Confessions of a Werewolf Supermodel (12 page)

This is where I'm supposed to put on the meek act and pretend I'm a helpless, brainless female for his benefit. I'm not in the mood. “Looks can be deceiving,” I quote Morgan Kane and a zillion other people who've said that. “I can probably take you down.”

At least he doesn't laugh. He turns to me and says, “Tough girl, huh? Maybe you want to arm wrestle sometime?”

He's teasing. I'm tempted to say we should tongue wrestle instead. I say nothing. Terry pulls up in front of our building a few minutes later.

“Lou, before we go, you should tell Terry about what happened today. About you thinking that man was following you.”

I could kill Cindy and her big mouth. Since I can't do that, I elbow her in the ribs. She makes an “oof” sound.

“What man?”

Fun and games are over. Shay snaps back into cop mode so fast it makes my head spin. I've nearly convinced myself what happened today wasn't real. Neither the perceived threat nor my reaction to it. I'm more concerned about the reaction. I can't just go turning wolfy any time my body decides that's what it should do. The possibility scares me to death. Much more than the thought of being stalked.

“It was nothing,” I say.

“You thought it was something earlier,” Cindy reminds me. “You were scared, Lou.” She leans across me to look at Shay. “Lou was scared, and she's not usually afraid of anything.”

“Let's just go in,” I grind through my teeth. “I'm sure Terry is tired and would like to go home.”

“I'm not that tired,” he assures me. “Cindy, could I speak to Lou alone?”

Oh, great. Me and hunkalicious alone in an El Camino. Bring on the cheap booze and some country music. Maybe we can just make out instead of talking. I don't see that happening. I give Cindy a dirty look. She just smiles.

“See you upstairs, Lou.” She opens the door and climbs out. Terry doesn't say anything until she's safely inside the building, then he turns to me.

“A man was following you today? When?”

I pull my hair over my shoulder and twist my ponytail, a nervous habit I've had for as long as I remember. “It was after you left me. I thought you were watching me, but when I turned to look, there was a man standing on the corner staring at me.”

“What'd he look like?”

This is where I sound stupid. “I don't know. He wore a hooded sweatshirt and I couldn't see his face.”

Pause. I know the question before Terry asks it. “So, if you couldn't see his face, how do you know he was watching you?”

Since I can't tell him my werewolf radar went off, I answer, “I sensed danger from the man. It's something we psychics do.”

Terry leans back against the seat and sighs. “Oh,” is his only response.

His reaction should please me. It wasn't something I wanted to discuss with him anyway. Regardless of the information Terry shared with me earlier today, he's basically still a nonbeliever in psychics or things that go bump in the night unless they have a logical explanation. If I really am somehow connected to the crimes, and I must be or I wouldn't dream about them, he needs to trust me.

“You have trust issues,” I say.

“I have a job where I get shot at sometimes. I have a job where people lie to me daily. It's hard to trust people.”

“Well, it's also hard to get chummy with a man who arrested me earlier.”

His head swings toward me. “You feel like getting chummy, Lou?”

Ironically, I do. Is it the nature of the beast in all women to be automatically attracted to men we know can protect us? I heard that on a talk show one time. Inborn instinct. “I'd think you wouldn't be interested in getting chummy with a girl you suspect is connected to murders and is crazy on top of that.”

“You forgot to mention gay,” he says sarcastically. “You are a puzzle, Kinipski.”

I guess we're back to last names. I also think it's time to convince Shay I'm not interested in sexual relations with women. That's basically the only confusing issue for him I can clear up without digging myself into a deeper mess. I could go into a long spiel about this, but Shay's face is close to mine.

We're alone in a car at a time of night when nobody's brain cells are in full throttle. I'm still a little stung by the thought that he might not want to kiss me. I may be turning into a werewolf again, but I am still one hundred percent kissable.

I lean over and lay one on Detective Terry Shay, NYPD.

CONFESSION NO. 10

I haven't been to church since I was a kid. Cindy and I used to pass notes to one another during her father's fire and brimstone sermons. I never questioned my right to be under God's roof back then. I question it now.

