Lost Angeles (63 page)

First and foremost, our thanks go to our beta and proofreaders: Noël Furniss, Victoria D. Morris, Chloe Palka, Penny Ramirez, Stephen Segal, and Jennifer Ford. Thank you for the eagle-eyed assists on multiple drafts. Your attention to detail and intermittent squees of glee were greatly motivating.

And to the boys: Jared, Henry, Gabriel, Chris, Luke, and Adam. When Hollywood comes knockin’, please take the parts as they were assigned.

Lisa told me I should scribble something here about my writerly journey… then she highlighted it in red so I wouldn’t forget to actually do it. Well, the journey has been long and hard (pun intended, everywhere), but we managed to put together this book, and two others, and plotty outlines for many books to come. All of that is
way
more than I could have imagined it would be when we started this whole thing—completely by accident—two years ago.

But enough of that shit. On to the thanks!

To my mother. For being so supportive, too supportive. Seriously,
one
kissy emote per text message is really enough. For getting
excited
about Lost Angeles and telling all her friends, and their friends, and their families, and everyone she knows, and strangers on the street, and that guy three doors down, and those people on the internet. I suppose that’s the adult equivalent of hanging my artwork on the wall. Which, she also still does. Thanks mom. I love you.

To the Roberts side of the family: sorry about all the sex and swears. If it’s any consolation at all, there’s a lot less sex than there
was
… although, there’s probably a lot more swears. I hope you read it anyway, but it’s okay if you don’t make it through.

The next book is way worse (read: better.)

To all my friends from FFXI, for greatly increasing my capacity to create the aforementioned swears. Without the hours I spent bullshitting with you all on Ventrilo, I never would have learned how to not be a bitch. Or how to be a bitch. Or learned the difference between being a bitch… and being a bitch.

And finally, thanks to Lisa for creating Xaine and for prancing him in front of me like the undomesticated animal he is. She knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. He was the first, but not the last, and certainly not the least. Also, I couldn’t have written these acknowledgements without her. No, really, she printed out a damn template and everything.

Bitches love templates.

See you in book two!

I find myself in possession of a big pile of thanks, not unlike a giant stack of apple pies. So you get a thanks, and you get a thanks, and you over there as well.

To the readers. I hope all of you are well over the age of eighteen and that no one mistook this for a YA novel. Or a picture book. Harder to imagine mistaking this as a picture book, but weirder things have happened.

(Coming up next: inappropriate immortals picture book.)

To my family. For having smoothies and Mickey Nuggets for dinner more times than I’d like to admit. For listening to me blather through the complexities of three novels taking place over one timeline. For asking all the right questions at the wrong moment and the wrong questions at the right moment. And for the ten-year-old, because she’s more fascinated with the Scipio vampires than any of the characters in my YA novels.

To the loyal supporters: the faces that turn up at the signings, book launches, and conventions; the online enthusiasts, Patreon patrons, and Dress Circle members Cat Healy and Rose Elizabeth Pedersen. Your kindness, generosity, and love of reading never ceases to amaze and delight me.

And last but certainly not least, to Amanda. For writing five hundred thousand words with me before it became a novel project. For writing characters that both fascinate and give zero fucks. For powering through a brutalizing real-life work schedule and still having the strength to sit down at the computer. For wanting to hug me that one time. And for making it still fun, even two years later.

The way to make money is to buy when blood is running in the streets.

Sound advice from one of the richest men to have ever lived. I’m not sure he meant it quite so literally as this day and age has taken it, but the truth is, there
is
blood in the streets, and it’s not all created equal. There’s blue blood, and those are the rivers that spin the wheels of politics and businesses, of kingdoms and corporations, of Fortune 500 companies. They’re the shakers, the moneymakers, the mountain movers, the men of good standing. They’re the kings and princes, prime ministers and presidents, the men that other men want to be. They build their kingdoms on the backs of the red-blooded, using the muscle and sweat of people common enough to be their oxen. And there are a
lot
of oxen.

The real trick is weeding through all the blue and the red to find the gold at the end of the bloody fucking rainbow, and trust me when I say that I…

…am the real Trick here.

And I learned a long time ago that nothing is thicker than blood, especially if you’re a vampire. I guess that’s why I ended up at Scion tonight. For all that I have zero use for the resident rock star, his nightclub is the only place in LA where I can reach every tier of my target demographic.

AKA, vampires.

Rich ones, poor ones, new ones, old ones, ambitious ones, lazy ones, partiers, networkers, they’re all here. So while I could roll up to any nightclub in LA and unload a wallet full of dead presidents, Scion is place to be for blanketing. All the blue blood is here.

The gold blood, too.

As if on cue, the soft scent of Hermès 24 Faubourg hits my nostrils. Smells like the worst parts of Paris at high noon, and only one person I know wears it.

Speak of the devil.

Reille Reece is headed my way at a clip, her epic bitch heels tapping out a stern warning that I hear, even if I don’t plan on heeding it. She’s probably nervous that I’ll start something she can’t finish; it’s happened before, which is probably why she keeps tight tabs on me whenever I come ’round.

“Boy, there sure are a lot of slutty women here tonight.” I say, flashing teeth as I turn around, bringing her into my sights. “Oh, Reille, didn’t even see you there.” Then, because I’m a big fan of calling them as I see them, I add, “What I meant to say was… there sure are a lot of slutty women
and
blatant, gold-digging cum-dumpsters who can’t seem keep their legs closed here tonight. I did wonder why it smelled like fish all of a sudden.”

“Sure that’s not nostalgia?” she counters. “I mean, between London’s gutters and brothels, it might just be a visitation from the Ghost of Whores Past.”

