anything to do with fitting into those Crewcuts.
“There is no way,” Meena said, fighting for inner patience, “that Taylor”—Taylor Mackenzie was the actress who played Tabby—“is going to agree to play a vampire bride.”
Taylor had recently gone on a macrobiotic diet and hired a personal trainer, shrinking herself down to Shoshona’s size. Although Taylor was delighted about this—and the attention the tabloids were paying to her because of it—she needed to watch out if she too didn’t want to end up in a coffin … something Meena had been trying to warn her about by leaving large deli sandwiches in her dressing room. Not exactly subtle, but the best Meena could do.
“Tabby will like it if the network tells her to,” Shoshona said. “This is what ABN wants.”
Meena was trying very hard not to grit her teeth. Her dentist had already chastised her for doing this in her sleep and prescribed her a mouth guard. Meena dreaded wearing it, because it wasn’t exactly the most romantic thing to show up wearing to bed. She looked like a hockey goalie.
But it was that, the dentist said, or a new, less stressful job.
And there were none of those to be found. At least not in television writing.
And since Meena was currently sleeping alone, she guessed it didn’t matter what she looked like anyway.
“Cheryl isn’t going to like it,” Meena warned them. Cheryl was the veteran actress who’d played Victoria Worthington Stone for the past thirty years. “You know she’s been hoping this is the year she’ll finally get that Emmy.”
Thirty years, ten marriages, four miscarriages, one abortion, two murders, six kidnappings, and an evil twin later, and Cheryl Trent still had never won a single Daytime Emmy.
It was a crime, in Meena’s opinion. Not just because Meena was one of Cheryl’s biggest fans and getting to write for her was the thrill of a lifetime, but because Cheryl was one of the nicest ladies Meena had ever met.
And part of Meena’s plan, in the story line she’d submitted to Sy—but which he’d just passed over for Shoshona’s vampire plot—had been for Victoria Worthington Stone to fall for Tabby’s new boyfriend’s father, a bitter police chief Victoria was going to help reunite with his wayward son … giving Cheryl a sure shot at that golden statuette for which she so longed.
But a vampire story line? No one was going to be handing out Emmies for that.
“Yeah, well,” Shoshona said, narrowing her eyes at Meena, “Cheryl can cry me a river.”
Meena’s jaw dropped. This was the thanks she got for having saved Shoshona’s butt so many times with her late scripts?
Why had she even bothered?
“I love it,” Sy said, snapping his fingers. “Run it past your aunt and uncle. I gotta go, I’ve got a meeting.” He stood up.
“Sy,” Meena said. Her mouth felt dry.
“What?” He looked annoyed.
“Don’t …”
There were so many things she wanted to say. Felt as if she had to say. For the good of her soul. For the good of the show. For the good of the country as a whole.
Instead, she just said, “Don’t take Fifth. There’s congestion. I heard it on 1010 Wins. Have the cabbie take Park.”
Sy’s face relaxed. “Thanks, Harper,” he said. “Finally, something useful out of you.” Then he turned and left the room.
Meena swiveled her head to stare daggers at Shoshona.
Not because she was irritated that she’d just saved Sy’s life—if he took Fifth, his cab would, indeed, meet with congestion that would so irritate him, he’d get out and walk, causing him to jaywalk injudiciously at Forty-seventh and be struck by a Fresh Direct truck—and he wasn’t the least bit grateful, but because she knew what “Run it past it your aunt and uncle” meant.
It meant Shoshona had won.
“Vampires,” Meena said. “Real original, Metzenbaum.”
Shoshona stood up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Get over it, Harper. They’re everywhere. You can’t escape them.”
She turned and walked out.
And for the first time, Meena noticed the gem-encrusted dragon on the side of Shoshona’s tote.
No. It couldn’t be.
But it was.
The Marc Jacobs tote Meena had secretly been lusting after for half a year but denying herself because it cost $5,000.
And no way could Meena afford—or justify spending—that much money on a bag.
And, all right, Shoshona had it in aquamarine, not the ruby red that would perfectly round out Meena’s wardrobe.
But still.
Meena stared after her, grinding her teeth.
Now she was going to have no choice but to make an emergency run at lunch to CVS in order to restock her secret candy drawer.
Chapter Seven
12:00 P.M. EST, Tuesday, April 13
Walmart parking lot
Chattanooga, TN
Alaric Wulf didn’t consider himself a snob. Far from it.
If anyone back at the office ever bothered to ask—and, with the exception of his partner, Martin, none of those ingrates ever had—Alaric would have pointed out that for the first fifteen of his thirty-five years, he’d lived in abject poverty, eating only when his various stepfathers won enough money at the track, and then only if there was enough cash left over for food after his drug-addicted mother was done scoring.
And so Alaric had chosen to live on the streets (and off his wits) in his native Zurich, until child services caught him and forced him go to a group home, where he’d been surprised to find himself much better cared for by strangers than he’d ever been by his own family.
It was in the group home that Alaric had been brought to the attention of, and eventually recruited by, the Palatine Guard, thanks to what turned out to be a strong sword arm, unerring aim, an innate aptitude for languages, and the fact that nothing—not his stepfathers, social workers, priests who claimed to have the voice of God whispering in their ear, or blood-sucking vampires—intimidated (or impressed) him.
Now Alaric slept on eight-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets every night, drove an Audi R8, and routinely dined on favorite dishes like foie gras and duck confit. His suits were all Italian, and he wouldn’t have dreamed of donning a shirt that hadn’t been hand pressed. He enjoyed swimming a hundred laps, then sitting in the sauna every morning at the gym; had an active sex life with numerous attractive and cultured women who knew nothing
