Beach Blanket Bloodbath (Amanda Feral Book 4) (5 page)

I hit the Volvo’s trunk
button—thanking God we’d decided to grab my car; all our luggage would
have never fit into the stolen one. After some rumbling and rearranging of
luggage, Gil barreled into the back seat, staring undecidedly at Abuelita and
then cramming himself between the front buckets to kiss Wendy and then me on
the cheeks.

“And one for you, too, Chiquitita!” His
lips smacked wetly against Abuelita's neck. “I'm diggin' the eyebrows by the
way, very Mosquita Gang-Banger. Muy caliente.”

I glanced in the rearview to see a row of
gold teeth glinting as the born-again chola smiled—at least someone knew
how to menace. Now, if we could only get those toddler pageants to trade in
their porcelain flippers for some gold-ass grillz, we’d really terrorize
America.

Gil, of course, was nonplussed.

“You, sir,” I said. “Need to get some
bronzing powder on that alabaster of yours. You nearly burned our eyes out when
you walked into the light.”

“Jesus. Really? Already with the
critique.”

“It comes standard with this car.”

“Uh...yeah.” Wendy spun around, propping
her elbow on the seat top. “You look like one of our cloud cuddlers, and even
with our prettiest specimens, that’s not a good look.”

I pointed the car in the direction of the
freeway as the chatting continued. Cloud this, shipments that.

It wasn’t a long drive to Las Felicitas,
an inordinately mouthy name for the new town that had sprung up on the
Washington coast between Aberdeen and Astoria, and like most author events I
couldn’t be sure that there’d be anyone there who was actually interested in
the book.

Anyone
human
, that is.

Before I took the initiative and
strong-armed a publishing deal—you know, the usual way, death threats,
kidnapping, blood, so much blood—I mistakenly assumed that authors were
somehow valuable to the world, that their creative force drove the book
industry, that they were whisked away on book tours, lavished with
champagne-flooded launch parties, their books promoted in a more effective way
than say a cardboard sign at the top of a freeway off ramp waved by a
dirt-smudged vagrant with tobacco-stained fingertips.

Wrong on all counts.

Turns out, once the book is on the
shelves, the majority of us are pretty much on our own—look at me,
lumping myself with a group, any group, so not like me—free to sink like
the cinder block chained to another author’s drowning body. A situation I was
definitely not accustomed to, nor did I find at all acceptable.

The reception of my first memoir,
Happy
Hour of the Damned
was decidedly mixed and fell into two camps, one—the largest
majority—those who felt our humor (and by “ours” I’m not only including
Wendy and Gil, but you, if you’ve even laughed once) was horrible and offensive
and two, those who were “in” on the “joke,” whatever that meant but preferred
to check their books out from the library. Supernaturals knew about the book,
certainly. Critics came out of the woodwork to lambast my “gall” at exposing
our “secret ways.” But even a year after its release, as usual, not a single
human took the book as reality. Who’d believe so many undead roamed the night
(or day) and were the ones who always got to the clearance rack to snag the
exact size you were looking for—yes, I’m talking about myself.

Again, no sales. Turns out zombies,
vamps, ghosts and shifters are even bigger eBook pirates than humans.

Still, you can only wallow in depression
for so long before you either:

a) Kill yourself,

b) Shoot up a Starbucks, or

c) Get a fucking grip.

I chose the latter—also a little of
“b)” because I was hungry—always—and “a)” seemed self-indulgent
since I was already dead. If there were a “d)” in this equation I might have
seriously considered it, especially if it involved a hot Italian with flexible
hips, but I didn’t see it on the list, so…

…Moving on…

My notoriety amongst supernatural types
drew the wayward undead to book events like homing pigeons, so I was certain
the trip out to Las Felicitas wouldn’t be a complete washout and either way I
would make money, even if I had to pry it from someone’s cold dead
hands—in most cases, this was the preferable method and happened often
enough to bolster my enthusiasm.

