Gemma Halliday - Fearless in High Heels

I nodded, thanking him for his time, even though I had the distinct feeling that last offer was a hollow one.

Especially if he was the blood drinker we were after.

The first thing I did when we got back to the car was dial Becca’s number. It rang seven times, then unfortunately went to voicemail, where I left her a message with my name and number, asking her if she could please call me back.

“So, what do we think of Fang?” Dana asked as I hung up.

That was a loaded question. I thought he was hiding something, for certain. But whether it was about Alexa’s death or his own unique drinking problem, I wasn’t sure. And adding to that uncertainty was the shiver still sitting mid-spine that his icy blue eyes had created. Dangerous, intense, seductive. Totally unnerving.

So instead I shrugged. “Question mark?”

“Good way of putting it,” Marco said, nodding in the passenger seat. “You can never be sure what vampires are capable of.”

Dana and I did a synchronized eye roll. “Seriously, Marco?” I said. “You can’t really believe there are vampires among us?”

Marco blinked at me in the rearview mirror. “Hello? Did you not hear the man? There are two-hundred and seventy-five thousand real vampires among us.”

“Two-hundred and seventy-five thousand weirdoes that claim to drink blood,” Dana clarified.

“Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe,” he annunciated, waving me off. “I’m still glad I’m wearing a turtleneck, because that guy – Hey, did you guys just roll your eyes at me?”

* * *

After all that eye-rolling and vampire questioning, I’d worked up an appetite. Luckily, there was an In-N-Out Burger conveniently situated just off Laurel Canyon, after a minimum of whining on my part about my starving baby, Dana agreed to stop.

Marco ordered a protein burger – meat, lettuce, tomato, no bun – saying he was watching his carb intake now that he was seeing Gunnar. Dana ordered water, saying that everything on the menu was loaded with fat and non-organic pesticides. I ordered a double, double with extra cheese, a side of animal style fries and a Neapolitan shake, saying nothing.

Marco looked at my tray. Back up at me. Back to the tray, then down at The Bump.

“Hey, the burger and fries are for the baby,” I explained. “I’m only eating the shake.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough.”

Once we’d fully consumed our lunch (me and Marco making little yummy sounds throughout and Dana making little disgusted sounds throughout), I stopped for a quick pee break, then we were back in Dana’s mustang.

I tried dialing Becca’s number again, but again got voicemail. This time I didn’t leave a message. Instead, I plugged the address into Dana’s GPS and we hit the freeway.

The address on the paper Sebastian had given us was just off Sunset, east of the 101. While Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood proper was full of souvenir stands and tourist stops, the east side was full of crumbling apartment buildings and trash can fires. The architecture here was mid-century modern meets eighties crack house, the glamorous homes of the semi-famous from Hollywood’s heyday having deteriorated into tenements that now housed rats the size of purse-dogs. If this is where Becca was living, it was clear that the vampire gig wasn’t a big money maker.

Becca’s building was a square block of concrete set between an adult film shop and a liquor store having a sale on Marlborough cartons. We circled the block, then found a spot on the street two buildings down. Dana beeped the car alarm twice, just for good measure, and said a small prayer that her baby would still be there when we got back, before following Marco and me into the lobby of Becca’s building.

The floor was a cracked linoleum, the walls a dull grey, and the scent a mix of urine and Chinese take-out. A set of stairs sat to the right and an elevator to the left. Unfortunately, the elevator held a cardboard sign with the words “Out of order” written across it in sharpie. Fab.

“What floor does Becca live on?” I asked, eyeing the stairs versus my wedges.

Dana checked the paper again. “Unit Four-seventeen.”

Fourth floor. Sigh.

“Okay, let’s get this over with,” I huffed, taking the first flight just a step behind Dana and Marco.

By flight number two, I was feeling the burden of carrying fifteen extra pounds. By flight number three, I was getting winded. By flight number four, I felt like a hippo was sitting on my chest, and I was carrying hundred pound barbells on my shoulders.

“I (pant) hate (pant) stairs (pant, pant).”

“You okay?” Dana asked, concern puckering her brow.

“You’re not gonna drop a baby on us here. Are you?” Marco asked, panic in his eyes.

I shook my head. “I’m fine. I just need (pant, pant) a second.”

“I think it’s just down here,” Dana reassured me, indicating a hallway to our right filled with closed doors and painted-on numbers.

