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  Bite Somebody Else

  Imogene helped her newbie vampire friend Celia hook up with an adorable human, but now Celia has dropped an atomic bomb of surprise: she has a possibly blood-sucking baby on the way. Imogene is not pleased, especially when a mysterious, ancient, and annoyingly gorgeous vampire historian shows up to monitor Celia’s unprecedented pregnancy.

  Lord Nicholas Christopher Cuthbert III is everything Imogene hates: posh, mannerly, and totally uninterested in her. Plus, she thinks he’s hiding something. So what if he smells like a fresh garden and looks like a rich boarding school kid just begging to be debauched? Imogene has self-control. Or something.

  As Celia’s pregnancy progresses at a freakishly fast pace, Imogene and Nicholas play an ever-escalating game of will they or won’t they, until his sexy maker shows up on Admiral Key, forcing Nicholas to reveal his true intentions toward Celia’s soon-to-arrive infant.

  Bite Somebody Else

  Sara Dobie Bauer

  World Weaver Press

  Praise for Bite Somebody Else

  “Raunchy and irreverent, Bite Somebody Else is a vampire romp oozing with sexual tension and laugh-out-loud surprises. Crank up some ’80s music, sip a rum punch, and start reading!”

  — Beth Cato, author of the Clockwork Dagger and Blood of Earth series

  “Funny, sexy, and whip-smart, Bite Somebody Else is a hilarious romp through the trials of vampire romance and what it means to be your own hero and still fall for the swoony British guy.”

  —The Novel Novice

  “Chock full of unparalleled wit, the most unexpected and stupidly adorable love connection ever, and Imogene’s signature miniskirts, Bite Somebody Else will have you laughing from cover to cover!”

  —Tiffany Michelle Brown, author of Spin and Give It Back

  “In Bite Somebody Else, Bauer concocts a devilish brew that’s one part What We Do In the Shadows and one part She’s Having a Baby. If you loved the charm and wit of Bite Somebody, its sequel is sure to intoxicate!”

  —E. Catherine Tobler, author of the Folley & Mallory series

  “Laugh-out-loud hilarious, brash, and fun as hell. My only complaint: this is just a two book series.”

  —Dyrk Ashton, author of Paternus

  Praise for Bite Somebody

  “Bite Somebody is the Pretty in Pink of vampire stories; fun, self-consciously retro, and not afraid to be goofy. I’ll never get the phrase ‘Woodsy BO’ out of my head. Sara Dobie Bauer knows how to keep a reader smiling.”

  —Christopher Buehlman, author of Those Across the River

  “Witty banter and hot sexy-times make BITE SOMEBODY sparkle in all the right ways.”

  —Beth Cato, author of The Clockwork Dagger series

  “BITE SOMEBODY is sexy, funny, and A-positively alive with colorful characters. Celia is perfectly imperfect and insecure; adorable sexy human, Ian, sparkles more than any undead ever could; and Imogene is the kind of bad-influence friend we all need in our lives. Bursting with tasty giggles, devilish guffaws, and swoony sighs, BITE SOMEBODY is an absolute pleasure to sink your teeth into.”

  —Jennifer Scott, author of The Accidental Book Club

  Copyright Notice

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of World Weaver Press.

  BITE SOMEBODY ELSE

  Copyright © 2017 Sara Dobie Bauer.

  Published by World Weaver Press

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  www.WorldWeaverPress.com

  Editor: Trysh Thompson

  Cover layout and design by Amanda C. Davis. Cover images used under license from Shutterstock.com.

  First edition: June 2017

  Also available in paperback - ISBN-13: 978-0997788891

  ASIN (mobi): B06XS6Y4F2

  B&N ISBN (ePub): 2940154328811

  Kobo ISBN (ePub): 1230001601817

  This is a work of fiction; characters and events are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

  Piracy isn’t a victimless crime. Please respect the author and the hard work she’s put into writing and editing this novel: Do not copy. Do not distribute. Do not post or share online. If you want to share this book with a friend, please consider buying an additional copy.