The church Stefan has chosen for the shoot looks like something out of an old gothic romance novel. Crumbling stone walls, lots of arches. The only things missing when we drove up were the gargoyles and the half-naked man and woman clutching each other. The dressing room doesn't have a roof. There are about a hundred pigeons overhead just waiting to poop on my Henry Roth bridal gown. Worse than the dark circles under my eyes is the corset-style waistline on the dress that has me cinched down to about eighteen inches. If I had enough air in my lungs, I'd complain.

“One round of concealer under those eyes is not going to cut it,” Cindy says, makeup kit in hand. Cindy has no room to talk. She looks as bad as I do. But Cindy isn't posing for the cover of
Bride
magazine today. I lean forward for Cindy, trying to keep my white gown pristine in a place that is dusty and moldy and just plain creepy.

“No,” Stefan calls from an arched doorway. “Leave her eyes alone. She looks very Goth with those dark circles. The ringlets look great, too.”

It took the hairdresser over an hour to give me all these ringlets. Scarlett O'Hara has nothing on me. “You do know I can't breathe in this thing?” I ask him, indicating my freakishly small waist.

Stefan lifts his camera and takes a couple of shots. “You don't have to breathe; you just have to look beautiful for the camera. Bridesmaids, lift Lou's dress so it doesn't get dirty.”

My bridesmaids are Karen and a model named Rachel. Both are dressed in red gowns that look more like hooker wear than bridesmaid dresses. Karen kneels before me, grabbing one end of the hem. Rachel moves behind me and grabs the short train.

“This way to the altar, ladies,” Stefan calls, turning to lead us into further decay and danger from a collapsing building.

Stefan and I lack our usual chemistry today. Is he sulking because I wouldn't let him take me home from the café? Or has one hot kiss in Terry's El Camino turned my head? That kiss was a surprise for both of us. Him because he wasn't expecting it, me because I wasn't expecting it to be that good. There was a lot of tongue action, but not the “stick it down your throat, gag you” kind of action. There was also a little groping. Terry's six-pack is as hard as steel. Despite my inability to breathe, I manage a sigh.

“Why do you have that sappy look on your face today?”

I glance down at Karen. She's in a half-crouch position, holding the front of my dress while we follow Stefan. I realize the corners of my lips are turned up as if I might smile. It dawns on me that I consider smiling working and therefore hardly do it unless I'm getting paid. How sad is that?

“No reason,” I answer. “I'm just in a good mood.”

“Wish I could be in a good mood after only three hours of sleep,” Cindy grumbles. “'Course I wasn't sitting in front of our building making out with Officer Good Body.”

Karen nearly trips over the hem of her own gown. “What? You and Shay? Spill it, girl. Every dirty detail.”

“Spill it on someone else's time,” Stefan says, looming up before us like a prison guard. He takes my arm and steers me toward a makeshift altar. I'm sure
Bride
magazine will appreciate the dead flowers he has strewn everywhere. This setup looks more like a funeral than a wedding. But Stefan doesn't like to have his artistic eye questioned.

“Did you really go out with that caveman?”

Stefan leans close, adjusting the veil on my head. Unlike Terry with his Brut aftershave mixed with axle-grease scent, Stefan wears the three-hundred-dollar-an-ounce stuff. And it's worth every penny. He smells better than most women.

“He's not a caveman, and no, I didn't really go out with him. He gave me a ride home from somewhere. Not that it's any of your business,” I add.

Fussing with the netting of my gown, he says, “I don't see him as your type. I thought you'd go for someone more sophisticated.”

I can't get the kiss out of my head. The kiss alone was close to orgasmic and I have to wonder now what the sex would be like. In fact, instead of sleeping when I got home, I thought about that kiss and sex for the rest of the night. I suppose it's wrong to consider banging a man who doesn't trust me.

Recalling that Stefan is spoiling for a fight, I say, “I thought you liked Terry.”

He makes a snorting noise. “Why would you think that?”

I shrug and my boobs nearly pop out of the top of the gown. “Athletic build. Broad shoulders. He sounds more like your type than mine.”

Karen burst into laughter. “Good one, Lou.”

Stefan is clearly not amused. He frowns at me. “Let's get to work, ladies.”

