"Ah, hell, V, you're killing me." Butch O'Neal mined through his sock drawer, looking for black silk, finding white cotton.

No, wait. He pulled out one dress sock. Not exactly a triumph.

"If I were killing you, cop, footwear'd be the last thing on your mind."

Butch glanced over at his roommate. His fellow Red Sox fan. His… well, one of his two best friends.

Both of whom, as it turned out, happened to be vampires.

Fresh from the shower, Vishous had a towel wrapped around his waist, his chest muscles and thick arms out on display. He was pulling on a black leather driving glove, covering up his tattooed left hand.

"Do you have to go for my dress blacks?"

V grinned, fangs flashing in the midst of his goatee. "They feel good."

"Why don't you ask Fritz to get you some?"

"He's too busy feeding your jones for clothes, man."

Okay, so maybe Butch had recently gotten in touch with his inner Versace, and who've thought he'd had it in him, but how hard could it be to get an extra dozen silkies in the house?

"I'll ask him for you."

"Aren't you a gentleman." V pushed back his dark hair. The tattoos at his left temple made an appearance and then were covered up again. "You need the Escalade tonight?"

"Yeah, thanks." Butch stuffed his feet into Gucci loafers, bareback.

"So you're going to see Marissa?"

Butch nodded. "I need to know. One way or the other."

And he had a feeling it was going to be the other.

"She's a good female."

She sure the hell was, which was probably why she wasn't returning his calls. Ex-cops who liked Scotch weren't exactly good relationship material for women, human or vampire. And the fact that he wasn't one of her kind didn't help the situation.