Fashionably Dead and Loving It (Hot Damned #14) - Robyn Peterman Page 0,6
dream might have helped plant the idea.
I was fully aware I was an idiot—evidenced by the fact I was performing the act of futility in my closet so no one would catch me. Ethan wasn’t going to be back till this evening and our guests weren’t due to arrive until after midnight. Samuel was in Zanthia visiting my bestie Gemma, the Fairy Queen, and her mate The Kev. If I felt like Hell warmed over, I’d just stay in my closet until my face wasn’t green. Sadly, as a Vampyre, I couldn’t throw up.
I had no bodily functions at all. And while that saved tremendously on toilet paper and tampons, I still wasn’t completely used to it. There were a few things I missed about my human life and eating food was at the top of the list.
Everything else about being heartbeat-free rocked. I had a smokin’ hot, undead, fanged Prince Charming. My son, Samuel, was my miracle baby who was no longer a baby, and for once, life was peaceful—peaceful being a relative word—the issues on the West Coast notwithstanding. The Vampyre world was rarely without deadly drama, but for the moment, it was less hostile than usual.
Deciding that the chips would look better on the right side of the table, I quickly rearranged the food. The presentation was important. I had one chance to get it right. If this went as badly as expected, at the very least, it would be aesthetically pleasing.
Clapping my hands to get the attention of my wardrobe, I cleared my throat and gave the shelves a lovely smile. “We are gathered here today to witness the Vampyre Princess of the North American Dominion do something she shouldn’t,” I explained to my rack of Prada gowns. “I’ve been jonesing for hot salsa for a few years now, and I figure that I’ve been dead long enough to give it a shot. Plus, almost getting eaten by Zombies in my dream has made me bold or stupid—your pick. It would suck all kinds of ass if I could eat and didn’t know it. You feel me?”
The dresses and accessories didn’t talk back. They were smart. It was also why I picked my closet to host my folly. Getting heckled wouldn’t work for me today.
With meticulous care, I picked up the largest and most curved chip in the bowl. If I was going to do this, I wanted to ingest as much salsa as possible. Even if I could only taste it for a hot second, the week of agony would be worth it. When a person lived forever, a week was a stinking blip in time.
“Don’t you do it, Chesty McMilkbomb,” a voice that made me grind my teeth warned me from the doorway of what I thought was my locked closet.
“Boobalicious Bongos, I always knew you were slow, but that would be a dang boneheaded move,” the second strident voice chimed in with a chuckle.
Gently putting the chip down so not a single drop of salsa spilled out, I whipped around and aimed my sparking fingers at the abominations who were screwing with my chi. It chapped my ass that they were correct. The two Vampyres were old, annoying hot messes. It still stymied me that Martha and Jane were wildly unattractive. Most Vamps were ridiculously pretty. However, the gals had been turned late in life and looked like not very well-preserved eighty-somethings.
Martha and Jane were dressed up—using the term loosely. They’d traded their everyday sweatpants for purple polyester booty shorts paired with house slippers, black socks and yellow sequined boob tubes. They were walking fucking fashion disasters with saggy bosoms and bottoms.
“Do you value your lives?” I asked Martha and Jane.
“Well, now… we’re dead,” Martha replied, scratching her sparsely haired head. “Is that a trick question, Monster Hooters?”
I zapped her. It couldn’t be helped. I was over the boob jokes. Apparently, the old dummies would never be over them. The idiot just grinned and slapped out the fire on her booty shorts. Martha was supposed to be in Hell watching over Luke, Satan’s new baby boy, along with her cohort, Jane. However, for some reason they were back in my neck of the Universe.
“Do either of you own any Prada?” I questioned. It was a ridiculous thing to ask, but my dream was still forefront in my brain.
“Don’t rightly know,” Martha said, confused. “Is it contagious?”
“Banged an old, uncircumcised geezer named Prad Tostada ’bout twenty years ago,” Jane offered. “Does that count?”