“I told you not to talk about my mother that way,” I say, grinning. “And besides, I’m pretty sure it’s the stench of Whores Present.”

Reille crosses her arms over her chest, waiting for me to make room for her in the hallway, but instead of moving over, I get right in her way. She doesn’t shift over either, so we’re heading for each other in an old-fashioned game of chicken. When our shoulders meet, I make sure it’s hard enough that she bounces off my bicep, heading for a nasty tumble as those heels teeter. She draws in a sharp breath, hands flashing out for anything to stop her fall. I let her flail for a few tenths of a second, but at the last moment, I reach out and snag her up, drawing her against me.

“Careful,” I tell her. “Wouldn’t want to turn an ankle.”

Grudgingly, she starts to say, “Thank y—”

“Harder to twist them behind your neck that way.”

Hot fury rises on her face, a red flush moving over her features like she’s the mercury in a thermometer. I might have caught her off-guard a second ago, but now all that Big Brother, Vamp Hunter training kicks in as she hapkidos her way out of my grasp and practically twists my arm off in the process. Doesn’t matter, don’t care, because I already took what I needed: a vacutainer full of
gold
, a few precious milliliters of Reille’s blood. I drop the glass tube into my pocket. The tiny injector gun taps cold against my leg through the thin fabric, and it’s about as close to my dick as I ever want everyone’s favorite hoebag to be.

“Jesus, St. John,” she mutters, putting some welcome distance between us as she rubs her arm with one hand. “I think you clawed me with your coke nail.”

“Aw, is that anything to say to one of Scion’s best clients?”

Whatever else she was about to say, Reille clams up real quick, clicking her teeth together hard enough that I actually
hear
her grinding them. She’s probably standing there reciting some internal mantra…

I will not kill Cas’s best friend. I will not kill—

“Oh, don’t hold back your gorge on my account,” I tell her, resisting the urge to tuck my hands into perfectly-tailored, pinstripe pockets. “Might as well speak your mind. It ain’t gonna stop me from spending my hard-earned money on Scion’s over-inflated goods, and it sure as shit ain’t gonna hurt my feelings none.”

“Maybe because you have no feelings to hurt?”

I put a hand over my chest, crushing the reflective Wayfarers tucked into the open V of my dress shirt. “Right to the heart. No, wait… I think you might be spot-on about this one.” Then I laugh, like being a soulless bloodsucker is
funny
. “Catch you la’ah, Reille. Keep your nose clean and your legs closed, a’right?”

With a wink and a grin, I head toward the VIP suite. When she doesn’t fire off a parting shot, I get the strangest sensation, and because I know how this whole snatch-and-grab distraction works, I start skimming my hands over my wrists and various pockets. When I’m sure everything is accounted for, I give my head a shake. The eerie sense of having
been had
sticks with me. Our little collision was just a little too friendly, a mite more amicable than I’m generally used to.

Eh, fuck it. I have better things—and people—to do tonight, as evidenced by the growing throng in the upper VIP deck. The minute I swing through the doorway, I snag a bottle of champagne out of a chiller and raise my voice.

“’Eyo, bitches.” Two shakes and a thumb under the cork yields a fountain of Cristal. “It’s my fuckin’ birthday, motherfuckers.”

There’s a general exclamation, a lot of laughing and jostling as a couple dozen faces all turn my way, women first, because let’s face it, it’s never “bros before hoes” in a room full of hookers and booze. The guys are mine, too, though. Connections and communications, all the friends and yes-men someone could ever want, all the worker bees a guy could ever need. Sharp suits, hot women, all the things that shine up nice in the dim light of Scion’s boojie faux-terior, but I’m the center of attention, and it’s kinda the way I like it.

Don’t let it fool you, though. I am nobody’s blue blood; I’m just really goddamn good at faking it.

In a trice, I’m surrounded by a crowd of people. There are handshakes and back slaps and well-wishes that I take with a good-natured smile.

Hit it and quit it.

“Trick!” One of the girls squeals my name and grips the Cristal bottle, lifting it from my fingers and taking a heavy swig; a second later, she’s sliding long, manicured nails against my scalp and pulling my head down for a champagne kiss. Now, there are vamps out there who can swallow down a few sips of the good stuff, but I’m not one of them, so when her wet mouth opens over mine, I make damn sure she gets all her bubbly back in trade. I just take the wolf whistles and howls, grinning wide and handing her off to the rabid crowd. Props to her for the effort, but anyone who tries to cram a mouthful of human food down my gullet is barking up the wrong fucking tree. She can go the hell home with someone else.

Shoulda just opened a vein, precious. Woulda had a better chance.

“Trick.” Matthias’s voice catches my attention.

I lift an arm as he sidles closer, throwing the heavy limb over his shoulders. People fall away from us; now that I’ve made my grand entrance, it’s back to the women, back to the celebration, because it’s all just one big excuse to throw a party. Hell, it’s not even my real birthday. It’s just a day, the same day every year, except that back in
my day
, there were too many rats in the gutter to remember each one’s specific date of birth. In all honesty, I’m not sure exactly how old I was when I got changed. Somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, if I had to take a guess. “I thought Xaine fired your ass.”

Matty scowls when he answers. “He did. Had to pay the cover charge to get in tonight.”

“You must have fucked up colossally for Xaine to have even
noticed
.” Not that I give a shit, but we try to take care of our own, and Matty unceremoniously becoming unemployed is going to cause a ripple in the family pond.

“Don’t look now,” he says, changing the subject, “but they all pitched in again.”

I heave a sigh. “Jesus-ass-Christ. How many of these bitches do I have to fuck before they stop buying me more bitches to fuck?”