  To Jake, my favorite human

  BITE SOMEBODY ELSE

  Chapter One

  Imogene hid behind her sunglasses and a rum punch as Celia extoled the virtues of not biting one of Ian’s brothers at their wedding. “I really don’t want any open wounds at my nuptials,” she said over the clatter of beer bottles and disorderly conduct at their favorite Florida dive bar, The Drift Inn.

  “What if I have to punch someone in the nose?” Imogene asked.

  “You won’t.”

  “Except maybe my brother Randall. Nobody likes Randall, but I don’t even know if he’s coming,” Ian said from his bar stool. He sat there, in shorts and a t-shirt, reading Modern Bride. He flipped a page and said, “Ooo, pretty!”

  “Pretty.” Imogene licked her lips.

  “Imogene.” Celia elbowed Imogene in the side.

  “Okay.” She held up her palms and shook them like jazz hands. “I won’t bite any of Ian’s brothers.”

  “Or anyone else.”

  Imogene rolled her eyes, which Celia couldn’t see behind the red, plastic sunglasses. “Or anyone else,” she mumbled. She eyed a tall, dark, masculine shadow that watched her from the corner of the dingy bar. She made a show of pouting her lips just for fun.

  “You can have sex with my brother Tommy.” Ian turned a page in his magazine and gestured for another beer from the bartender known as “Angry Santa”—a grumpy old guy with a white beard who always wore a sombrero.

  Imogene crossed her arms on the bar but pulled back when her elbows stuck to days-old spilled liquor. “Yeah, what’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing. He’s kind of a pothead, but he looks a lot like me.”

  “Mm, yes, that could work,” Imogene said. She sat up straighter and leaned her boobs on the bar edge in the direction of the man who still stared at her from across the smoky room. In the dim lighting, she couldn’t tell if he was attractive, but he did have on a really nice three-piece suit, which seemed comically out of place in the trash heap bar—but it was Imogene’s favorite trash heap bar.

  Celia turned to face her very soon-to-be husband. “You’re okay with Imogene sleeping with one of your brothers?”

  Imogene looked away from the stranger and slipped her sunglasses up. “Hey, what’s the matter with me?”

  Celia’s quick smile looked forced. “Nothing.”

  “I assume Imogene’s an animal in bed,” Ian said. “I would never stand between one of my brothers and a fantastic lay.”

  “Thank you, Ian.” Imogene winked.

  “You’re the only animal I’ll ever need.” Celia grabbed Ian’s face and planted a big, wet one on her dream guy. The image was almost sexy, if not for the heavily protruding pregnant belly she could barely fit beneath the bar.

  He whispered his old nickname for her: “Mermaid.”

  Imogene mock gagged and turned her focus back to Mr. Mystery in the corner, who still watched. He had hair the color of dark amber.

  It was August, three months after Imogene received the screaming phone call that sounded mostly like a mouse being strangled but, turned out, was just Celia begging her to come over and explain why the hell she had a baby growing in her stomach.

  As if Imogene knew. It wasn’t like she had a lot of experien
ce with babies, and she’d never heard of a vampire getting knocked up. She knew Celia was “special,” not in the rides the short bus to school way, but just different. She could throw up, for one thing, and Imogene herself hadn’t done that since a month after she’d been turned. Maybe they should have seen more weirdness on the horizon, but after the whole Danny threatening to kidnap Ian and turn him into a blood slave thing, followed by their black widow landlady, Heidi, burning down the Sleeping Gull Apartments, they were all a bit distracted.

  Dr. Rayna Savage was their only source for answers to Celia’s mysterious pregnancy, but even she was at a loss. She said she’d called in a “specialist” from England, whatever the hell that meant, and not a moment too soon. Celia’s stomach was way bigger than it should have been at three months, and it wasn’t like they could take her to get a sonogram. The baby had a heartbeat, of that they were sure, but Celia didn’t. How would they explain that?

  Ian went back to reading Modern Bride, catching some strange looks from the biker dudes down the bar. “You can only sleep with Tommy, though.”

  Imogene kicked a combat boot against her bar stool. “You mean at the whole wedding?”

