Fangs for Nothing (The Fangover 2)

But as If I Could Turn Back Time Cher gave her a wide smile and a salute, then turned her thong-exposed ass toward her as they all left the kitchen, Josie Lynn decided it was too late to worry about that now.

She had to worry about finishing this party with a bang.

Bang, bang, he shot me down.

Wasn’t that a Cher song? Well, she sure as hell wasn’t getting shot down. She headed back to the counter and her work. The turnovers should be almost done.

When she approached the workspace, she noticed a glass of punch that hadn’t been there earlier. Had Ashley or Eric brought it for her? She looked at the frothy, oddly colored mixture, hating to admit, because she’d made it, that it looked awful.

She tucked the money into the pocket of her black work pants, then reached for the glass of punch. Maybe it tasted better than it looked.

She took a tentative sip, then grimaced.

Nope. No better. It was sweet and slimy. With a strange, bitter aftertaste.

Oh well, she couldn’t take the blame for that one. She’d made it to the groom’s specifications.

She set the glass aside, smacking her lips again in aversion, then reached for the mixing bowl of yogurt sauce. But she misjudged and stuck her hand right into the white dip.

“Oh my God,” she muttered. What was wrong with her?

She extended her clean hand toward the paper towels, but when she was sure her fingers should connect with them, they grabbed air. Frowning, she really focused her eyes on the roll and tried again. Again she missed them.

What the hell? She moved her gaze from the towels to the rest of the room. The whole kitchen seemed to swim before her eyes. She felt instantly dizzy and had to steady herself against the counter.

Panic filled her chest, making it hard to breathe. What was wrong with her? She needed to get help. She started to head toward the courtyard, but paused to lean heavily against the counter again. She couldn’t go out into the wedding weaving and confused. That would be the end of this job for her.

But she needed help. She forced her disobedient fingers into her pocket and tugged out her cell phone only for it to slip out of her hand and to the tile floor. She gripped the edge of the table to steady herself as she bent down to pick it up, but just as she would have fallen face-first on the floor, someone caught her.

She looked up at her savior. The pirate. Damn, he was so good-looking.

“You are so good-looking.” Crap, did she just say that aloud? She thought she had. The words might have been thick and slurred in her mouth, but she did think she’d said them. And he understood, because a big, almost lazy smile turned up his lips.

“So good-looking,” she repeated as if she couldn’t control herself.

She couldn’t control herself. She leaned heavily against him. His arms moved tighter around her.

“Thank you, gorgeousth,” he said, his words sounding as slurred as her own. She felt his hands on her back, sliding downward. And his lips on her neck, warm and wonderful.

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, loving the feeling of him against her, kissing her. She opened her eyes, focusing just briefly on the industrial fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Then everything swirled and blurred, except the pirate’s pleasurable touch. Then she drifted, lost in a confusing haze.

Chapter Five

DUNGEONS AND DRAG QUEENS

DAMMIT, Drake thought, did these bitches have to wake him up the same way every goddamn morning? He was really tired of getting a boot to the ass as a wakeup call. And this kick was particularly forceful this morning. Not to mention whoever did the kicking had an unusually large foot and one sturdy boot.

He groaned, letting his head fall to the side as he struggled to stay asleep, willing his body to just move with the sway of the ship. The longer he slept the less he had to deal with his situation. He made another noise low in his throat. His shoulders and wrists ached from the manacles. But even worse than that was his head—it throbbed, an almost crippling pain ricocheting around his skull. Probably from dehydration and lack of sleep.

But none of this was new; he’d existed like this for . . . he’d lost count of the days. Being held in the dank hold, surrounded by stench and sickness, the days and nights running together. All he knew for sure was it felt endless.

He let his head loll to the side. More aching muscles. More pounding in his head. But even through the pain, he did register that the hold didn’t smell as awful as usual. Nor did he hear the customary coughs and retching of the other prisoners. Why?

It didn’t matter, really. He still felt wretched and he was still restrained. A state that had gone on for an eternity with no end in sight.

Eternity. Eternity?

The word joined the pain in his head, bouncing around, causing no agony, just questions. Why did that word seem so significant? He wished he didn’t feel so miserable and he could focus. Eternity.

Then slowly the explanation came back to him like a floodgate had been jimmied open, and memories rushed in.

The captain of this prison ship was female, and she was . . .

“A vampire,” he said aloud before he could stop himself.

Another kick landed against his backside—this strike even harder than the first.

Shit, had one of the crew just heard him? Did they think he intended to reveal their secret? He knew that would mean certain death, and he had no intention of letting the truth about his captors be known. He didn’t want to die. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be a vampire either. But all he knew at this moment was that he did not want to die.

He needed to be sure whoever heard him knew that. He wasn’t a thief, even though that was the accusation that had brought him to this hideous state. Nor was he a traitor. He’d vowed to the captain he would never expose the crew’s secret if she spared him. Was that why it was quiet down here? Had the crew fed on the other prisoners? Shit, he had to scramble to make sure his confused slip of the tongue wouldn’t be his undoing.

He opened his eyes, expecting his gaze to meet darkness. The fact that it didn’t was almost as disorienting as the complete blackness. He blinked, trying to get an idea of where he could be. In the Captain’s quarters? On deck?

He blinked again. This was not the eighteenth-century prison ship he had been brought to Louisiana on. Unless his captors had miraculously turned the ship into a houseboat, because this was decidedly a house. He glanced around him to see an assortment of what appeared to be sex toys and restraint devices on the faux-marble walls. Okay, it was a strange house, and although he couldn’t say exactly where he was, it was definitely not the ship. He looked down at himself. He wasn’t manacled to the beams above, and the reason he thought he’d felt the rocking of the vessel was that he was dangling in the air. His ass was in a swing of sorts with his arms cuffed together above his head and to the swing itself.