A Cursed Moon: A Weird Girls Novella (A Penguin Special from Signet Eclipse) by Cecy Robson Page B
Authors: Cecy Robson
Ads: Link
liked them. “Thanks, Ed.”
Celia sat on the stool next to me and crossed her legs. “I didn’t bring them. Misha popped a blood vessel when I told him about our tussle with La
Llorona and her babies.” She lifted a beer from the bucket and motioned with it to the dance floor. “I give you my bodyguards for the night.”
The vamp with the pigtails wrapped her legs around some frat boy and rode him like a Budweiser Clydesdale. His buddies whooped and pump their fists, oblivious to the fact there pal was just another morsel with legs. I laughed. “That’s one hell of a team you got there, Ceel. Can I request their services next time my body needs a guardin’?”
“Believe me, I tried to ditch them, but they shadowed me here.”
I took a long pull of my beer. “Freak-ass spirit or not, your buds there would’ve come along. Misha doesn’t strike me as the trusting sort. Betcha my next paycheck he wants to keep an eye on you.”
“You’re right. But he means well enough.” She took another glance at the good Catholics. “Despite who he insists watches out for me.”
A word to the wise: never trust a vampire. “Ceel, I don’t like how chummy you and that prick are getting. Vamps are only out for themselves. Whatever the hell is going on between you two, don’t fool yourself into thinking Misha’s more than he is or that he wouldn’t throw you to a pride of werelions to save his ass.”
“I’m not stupid, Bren. I know Misha’s out for Misha.” Celia wouldn’t look at me when she spoke; instead she stared off into the crowd of sweat-soaked and dancing bodies. “But he’s not so bad. He does have a heart.”
I swore in my head, not crazy about her growing endearment toward the idiot. I hated her living with Misha. Hell, I hated her talking to him, but I knew better than to push. Unlike most others I could’ve intimidated, Celia pushed back—
hard
. For all five feet three, she was a strong little thing.
“So why are the she-vamps dressed in those uniforms?” I asked in order to change the subject.
“They always dress like that.” She shrugged and tried to hide her smirk. “Misha says it’s because they’re good Catholics.”
I finished my bottle and reached for another when Celia jumped hard enough to slosh her beer across her dark jeans. Her eyes widened as they cut through the crowd and fixed on the steps leading down to the dance floor and, good
God
. . . I almost shit myself.
Dan. My roommate. My buddy. My BFF for life looked as if he’d been attacked by a mob of John Travoltas.
He took in the sea of bodies below him and bounced his head—off beat mind you—to some Maroon Five remix as if gathering his courage. And hell, he needed it to survive the catastrophic getup hugging his skinny ass and scrawny form.
Celia blinked, watching Dan’s head bop and zigzag on his shoulders like a rooster in midstride. “Is that . . . is that a leisure suit he’s wearing?” she managed to spit out. I nodded like a dumbass, still mesmerized by the amount of polyester covering his body. “Are ”—she swallowed hard—“are the seventies, like, back?”
She wasn’t asking me. She was begging me to tell her yes. “If they are, I’m going to track the asshole who brought ’em back and beat his ass.”
Dan adjusted the extra wide lapels of his baby blue suit and smoothed the collar of his matching silk shirt. Jesus, he even had a paisley hanky shoved into his breast pocket.
And because the look didn’t scream “I’ve never had my cherry popped and never will” enough, Dan had attempted to slick back the Brillo pad of curls he called hair.
The hair flattened out on the sides but only partially on top. Fantastic. All he’d managed to do was mullet his ass. His face lit up and he waved when he saw us.
Celia clasped her hand over her mouth in horror. “You can’t do this to him, Bren. You can’t have him try to get laid in this . . .
ensemble
.”
Humor drove through
Celia sat on the stool next to me and crossed her legs. “I didn’t bring them. Misha popped a blood vessel when I told him about our tussle with La
Llorona and her babies.” She lifted a beer from the bucket and motioned with it to the dance floor. “I give you my bodyguards for the night.”
The vamp with the pigtails wrapped her legs around some frat boy and rode him like a Budweiser Clydesdale. His buddies whooped and pump their fists, oblivious to the fact there pal was just another morsel with legs. I laughed. “That’s one hell of a team you got there, Ceel. Can I request their services next time my body needs a guardin’?”
“Believe me, I tried to ditch them, but they shadowed me here.”
I took a long pull of my beer. “Freak-ass spirit or not, your buds there would’ve come along. Misha doesn’t strike me as the trusting sort. Betcha my next paycheck he wants to keep an eye on you.”
“You’re right. But he means well enough.” She took another glance at the good Catholics. “Despite who he insists watches out for me.”
A word to the wise: never trust a vampire. “Ceel, I don’t like how chummy you and that prick are getting. Vamps are only out for themselves. Whatever the hell is going on between you two, don’t fool yourself into thinking Misha’s more than he is or that he wouldn’t throw you to a pride of werelions to save his ass.”
“I’m not stupid, Bren. I know Misha’s out for Misha.” Celia wouldn’t look at me when she spoke; instead she stared off into the crowd of sweat-soaked and dancing bodies. “But he’s not so bad. He does have a heart.”
I swore in my head, not crazy about her growing endearment toward the idiot. I hated her living with Misha. Hell, I hated her talking to him, but I knew better than to push. Unlike most others I could’ve intimidated, Celia pushed back—
hard
. For all five feet three, she was a strong little thing.
“So why are the she-vamps dressed in those uniforms?” I asked in order to change the subject.
“They always dress like that.” She shrugged and tried to hide her smirk. “Misha says it’s because they’re good Catholics.”
I finished my bottle and reached for another when Celia jumped hard enough to slosh her beer across her dark jeans. Her eyes widened as they cut through the crowd and fixed on the steps leading down to the dance floor and, good
God
. . . I almost shit myself.
Dan. My roommate. My buddy. My BFF for life looked as if he’d been attacked by a mob of John Travoltas.
He took in the sea of bodies below him and bounced his head—off beat mind you—to some Maroon Five remix as if gathering his courage. And hell, he needed it to survive the catastrophic getup hugging his skinny ass and scrawny form.
Celia blinked, watching Dan’s head bop and zigzag on his shoulders like a rooster in midstride. “Is that . . . is that a leisure suit he’s wearing?” she managed to spit out. I nodded like a dumbass, still mesmerized by the amount of polyester covering his body. “Are ”—she swallowed hard—“are the seventies, like, back?”
She wasn’t asking me. She was begging me to tell her yes. “If they are, I’m going to track the asshole who brought ’em back and beat his ass.”
Dan adjusted the extra wide lapels of his baby blue suit and smoothed the collar of his matching silk shirt. Jesus, he even had a paisley hanky shoved into his breast pocket.
And because the look didn’t scream “I’ve never had my cherry popped and never will” enough, Dan had attempted to slick back the Brillo pad of curls he called hair.
The hair flattened out on the sides but only partially on top. Fantastic. All he’d managed to do was mullet his ass. His face lit up and he waved when he saw us.
Celia clasped her hand over her mouth in horror. “You can’t do this to him, Bren. You can’t have him try to get laid in this . . .
ensemble
.”
Humor drove through
Similar Books