  “No, out of my brothers. Doug Jr. is happily married, and like I said, Randall’s sort of an ass. He doesn’t deserve you.”

  “Awww,” Imogene sighed. Only surfer boy Ian Hasselback could make her coo. “All right, it’s a deal. I can fuck Tommy but no blood-sucking.”

  “And you have to wear a dress,” Celia said.

  “I have tons of dresses.”

  “No, a bridesmaid dress.”

  “Oh. What?”

  Celia ran her hands through Ian’s hair. “You’re my Maid of Honor. You’re wearing the dress I choose.”

  Imogene groaned. “Bitch, if you make it pastel, I’ll stake you.”

  “One: stakes don’t kill vampires. Two: rude. It’s my wedding.”

  “Shit, Merk.”

  Celia raised an eyebrow. Her last name was “Merkin,” slang for a pubic wig, and Imogene had used the shortened version since their first meeting outside a gas station months before.

  Imogene sighed. “You’re not gonna get all Bridezilla on me, are you?”

  “That all depends on Ian’s mother.” She adjusted herself sideways so her big tummy stared directly at Imogene.

  “Char giving you a hard time?”

  Celia harrumphed.

  Imogene had been allowed one meeting with Ian’s parents, probably because her friends were terrified of what she might say. They’d been pleasant enough folk—a retired beauty queen slash flight attendant and an absent-minded accountant named Doug Sr. They smelled a lot like their son, which was probably why Imogene was so patient when they kept asking about her job. She lied and said, “Backup dancer.” It wasn’t much of a stretch; she’d always wanted to be the girl in rap videos. She couldn’t very well say, “Blood dealer.”

  Since decapitating midget Steve with a pair of dinosaur-sized garden shears in May, Imogene had taken his place as the most popular blood dealer in Lazaret. It hadn’t been a slam-dunk at first. It wasn’t like Imogene worked in a hospital, but she did once bang a guy who worked in a hospital. She glamoured him on a weekly basis to get her supply. She did the same to a mousy female Red Cross employee just so no one got suspicious about all the missing blood bags at the hospital. And business was booming. With the help of a loan from Celia’s inheritance (already paid off, thank you), Imogene even moved out of her shithole shack on Mizzenmast and into a two-story beach house on Barkentine Beach, within walking distance of The Drift Inn.

  Imogene sometimes wondered why, with all Celia’s money, she and Ian lived in such a shithole, which they insisted on calling “cozy.” Their place was right on the beach of Admiral Key. The whole thing was very tiki modern, made of wood and filled with crooked, swooping ceilings. It was a miracle Ian had yet to bash his head on a doorframe, tall drink of water that he was. The inside was boring as Celia’s old apartment with a couple pieces of furniture, TV, DVD player, and a fridge big enough to hold enough blood for Celia and Imogene whenever she came over, plus Ian’s kale for smoothies and all his weird health food. The only decorative item Imogene approved of was the poster of Freddie Mercury by the front door, which had replaced David Bowie after Celia’s previous apartment burned down.

  “Oh, and no sunglasses for photos,” Celia snapped. “No combat boots either. Heels.”

  “You’re wearing heels? There are going to be photos?”

  “It’s my wedding,” Celia whined. “Of course I want photos. Of you and me. It’ll be perfect.”

  Imogene licked one of her fangs. She was pretty hungry—and horny, honestly, which was why she made eyes once again at the over-dressed oddity in The Drift Inn corner. She thought maybe she could glamour him toward the bar to get a better look, but then a bit of neon light illuminated the tilt of his chin… which was when Imogene finally noticed he wasn’t staring at her.

  The guy was staring at Celia.

  “Don’t move,” Imogene said, pushing away from the bar. After the whole Danny incident, she punched unfamiliar men near Celia for damn near any reason, like having a mustache—too suspicious, like a cartoon villain. Now, this guy gawked at her pregnant best friend. Why?

