Every scary movie she’d ever seen had come to life in front of her very eyes. Teeth, fur, growling, howling, skin morphing and melting away, clothes ripping, all of it should have left her in fear for her life, and yet…
Dex tipped her chin up, peered at her and asked again, “George? Do you believe me now?”
She looked into his eyes—dreamy whiskey dark eyes you could get lost in, if she were truthful. But she’d never allowed herself to get lost in them because she thought they were gay, and again, if there was anything she wasn’t, it was one of those women who was convinced she could turn a gay man straight.
She’d done plenty of embarrassing, clumsy things in her life, but that particular foolishness would not be on her life’s resume.
George accepted everyone as they were. And while Dex had never told her he was gay, in fairness, she’d never asked. She’d simply assumed because he’d never made a move on her. He’d never even flirted with her, so…
She’d not only jumped to the conclusion that because she didn’t appeal to Dex in that way, he was gay. Rather than simply considering she might not be his type. Either way, she’d jumped to stereotypical conclusions she was deeply ashamed about now.
“Is she high?” the astoundingly gorgeous, dark-haired woman in jeans and a sweatshirt by the name of Nina asked. “Because for fuck’s sake, what else does she need to see, Dex? I lifted a damn SUV over my head with one hand, Marty’s shed every last damn furball on the planet, Wanda’s spinster shirt is ripped to shreds after that monumental-ass shift, and this trick’s sitting here like she just watched us fucking play golf.”
Wanda—clear-skinned, bright-eyed, and beautifully elegant—made a face at Nina, wrinkling her nose.
Her finely boned hand went to the modest opening of her silky seafoam-colored shirt. “My blouse is not spinsterish, thank you very much. You’ve got a lot of nerve saying that while wearing that disgrace of a sweatshirt, Elvira.”
George glanced up at Nina’s black sweatshirt that read, On your mark, get set, go fuck yourself, and fought a giggle…until she remembered Nina thought she might be high.
Frowning, she looked directly into the vampire’s eyes. “I most certainly am not high, Lady Vampire. My job requires drug testing every month. I don’t do drugs. Ever.”
There were several reasons that particular question offended her—and that was no one’s business but George’s.
Marty of the long blonde hair with zillions of strategically placed highlights, sapphire-blue eyes, and a makeup job you could only get from a Sephora employee, took George’s hand, her skin warm and soft.
“George, I feel like none of this is registering. Are you okay, honey?”
George stared back at her, amazed at how perfectly her false eyelashes lined up on her eyelid. She could never get hers to do that.
Blinking again, she said, “I’m fine. Really.”
“And you’re not at all upset about what you just saw?” Wanda asked, peering at her with an intense yet strangely sympathetic light blue gaze.
Upset obviously had varying shades. She must still be in the lighter shades because she wasn’t upset at all. “Why would I be upset that you guys are vampires and werewolves? In today’s day and age, you can be whatever you want to be. I want everyone to be happy, and if being vampires and werewolves makes you guys happy, then I’m happy, too.” She tacked on a smile for good measure in case they thought she didn’t mean it, folding her hands in her lap.
Nina looked to Dex, her coal-colored eyes narrowed in skepticism before scooping up Marty’s dog Muffin from the floor and setting her on her lap. “You sure she’s not high, Dex? Drunk, maybe? You like to drink, George? Maybe a little Pinot at night before you curl up with your cats?” she asked with a salacious wink.
George made a face at the woman and rolled her eyes. “I don’t have cats. I have a dog. Her name is Gladys. She’s a big oaf of a senior, part Golden Retriever, part Cane Corso. She’s a huge and goofy one-hundred and twenty pounds. I love cats, I just don’t have one. And for future reference, I don’t like Pinot. I like Merlot. And why do you keep asking me that? I’m going to say this one more time before I get really offended, Vampire Lady. I’m not drunk or high,” she insisted.
She didn’t get irritated often, but that question was starting to really bug her.
One drink too many the second time in her entire life and she was suddenly a substance abuser? Jeez.
Nina leaned forward on the couch and flashed her fangs antagonistically at George. “It’s my job to check and be sure you’re fucking grounded in reality—not buzzed on cush or booze. And if you’re not one of those things, what the fuck are you? You should be in a ball in a corner, rocking back and forth because now you know the truth about the paranormal.”
George suddenly giggled again, giving the cute poodle named Muffin a scratch. “This feels like an episode of The X-Files. The truth is out there,” she said in her best booming, spooky narrator’s voice. Then she paused from running her fingers under the poodle’s chin. “Hey, hey. Hold on. What do you mean it’s your job to make sure I’m not high? Are you a narc and a vampire?”
The beautiful woman rolled her eyes. “Ain’t you fuckin’ Law and Order hip? No, I’m not a narc, halfwit. I’m a paranormal counselor or some such sensitive malarkey. Ask the other two nimrods what our job title is. I’m only here because they force my ass to be here.”
Wanda frowned in a matronly way, disapproving and sour. She scooted over on the sectional sofa and pinched Nina’s arm. “That’s absolutely not true. This was and always has been a group effort. Stop making George feel unwelcome. We’re