I did a couple of deep Lamaze breaths to slow my panting, then followed her until she stopped at four-seventeen, a unit at the end of the corridor near a garbage chute that reeked of diapers and rotting food. I quickly plugged my nose. It nature’s cruel trick on the pregnant that just when you’re the most queasy you’ve ever been in your life, your sense of smell suddenly goes into hyper drive, picking up every lovely nuance of scent.

Dana shot me another look. “You okay?”

“I’b fine,” I said, sounding like I had the mother of all colds. “Let’s do dis.”

Dana nodded, knocking on the door. We waited, listening to silence on the other side. Nothing.

Dana knocked again, as I breathed heavily through my mouth, willing my gag reflex not to engage.

Again, no answer.

“Maybe she’s not home,” Dana suggested, putting an ear to the door to listen for sounds.

But I wasn’t ready to give up that easily. I’d just climbed up four flights of stairs. I was not going home empty-handed. I knocked with my free hand, waited a two-count, then tried the door handle.

What do you know, it turned easily in my hand.

Dana and Marco both registered my own mix of surprise and concern on their faces. This was not a good sign. No one in this neighborhood would leave their front door unlocked. In fact, no one I knew in L.A. left the door unlocked at all – even when they were home.

I carefully pushed it open a crack.

“Hello?” I called out. “Becca?”

No one answered.

“Becca? Are you here?” I opened the door all the way, taking a tentative step into the room.

And froze.

The place was trashed. Sofa cushions tossed, tables upended, lamps knocked over, kitchen cupboard contents littered all over the floor.

Someone had clearly beaten us here.

“Becca?” I called out again, noting the panic edging into my voice.

I moved into the apartment, stepping over the mess as I heard Dana and Marco do the same behind me.

Marco whistled low. “Oh, honey, someone has done a number on this place.”

No kidding.

The living room was small, roughly the size of my closet, with an equally doll-house sized kitchen attached at one end. A stove, refrigerator and oven took up the entire kitchen, looking rusted and worse for the wear above more ripped linoleum to match the lobby. Beyond the living space sat a doorway leading to what I guessed was a bedroom. I gingerly stepped over a couple of broken picture frames and sofa cushions toward it.

“Becca?” I called out again. “Are you here?” Though, honestly, I didn’t expect an answer. If she was here, she clearly would have heard us in the shoebox apartment by now. But I found myself holding my breath anyway as I peeked my head around the doorframe.

As expected it was a bedroom, holding a twin bed and a scarred wooden dresser. Only the bed had been stripped of its linens, the contents left in a heap on the floor along with a couple of pillows that were molting down feathers from their busted seams. The dresser drawers were open, clothes spilling onto the floor.

“She in here?” Dana called, coming into the room behind me.

I shook my head. “No. It’s empty.” And so was, I noticed, her closet. The tiny cubby hole held a single wooden bar where only a couple of wire hangers sat. Someone had cleaned out Becca’s belongings in a hurry.

“The bathroom is empty,” Marco called, his head popping into the doorway. “And her make-up is gone, too.”

Which all added up to one thing, I realized with a sinking sensation in my stomach: our number one suspect was MIA.

* * *

I arrived home to a note on the kitchen table saying Ramirez would be out late (bummer), but that his mother had brought over some enchiladas that were in the fridge. (yay!) I immediately pulled out a casserole dish that smelled like chilies, cumin, and cilantro and popped it into the microwave to reheat. A little sour cream and a mashed up avocado later, and I was in heaven. I was just going into a food orgasm when the doorbell trilled.

I reluctantly left my feast and opened the door to find my mom and step-dad on the other side.

“How’s my grandbaby doing?” Mom asked my belly, immediately putting two hands on The Bump.

“I’m doing great. Thanks for asking.”

Mom’s eyes shot up to mine. “Oh. Sorry. I’m just so excited to meet him,” she said, making little cutsie faces at my belly.

“How’s our preggo princess feeling, dahling?” my step-dad asked from behind her. Ralph, or Faux Dad, as I’d affectingly dubbed him, was the owner of Fernando’s Salon, believed unwaveringly in the uses of spray tans and Botox, and had shocked the entire world when he’d married my mom, dispelling everyone’s beliefs that he was gay (mine included). While Faux Dad was what is generally referred to as a “character” in Beverly Hills, he was a sweet guy, made my mom happy, and gave me all the free pedicures I wanted. So I had to love the guy.