  Imogene clomped in her big boots in the direction of the stranger, but a drunk in a stained Jimmy Buffett t-shirt got in her way. She shoved him sideways, and although he landed in a pile of empty beer cases, he seemed too hammered to care. Imogene looked up only to find the corner of the bar empty, the man in the suit gone.

  She yelped when her cell phone vibrated in her shorts pocket. She glanced at the text and sighed before returning to her friends.

  “What was that about?” Celia asked.

  “Nothing. Not a thing.” Imogene held up her phone. “It’s Wharf. He needs to go shopping. Why don’t you guys head home?”

  “Why don’t you ever have Wharf over to our house?” Ian asked, rubbing Celia’s stomach as he helped her stand and asked for their check.

  Imogene fluffed up her big, purple hair. “I don’t want him meeting my friends.”

  “But he’s your maker,” Ian said. “It’d be like meeting your dad or something.”

  “I can’t even explain how disturbingly wrong that is.” She shoved her sunglasses up onto her head and leaned over to lick Ian’s cheekbone and kiss Celia’s forehead. She avoided the big belly at all costs. Babies gave her the heebie-jeebies, although she thought maybe she’d be okay with one that drank blood.

  “Later,” she shouted and stepped into the summer heat after casting one last questioning glance toward The Drift Inn’s empty back corner.

  The August humidity on Barkentine Beach was atrocious, despite a light sea breeze—probably because the sea breeze felt sort of like someone shoving a blow dryer up her nose. Although Imogene rarely went anywhere without her combat boots, her summer wardrobe was different from spring. Basically, she wore as few clothes as possible, which explained the scandalous Daisy Dukes and sleeveless, backless shirt. Since she lived on the beach, though, nobody ever called her a slut. Well. Nobody ever called Imogene a bad name at all, probably because she had the sneer of a psycho killer and the angry bearing of someone who’d rip a guy’s ears off and then yell at him.

  Not that any of this bothered her clients. They all said she was way better than angry midget Steve—or maybe just hotter. She’d had sex with more vampires in the past month than she had since she first went undead. Basically, blood dealing was great for not only her pocketbook but also her vastly uninhibited sex drive, although she’d never give up bedding humans. Humans were like sex with a side of dinner, and who didn’t need a sandwich after getting laid?

  Wharf waited outside when she strutted up her driveway, and she walked right past him.

  “You look hot,” he said as she unlocked her side door. His big, meaty hands made their way under the front of her shirt, and she shrugged him off.

  “Busines
s before pleasure, bub.” She used her hip to swing the door open.

  Business took about five seconds after Wharf got a good look at her and carried her over his shoulder to the bedroom. He did those kinds of things. The guy was built like a stack of cement bricks and just about as intelligent. Still, Imogene liked his frizzy brown hair and big mouth. Literally, the man had a huge mouth.

  An hour later, they lay there, totally sexed out, smoking a joint—a gift from Ian, who had a link to some of the best weed on Admiral Key, maybe all of Florida. As a once upon a time California boy, he knew how to shop.

  Wharf’s huge, hairy chest rose and fell next to her. He more closely resembled a caveman than a vampire. “You’re going to be a bridesmaid? You?”

  Imogene exhaled. “Maid of Honor, actually.”

  “I never pegged you for the wedding sort.”

  “No shit.” She handed the joint to him.

  She and Wharf met in Miami when she was homeless and twenty-three. The first night they spent together was a damn rollercoaster of booze, cocaine, and sex that got them kicked out of their hotel room. They continued out on the streets—sex on a cardboard box, because, oh, why not? He turned her into a vampire soon after, and the sex only improved. They had some fun together traveling. However, she ditched him when they moved to Lazaret and she realized there was a cornucopia of hot guys there. He never tried to get her back, not really, probably because he realized the same was true in regards to hot chicks. They’d only been sleeping together again for the past couple months, ever since she started dealing. It was a perfectly convenient scenario.

  “Are you gonna have to wear, like, pastel?”

  “I think so.” She reached for her nightstand and put on her sunglasses.

  He chortled. “And hold flowers?”

  “Shut the fuck up, dude.”

  Wharf rolled onto his side. “Do you want me to go as your date?”