We use natural light today which means we don't have a crew. Above me, half the roof is missing and sunlight streams down like an eerie mist. Despite the weak light filtering in, it's damn cold. Stefan set several portable heaters around the shoot area, but they only generate enough heat to keep our breaths from fogging the air.

He stands back and studies us through his camera lens. “Karen, take one step closer to Lou. Rachel, your position is fine, but you need to turn more toward Lou. She is the bride and the focal point of the picture.”

“What's new,” Rachel complains, but turns toward me.

A girl who could once easily blend in with the wall doesn't mind being the center of attention. I also don't mind the petty jealousies that arise from me having that position.

“Today, ladies, we're going for innocence,” Stefan announces. “I know it's a stretch for all of you, but give it a shot.”

I glance down at my sluttish gown. “You've got to be kidding. Rip the skirt off this dress and I'd be standing here in a corset and garters. From the altar to the bedroom in one easy tug.”

“I know,” Stefan agrees, “but I want these shots to be about contrasts. Shadow and light. Innocence and debauchery. Give me your angel look, Lou.”

Debauchery? Does anyone in the twenty-first century really use that word? Angel look? To my knowledge, I don't have one. Sex sells everything and Stefan is usually egging me on with the dirty talk to get “sultry” from me. I have to dig deep to find innocence.

Oddly enough, I find it in church. Not this one. Haven Baptist Church, sitting next to my best friend, Cindy, anticipating the fried chicken her mother will serve for Sunday dinner. The Billingtons didn't do church, but they never minded if I wanted to tag along with Cindy.

In those days, I didn't yet know that I was a geek and soon would be labeled one from the sixth grade on. I didn't know I would someday become a supermodel, or a werewolf, or a murderer. In those days, my only worry was how Cindy and I would pass a lazy Sunday afternoon.

The cold rays pouring in from the missing ceiling warm me; either that, or the memory of innocence. Of blessed ignorance. I lift my gaze heavenward and wonder if God even recognizes me now. The shutter speed of Stefan's camera tries to penetrate my consciousness, but I'm not ready to come back from that time long ago, from being a normal little girl with normal hopes and normal dreams. But I do come back. Abruptly.

Peace fades and the smell of dust and mildew is replaced with the scent of … him. My gaze scans the crumbling balcony overhead. Beneath the Scarlett O'Hara ringlets, the fine hairs at the back of my neck bristle. My gums ache. My fingertips sting. Like the time I sensed him watching me from the corner, my body prepares to fight. I have no control, and I realize that at any moment, my friends will see that I am a freak of nature.

My body I cannot control, but my standing among my friends, I can. I have no choice but to run. Bolting from my position at the altar, I make it down two steps before Stefan asks, “Lou, where the hell are you going?”

My fingertips sting so badly I glance down and expect to see claws. Instead I see the bouquet of dead flowers in my hands. I toss it over my shoulder and rush ahead.

“I need to go to the bathroom!” I yell behind me.

Only slightly better than Stefan finding out I'm becoming a werewolf is Stefan believing I have irritable bowel syndrome. It can't be helped. I race ahead until I realize I'm not headed for the exit of the church, but deeper into its crumbling confines.

Panicked, I stop to get my bearings. To my right, more arches, darker because the roof is still intact. To the left, same scenario. Straight ahead, dead end. Behind me … him. I know he's there.

Veering to the left, I race down a dark hallway. I may be running to escape him, my natural instincts kicking in, but I'm also running to lead him away from Stefan, Karen, Cindy, and Rachel. I've seen what this creep can do in my dreams.

I pause to catch my breath in a dress that isn't made for breathing. The door I lean against creaks open with my weight. A musty basement smell wafts upward to me. This is the part in the scary movie where everyone boos the big-boobed blonde for going down into a dark basement alone. My boobs aren't that big and I'm a brunette.

My shoes slip on the damp stones of the stairs. I kick them off. I get about halfway down when the door above creaks. Stumbling down the rest of the stairs, I press my body up against a wall. The basement is full of boxes and junk. It's pitch-black but I have unusually good eyesight in the dark. I can make out shapes, but not details. There's a stack of boxes in front of me and I dart away from the wall and position myself behind them.