Gil took it as a good sign that there
were actual living people out there that could be lured to remote locations on
the outside chance of having fun but would, of course, become our free meals.
He’d turned the idea into a life strategy.

But all that was beside the point.

The book signing was just one stop on the
road trip and the real goal was retrofitting our dilapidated friendship before
it fell apart completely. But the road promised adventure. It called to me like
a Louboutin trunk sale. But more than that, it would take Wendy’s mind off her
troubles and Gil’s off his shitty love life and mine off my finances, for once.

I glanced at Wendy as she talked and even
the image of the thief’s baleful gaze and her slow beckoning wave seemed to be
waning from Wendy’s mind…but then I started listening to her and my delusion
fell apart.

 
“So this bitch was a zombie, dressed as a zombie,” Wendy
said, sneering. “Like a motherfucking double agent!”

“Triple, because she was also dressed as
Paula Prentiss from the original Stepford Wives,” I added. “So, that was crazy.”

“And then we met Pinchy,” Wendy said,
grinning.

I drew my finger across my neck. It
wasn't the time to bring up a man. Especially when he seemed to fall into our
laps so easily and Gil couldn’t find one to save his undeath.

“Who's Pinchy?”

“Dinner,” I said. “He was delicious.”

“Oh.” Gil nodded, interestedly but then
turned to Wendy. “So tell me about this ship. What do we know about the
timeline? Are we going to have time for Napa? I know y’all could be plied with
wine.”

Wendy opened up the webpage for the
itinerary on her phone and began to read, “Seattle to Vancouver. So, that’s
what it’s doing now. All day tomorrow in Vancouver and then two days at sea before
it pulls into San Francisco. We're beating it there, so…maybe?”

“Perfect,” Gil slapped his palm on his
thigh. “That gives us four days, right?”

“Three technically,” I said. “But my book
signing is tomorrow evening and we can leave right after that if you want to
drive all night.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” He slid up between
the seats again and whispered, as though Abuelita gave a shit, “How's about we
stop in Olympia and chow down. I’m feeling peckish.”

“Don’t you mean peckers?” I said.

“If I’m lucky, that too.”

I
don't know about you, but when I go out to eat, I expect certain things, a few
cocktails, scintillating conversation and a meal that doesn’t fight back too
hard. What I
don’t
expect is for the night
to end being hunted by a rabid pack of go-go boys in gold-lamé hot pants with a
disturbing array of weaponry.

A place as small as Olympia should have
been a hotbed of intolerance and antagonistic sentiment around social programs,
the kind of hole that plugged up around dusk so that people could apply their
ointments and complain about their days and let us creatures of the night prowl
without impediment. Instead we rolled in on streets crowded with drunken
revelers emerging from a low-lying fog bank of pot smoke, not to mention a
building-sized banner advertising an exotic dance troop called The Golden
Boys—which, much to my chagrin were not octogenarian strippers with
bedazzled walkers.

Must’ve been some weird seasonal surge.

“Holy shit,” Gil breathed from between
them, mouth agape and eyes ogling the overtly bronzed and barely clothed men on
the banner. “I’ve been meaning to catch these guys in Seattle.”

“Couldn’t break away from the Hermitage?”

“I’ve been extremely busy.” Gil flounced
against his seatback.

“Mmhm.”

We pulled off the freeway and, once
downtown, stowed the car in an alley close to both our semi-regular hunting
grounds and the gay bar where the Golden Boys would be performing. Gil had his
door open before I even powered down.

“You girls enjoy your meals!” he shouted
waving behind him and slipping into the nightclub.

“At least he’s getting out.” I shrugged.

Wendy merely shook her head as though Gil
were a lost cause.

“Let’s go. Pinchy was a couple of hours
ago, you must be hungry again.”

That perked her up.

