To Catch a Vampire by Jennifer Harlow Page A

becomes “the Church” every Thursday and Sunday night. This was Donna Zahn’s last known location. There’s a line halfway around the building consisting of the biggest group of Goths this side of a Marilyn Manson concert. For people who shun conformity, they sure do all look alike. Black, white, or rainbow hair. Mesh shirts, black trench coats, and dog collars as far as the eye can see. This is the first place tonight where I’m the conservative one.
    Judging from the length of the line and my limited experience at clubs, it’ll be two hours before we reach the door. By then my feet will turn gangrenous and have to be amputated. Oliver crosses the street with me close behind, but instead of joining the line, we walk right up to the linebacker at the door. The teenagers in line scoff and roll their eyes as I would too. I always hated the genetic lottery winners who get special privileges, but my feet hurt and I’ll be a hypocrite if it gets me off them sooner. Sure enough, the bouncer takes one look at Oliver and parts the velvet rope.
    “Go right in,” the bouncer says.
    “Thank you,” Oliver says, passing through. As I walk behind, the bouncer gives me the once over. He’s not impressed. I’m an impostor, and I can’t even fool a bouncer.
    The entranceway is packed with black-clad people who match the walls. Some wear capes, others miniskirts and tube tops. A girl with a purple halter top adorned with white, bats eyes at Oliver, licking her lips. This is so commonplace he doesn’t even notice. As we maneuver through the crowd, other women and even men watch him. Me they don’t even notice, except when I step on their feet. We make it to the coat check, turning over jackets and helmets. The music booms so loud I can feel each beat down to my marrow. A beautiful, tall blonde wearing a red tube dress breezes past. She winks. Oliver apprizes her, winking back and licking his lips. Then just as slut one vanishes, her evil twin does the same thing, garnering the same response from my fake husband. I see the same color red as that woman’s lips. That’s it.
    Now, I am not the possessive type. I’m really not. When women flirted with my ex Steven, I shrugged it off. I didn’t even care when he flirted back. But this time … He wants a whore, I’ll damn well give him one. I grab his arm, dragging him to the wall next to the dance floor entrance.
    “What?” he shouts over the music.
    I move in right next to him, putting his arm around my waist. He looks surprised. Not as surprised as when I put my hand in his back pocket. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. Now, let’s have some fun, pookie .”
    A gothic mix of the Gorillaz “Dare” begins as we walk in. The club is perfect for the Goth set with black walls, chandeliers, stained glass windows, and heavy red velvet curtains on the walls. A disco ball twirls above, and off to the side nubile young things gyrate on stripper poles. On the far wall near the DJ, The Hunger plays. Catherine Deneuve and Susan Sarandon kiss and caress on the screen. The room smells of stale sweat and a butt load of pheromones that I’m sure I’ll blame for what I do next.
    I lead my man to the dance floor, giving his gorgeous butt a pinch before pulling my hand out. Oliver looks at me as if I’m a stranger. With a grin, I start dancing—well, as best I can in these freaking heels. Everything but my feet move in time to the music. Hips pivot side to side in time to the music. I raise my arms above my head, hands swinging with my hips. Oliver doesn’t move for a few moments with that “she’s possessed by the devil” look. I swing everything: arms, hands, hair, hips. My hands find my hair, and I fan my fingers out in it. The hair falls on my exposed shoulders, tickling me. Using my knees, I bend down, still grooving side to side, and then slowly gyrate back up trailing my finger up Oliver’s leather pants, chest, and slightly parted lips. Meeting his eyes, I