She’s my lover’s foster mother, Irma. It would be embarrassing to look so green in front of her, and I don’t want her to worry about Ric.”
If you didn’t lock me out when you’re gettin’ down with Mr. Yummy Montoya, I’d be all you’d need to advise you, girlfriend.
“I seldom have luck locking you out totally, but keep your comments to yourself right now.”
I drifted off into dreamland and a sleep level they call “fitful.”
A couple hours later I woke up, knowing exactly the right person to call for a spontaneous meeting and an emergency consult. I just needed to wait until it got dark so no one would know about it.
And Irma was back then too.
You’re gettin’ out your black leather motorcycle jacket, mama? I do wanna go where you’re going. What kinda shrink digs in-your-face?
“It’s not a shrink in the traditional sense,” I told Irma. “And you’re gonna love the leggings, if you could see them,” I said, firmly slamming the door of my mind shut on her.
I tossed the jacket down on the bed after a try-on. Vegas nights did cool down at times, not in summer so much, but I was after effect, not comfort. I wasn’t content to leave my appearance to the wardrobe witch tonight and waved away the Goth T-shirt she’d produced on the hanger rack next to my closet door.
My black leggings had tiny skull studs down the sides that coordinated with the buckles on the ankle-high genuine motorcycle boots. That was Goth enough. I shrugged into a white ruffled shirt that would suit a pirate or Mrs. Peel. Then I buckled one last buckle, or swashbuckle, a black leather collar around my neck.
A savvy reporter knows how to dress