August in Olympia drew at least half of
the homeless teens on the west coast. They flocked to the parks and main drag
like patchouli-doused locust. I'd already hit up the lake area three times over
the summer, snatching up some of the healthier ones—in my mouth, to eat
of course. Nothing kinky.

They're kids for Christ sake.

The car tucked away in a dark alley we
slipped out and clung to the shadows, except for Abuelita who lit up a
cigarillo and dangled her hand from the car window.

“Don't smoke in there!” I hissed.

She waved, but didn't move.

“Dammit,” I mumbled and followed Wendy.

We lingered on a switchback of trails
that led from the capital buildings down a steep slope to a jogging loop around
the lake, taking up residence on a wooden bench to assess the situation. There
was a near constant ripple in the distance, people ducking in and out of bushes
for various nefarious purposes involving any number of orifices, I have no
doubt. It’s never a good idea to pursue your prey into a potentially
lube-coated situation, particularly when you’re wearing a recent season of designer
fashion—I’ve loosened up on my definition of style to accommodate my
financial crisis, so keep the critique to a minimum, Fashion Police!

Besides, waiting is a valid hunting
strategy, ask the closeted homosexuals on Generation Duck or Bounty Huntress.

It’s not like we had to linger long.
Before we’d drained our first flask of martinis, a shadowy pair of prospectives
lit on the mouth of the trail leading directly to us. A sniff told me at least
one of them was fairly grassy—though oddly enough not the one with
dreadlocks. The young men were an odd couple, one’s hips swiveled like a lazy
susan in very short shorts, the other slouched like the most generic stoner
stereo-type and by the look of thing they were looking for a quiet place to
hook up, unless I was reading their sloppy groping the wrong way.

I set my Birkin slightly forward. If they
were walking side-by-side, one of them would have to sidestep or leap over it
or, if my gaydar was correct—and it always is, because, come on, fucking hot
pants?

“Is that a for real Gherkin,” Hot pants
asked, glossy lips reflecting the moonlight.

“Gherkins are pickles, hon,” I said. “This
is a Birkin.”

“Oh my God, those are like a million
dollars.”

I nodded (they’re not actually, but,
whatever).

“So are you boys looking for some comfy
bushes to carry out your very important business transaction?”

Dreads shuffled silently, but Hot pants recognized
a compatriot. “Obvies. Y’all want to do the lookouts?”

“You mean take part in a clandestine
activity that is totally against the law?”

Hot pants grinned, reapplying his gloss.
“Exactly.”

I glanced at Wendy, who shook her head,
clearly bored with my patting this mouse about the floor. “Obvies. You two get
to your lovin’. We’ll make sure no one sees anything that’s about to happen.”

“You, my love.” the hustler wound a gold
scarf around his neck. “Are a peach.”

           
Arms
dangling in that adolescent way, careless, fearless, the two shuffled past, Dreads’
Chuck Taylor’s scuffing clouds of dust onto the Birkin’s pristine black leather,
I lunged. I was hungry and more than a little horrified that the purse I’d
traded a perfectly matched set of Ukrainian gymnasts for—the manager had
been a particularly shrewd golem—had suffered possible damage at the
expense of my banter.

Wendy did too.

Jaws ratcheted open, the sharp cracks of
knuckles popping. Bones gnashing. Gulping.

Moments later, I was hunched over,
pulling a thick rope of dirty hair out of my throat and regretting my life
choices—there was simply no reason why we couldn't have selected more
clean-cut food options.

“These don't make a lick of sense.” I
tossed the dreadlock to the ground, kicked some gravel over it.

“They're straight up disgusting. What’s
worse?” Wendy said. “You only coughed up one of those shitstreaks and he must
have had fifty dangling out of his head. Looked like a Goddamn Medusa.”

My stomach twisted into knots, braiding
around the tangles of hair. I sat back onto the bench and cradled the momentary
expansion of my gut. Work quickly, I thought. The words sounded like begging in
my head.