Read Online Your Coffin or Mine? by Kimberly Raye - Free Book Online
Authors: Kimberly Raye
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looking like a premenstrual woman in a Godiva store. Not a good sign for someone who processes dead bodies for a living. But the wedding bug could bite even the most serious, levelheaded individual.
I’d seen it firsthand when one of my best friends, Nina Two of the infamous Ninas, had married a born vampire named Wilson just last year. Always sane and levelheaded, Nina had morphed into a raving lunatic weeks before the commitment ceremony. She’d gone on a binge to find the perfect blue napkins. That would be cerulean, not indigo or cornflower or any other shade out there. Personally, I would have gone with silver and called it a day. But not Nina. She’d been determined. Excited. Obsessed.
My gaze swiveled to Mandy and the crazed light in her eyes. Ditto. “Now remember,” I told her, “look at all the details of the dress, picture yourself in it. We’ll ex the losers and try on the keepers.”
“Got it,” she told me, giving another vigorous nod.
Shirley turned back to us and the fashion show continued.
“It’s great,” Mandy said when the woman held up prospect number two. “Definitely a keeper.”
Harriet Dupree nodded. “Positively lovely.”
Shirley added it to the first one to be tried on, and then held up number three.
“Oh. My. God. Gotta have it,” Mandy declared.
“Yep, that one’s really lovely.”
Enter number four.
“Have you ever seen so much beading? I adore beads. That’s definitely a keeper.”
“Yes, beads are truly lovely.”
“Oh, and tulle. I LOVE tulle. I need that one, too.”
“Yes, we must try that, as well.”
Mandy and her mother continued to salivate while I reached for another Jell-O shot.
It was going to be a long night.
Nine
M andy tried on forty-eight dresses. No, really. In fact, she would have tried on forty-nine or even one hundred and forty-nine, but Shirley’s Back to the 1980s collection tipped the scales at forty-eight, so that’s where Mandy stopped. Needless to say, she hadn’t picked one in particular. They were all beautiful. Perfect.
Meanwhile, I had sucked down six Jell-O shots, which explained the blurry doorknob and the moving keyhole when I arrived home a good hour before daybreak.
I jabbed at the hole once, twice, three times before closing my eyes and giving myself a mental pep talk.
Easy. Take your time. You can do it. Just concentrate. And whatever you do, don’t throw up.
Yes, vampires could blow chunks like anyone else. Actually, we could do it better than everyone else because our metabolism is extremely delicate and if our bodies don’t like something, then step aside Old Faithful.
Alcohol, like other fluids, doesn’t bother us so much. But green apple Jell-O? And grape? And cherry? That seemed to be a different story entirely. I was dangerously close to tossing right then and there. That, or passing out if I didn’t get to sit down sometime before the New Year.
CNN blasted from my neighbor’s television and blared in my ears, making my head throb that much more. Reality check: The whole afterlife experience for vamps is magnified tenfold. When we’re hungry, we’re ravenous. When we’re sad (a rarity for most vamps with the exception of yours truly), we could cry enough to hydrate a From Fat to Fit camp. When we’re angry, we’re talking remember the Alamo. And when we have a massive headache from too many Jell-O shots? Move over Tylenol and pass the Vicodin.
I narrowed my eyes and stabbed at the keyhole again. Bingo. A few seconds later, I kicked off my shoes as I walked the few feet to my bedroom. I contemplated checking my cell messages (I’d turned off the phone while at Wedding Wonderland), but quickly decided against it. I’d barely managed to fit the key in my front door. Punching itty-bitty buttons on my Razor was out of the question. I had peeled off my clothes during the last few steps. I didn’t bother with lights (it’s not like I really needed them) and I didn’t bother with lingerie. I
I’d seen it firsthand when one of my best friends, Nina Two of the infamous Ninas, had married a born vampire named Wilson just last year. Always sane and levelheaded, Nina had morphed into a raving lunatic weeks before the commitment ceremony. She’d gone on a binge to find the perfect blue napkins. That would be cerulean, not indigo or cornflower or any other shade out there. Personally, I would have gone with silver and called it a day. But not Nina. She’d been determined. Excited. Obsessed.
My gaze swiveled to Mandy and the crazed light in her eyes. Ditto. “Now remember,” I told her, “look at all the details of the dress, picture yourself in it. We’ll ex the losers and try on the keepers.”
“Got it,” she told me, giving another vigorous nod.
Shirley turned back to us and the fashion show continued.
“It’s great,” Mandy said when the woman held up prospect number two. “Definitely a keeper.”
Harriet Dupree nodded. “Positively lovely.”
Shirley added it to the first one to be tried on, and then held up number three.
“Oh. My. God. Gotta have it,” Mandy declared.
“Yep, that one’s really lovely.”
Enter number four.
“Have you ever seen so much beading? I adore beads. That’s definitely a keeper.”
“Yes, beads are truly lovely.”
“Oh, and tulle. I LOVE tulle. I need that one, too.”
“Yes, we must try that, as well.”
Mandy and her mother continued to salivate while I reached for another Jell-O shot.
It was going to be a long night.
Nine
M andy tried on forty-eight dresses. No, really. In fact, she would have tried on forty-nine or even one hundred and forty-nine, but Shirley’s Back to the 1980s collection tipped the scales at forty-eight, so that’s where Mandy stopped. Needless to say, she hadn’t picked one in particular. They were all beautiful. Perfect.
Meanwhile, I had sucked down six Jell-O shots, which explained the blurry doorknob and the moving keyhole when I arrived home a good hour before daybreak.
I jabbed at the hole once, twice, three times before closing my eyes and giving myself a mental pep talk.
Easy. Take your time. You can do it. Just concentrate. And whatever you do, don’t throw up.
Yes, vampires could blow chunks like anyone else. Actually, we could do it better than everyone else because our metabolism is extremely delicate and if our bodies don’t like something, then step aside Old Faithful.
Alcohol, like other fluids, doesn’t bother us so much. But green apple Jell-O? And grape? And cherry? That seemed to be a different story entirely. I was dangerously close to tossing right then and there. That, or passing out if I didn’t get to sit down sometime before the New Year.
CNN blasted from my neighbor’s television and blared in my ears, making my head throb that much more. Reality check: The whole afterlife experience for vamps is magnified tenfold. When we’re hungry, we’re ravenous. When we’re sad (a rarity for most vamps with the exception of yours truly), we could cry enough to hydrate a From Fat to Fit camp. When we’re angry, we’re talking remember the Alamo. And when we have a massive headache from too many Jell-O shots? Move over Tylenol and pass the Vicodin.
I narrowed my eyes and stabbed at the keyhole again. Bingo. A few seconds later, I kicked off my shoes as I walked the few feet to my bedroom. I contemplated checking my cell messages (I’d turned off the phone while at Wedding Wonderland), but quickly decided against it. I’d barely managed to fit the key in my front door. Punching itty-bitty buttons on my Razor was out of the question. I had peeled off my clothes during the last few steps. I didn’t bother with lights (it’s not like I really needed them) and I didn’t bother with lingerie. I
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