Vampaholic
"Abs to die for," I purred appreciatively.
On the bar stool beside me, Ramon looked up from the notepad propped on his crossed knees. "Check, boss," he said, making a tick mark on the page.
"Biceps pumped," I continued.
One of the carpenters rebuilding the club's stage began to use a nail gun, and each thunk-whap! seemed to go right through my pounding temples. One of the reasons I'd drifted into the Hot Box Club as late as I had was to avoid the loud construction, but I'd forgotten the double time and a half I'd promised the crew if they worked evenings this week. Of course, the other reason I'd shown up so tardily had been because when my alarm clock had gone off at noon, I'd thrown it across the room and burrowed my head under the pillows again. I took a hasty sip of the cocktail I'd concocted as a hair-of-the-dog remedy for last night's overindulgence and spoke above the noise. "Sweetie, can you give us a slow turn?"
My first order of business when I'd taken possession of the Hot Box had been to have everything inside it hauled away, most of the chairs and tables having been destroyed in a massive fight on the former strip dive's l ... read full excerpt from: Vampaholic ebook
