Fangs for Nothing (The Fangover 2)

When he turned, it seemed like the twinkle lights shifted a little, undulating in and out. Weird. He was feeling a little strange. For a second he wasn’t even sure what he had been doing.

Lizette. Right.

He gestured to the courtyard. “Do you want to dance?” he asked, because that seemed like a totally logical question to ask. Even though he never danced, and he didn’t think Lizette was the bootygrind type. Who had almost just fainted. Yet, he asked.

Stranger yet, she nodded. “I’d love to.”

The girl had moves like Jagger. She swayed back and forth, hips swirling, and Johnny had no sense of time or space or sound. Everything moved in sensual slow motion, a hazy, breezy, and dark erotic dance of their bodies next to each other, not touching, but speaking volumes, the banana trees fanning behind Lizette’s head.

And that was just during the Cupid Shuffle. Johnny could only imagine how she would dance to Usher or Flo Rida.

The problem was, he could only imagine. Because after that, he didn’t remember a single thing.

* * *

LIZETTE TRIED TO remember why she was at a wedding with Johnny Malone. She tried to remember why she was angry. It had something to do with Johnny not being Johnny and stealing something that was his, if he was he. But then she had felt faint from not feeding, which was odd, because she was old enough to be able to go days without blood. But for some reason, she had felt desperately hungry and that awful sherbet had caught in her throat and she’d been afraid she would vomit in front of Johnny.

Instead, she had immediately felt better. Much better. Like her inner thighs had been laid under a heat lamp and she was alone in a dark room, dancing for herself in the mirror kind of better. Like no one else existed but this charming man in front of her and a soft breeze. Which reminded her that she was actually outside. Wasn’t she? Lizette turned and turned, taking in the fairy lights, and the thick green plant leaves, the rich red brick, and the parade of feathers on women’s hats. Where was she?

Then Johnny Malone handed her another drink and she decided she didn’t care, just as long as she could drink sherbet for the rest of her very long life.

It was the last coherent thought, if you could even call it that, she had that night.

Chapter Four

ONCE . . . TWICE . . . FIVE TIMES A CHER

DRAKE had to admit this wedding had suddenly become a lot more interesting. That little caterer was definitely sexy and had fit perfectly in his arms and against his body. And she could kiss—damn, she could kiss. But she was also a spitfire. He could see it, even though he knew she’d been trying to remain calm and businesslike. But her blue eyes had flashed with fire.

A woman who gave as good as she got—now that was hot.

He glanced at the maid of honor, who now chatted with a man in a dog collar who looked ready to drop to his knees at the first flick of her wrists. Definitely a better fit for her. Just like Cupcake was a better fit for him. He liked giving as good as he got, but only when it didn’t involve whips, ball gags, or safe words.

Just call him old-fashioned. Plus you didn’t live for two hundred years and not learn what you like. So now he had something to distract him from the horror of this wedding. He was going to convince the caterer to have a little fling with him. Maybe he should tell Saxon he was going to try a cupcake after all.

Yeah, no. But it was clear that he did need to get laid. That was probably why he was so irritated with all his “in love” friends. And why he was so cranky.

So he was going to go apologize appropriately to the caterer, then work on taking her home for the night.

He smiled broadly just thinking about it, but his grin faded as he watched the kid who worked for the caterer push the slimy tuna around on the slate tiles with a broom. He did feel bad about the ruined food and the mess he’d created.

All the more reason to go give her a very sincere apology. Maybe several. In his bed. In the shower. Maybe even in this courtyard once the freak-show wedding was done.

Another grin curved his lips. Oh yes, he was having a lot more fun.

Then he realized the maid of honor was watching him from the other side of the room, studying him over the rim of her punch glass as she took a sip of the vile Lake Ponchartrain punch. And Dog Collar Boy appeared to be nowhere in sight. He looked at the ground in front of her. Yeah, nowhere in sight.

Great.

She lowered her glass and continued to stare at him, but now she no longer looked flirty and determined. She looked angry and determined.

Shit, maybe a spurned dominatrix was scarier than a horny one.

Yeah, definitely time to go talk to the cute caterer in the kitchen.

The brunette was easy to find. She stood at a stainless steel counter that was littered with dirty dishes, utensils, and trays of food in various stages of preparation. She swiped at her bangs with the back of her wrist, the movement tired and a little agitated, then she started dolloping some kind of sauce onto minicrepes.

He walked up behind her.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice low and gentle, not wanting to startle her. She seemed tense enough. But his strategy didn’t work.

A small, surprised squeak escaped her, and she dropped the spoon she held. It clattered against the metal mixing bowl, then disappeared into the creamy concoction.

“Damn it,” she muttered as she spun around to face him. Her startled expression quickly transformed to one of utter annoyance, but she quickly suppressed that look behind a mask of stoicism. Although her blue eyes still flashed with irritation.

Such blue eyes. The same bright, vivid blue as a clear summer sky. Or at least as he remembered it.

Shit, this woman was furious and he was thinking about her eyes. That was as crazy as everything else about the wedding. Or maybe it just further validated that he needed a little adult fun—with a woman like this. Adorable with big, blue eyes, pink lips, a pert little nose, and curves in all the right places.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said stiffly, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Sir? What happened to ‘sugar pie,’ cupcake?” he teased, but if the flash of irritation in her eyes was any indication, she didn’t appreciate his joke.

“Fine, sugar pie, I need you to leave. Only employees are allowed in the kitchen.”

“I understand, but I really wanted to apologize to you and explain my actions. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that, but it was an impulse.”

“Well, I’m glad you cleared that up for me,” she said with feigned sincerity. “Otherwise I would have gone through my life thinking you had plotted that out for weeks. Now if you don’t mind, I really do need to work.”