Confessions of a Werewolf Supermodel Read Online Free PDF

impressive than the outside. The lobby is empty, the floors scuffed. There’s about two inches of dust on the vinyl furniture and the scarred sofa tables. My allergies immediately flare up. Through watery eyes, I glance at the directory on the wall beside the elevator.
    Morgan Kane, PI, Floor 2.
    After I push the button, the elevator fires up and heads down. The way it creaks and groans, I’m guessing it hasn’t been serviced in about a hundred years. The doors open, emitting a musty smell that reminds me of the Billingtons’ basement. I step inside and push floor two. The doors close, the thing lurches, and I’m on my way to where? The nearest freak show if I’m not careful.
    The second floor is dark and eerie. I hear music and glance down the long hallway. There’s a light shining through a door nearly at the end. I head that way. Once I reach the door, I knock, but the music blares so loudly I doubt Morgan Kane can hear me. I test the knob. It’s unlocked. The door swings open.
    Inside, a man stands before streaked floor-to-ceiling windows. He faces the uninspiring view of yet another dilapidated building across the street, but the man is inspired nonetheless. His fingers move over an electric air guitar, head swinging wildly to the hard rock of Led Zeppelin. His hair is shoulder length and dirty blond. He wears skintight black leather pants and snakeskin cowboy boots. Beneath his unbuttoned wrinkled shirt, flashes of skin peek at me and a ring through his left nipple catches the flimsy light streaming through the windows.
    I don’t know who he is, but he is not what I expected Morgan Kane to look like, so I assume I’m in the wrong place, which is a better dilemma than this guy’s. He’s in the wrong decade.
    â€œExcuse me!” I yell, trying to be heard over the music.
    He jumps in the air, goes down on one knee, and plays the shit out of his air guitar. I jump in the air when he suddenly breaks into song. Something about mamas sweating and grooving. More air guitar playing. Now some head butting with a few hip thrusts thrown in. I’m repulsed and mesmerized at the same time. I would shout out again, but I’m still hoarse from shouting over the wind during the underwear shoot. I spot the stereo, walk over, and switch it off.
    The pounding music thankfully stops, but the rock god parties on. He continues to play and leap about in odd fashion for a good five minutes. Suddenly he stops, cocks his head, and turns to face me. His eyes are red rimmed and muddy brown.
    â€œYou my ten o’clock?” he asks without missing a beat.
    â€œThat would depend on whether or not you’re Morgan Kane,” I answer without missing one, either.
    â€œIn the flesh.” He lays the air guitar aside and moves toward a desk on the other side of the room. “Step into my office,” he calls behind him.
    I don’t step anywhere. I’m freaked out by the fact he laid an imaginary guitar aside. That’s when I have an epiphany. There are people in the world way weirder than I am.
    Across the room, Kane digs around the top of his desk, comes up with a pack of Marlboro reds, shoves one between his lips, and lights it up. I don’t remember the last time I saw someone smoke inside a public building. My eyes immediately water. I sneeze.
    â€œBless you, cupcake,” Kane calls in a smooth Southern drawl. “Now bring it on over here and let’s talk business.”
    Cupcake? As Cindy often points out, I am freakishly strong. I could probably swing Kane around the room by his nipple ring. I’m disappointed that he doesn’t look professional. I can’t believe I actually got a reference on this guy. Last year one of the models I know asked him to find her little sister, who’d gone underground with some type of porn ring. Kane had found her. He’s supposed to be good at finding people, but Meagan hadn’t said anything about the