Vampire in Paradise Read Online Free PDF Page B

torpedoes, female butts that would make Beyoncé blush, boobs that defied gravity. And the tattoos! And the piercings!
    This was the third of five days of on-site, open applications for employment at the conference. Marisa had no idea how many people had been hired thus far, considering the turnout today, but the number of employees they were supposedly hiring was supposed to be four hundred for the ten-to-twenty-day period, which included both setup duties and cleanup afterward. Plus people had been hired already to prepare the hotel for the incoming rush and serve the early arrivals.
    To be honest, there were a lot of normal-looking people here, too, like she and Inga. Probably half of the two hundred or so in line so far. Still . . .
    “The ick factor here is off the chart,” Marisa remarked. “No way am I standing around for hours in this crowd in the heat to apply for a job I’m not sure I want.”
    “Y’all won’t hafta wait long, honey,” the girl in front of them said in a heavy Southern accent. “Mr. Vanderfelt, the darlin’ man, came out a bit ago and said once the doors open we’ll be movin’ faster’n a greased pig on a spit slide. Besides, lots of the folks in line are just fans.”
    Fans? Of what? Sleaze?
    Marisa and Inga just gaped.
    The short, slim girl, who on closer inspection was probably over twenty-one, wore a red spandex jumpsuit, which called attention to her impressive double-Ds, with matching sparkly stilettos. Her hair was blonde, and big. A teased fluff of sexy waves. Makeup completed the picture with false eyelashes and pouty crimson lips. She wore enough Shalimar to choke a goat.
    It was hard to tell if she was here for a job, or was one of the “fans.”
    Compared to Bimbo Barbie, Marisa and Inga looked like nuns. Well, not exactly nuns. Inga, her long blonde hair in a single braid down her back, wore a sheer tunic blouse over a darker blue tank top, with white capris, and a pair of Valentino “Rockstud” triple-ankle-strap pumps. Marisa was more subtle in a sleeveless, rose-colored Donna Karan dress that was nicely belted (thank you, Alexander McQueen) at the waist and came to just above the knees. The only thing that could be construed as sexy about her attire was her strappy, high-heeled, Prada gladiator sandals. Her hair was upswept and held to the top of her head with a tortoiseshell claw.
    “Hi! Mah name is Tiffany.”
    Sure it is.
    “I’m Inga, and this is my friend Marisa. Have you been standing here long?” asked Inga, a regular Miss Congeniality today.
    Unlike me, who is more Miss Grinchiality.
    “Only an hour. Where are y’all from?”
    The insane asylum. Or we will be if we actually go through with this insanity.
    “Miami,” Inga replied. “We drove in this morning.”
    “Ah came all the way from Georg-ah.”
    No kidding.
    “Ah took a bus yesdidday and stayed overnight at the Holiday Inn.” She tossed her blonde mane over one shoulder or tried to. The hair was so heavily lacquered it didn’t move. “Ah’m a hairstylist, y’know—”
    Could have fooled me.
    “—but Ah aim ta be a sensuality star like Becky Bliss. Ah prefer the word sensuality to pornography . Much more classy.”
    That answered the question of job seeker versus fan. And, yes, Marisa noticed Tiffany’s distinction between “sensuality star” and “porno star.” She hadn’t yet learned that no matter if you called a fake Rolex a Rolex, it was still a Timex at heart.
    “Truth ta tell, mah real name is Helen Biggers, but Ah cain’t see Helen Biggers on a movie marquee, kin you?” Tiffany sighed, and continued without waiting for a response, though what they could say to that, Marisa couldn’t imagine. “Did y’all know that Becky made a million dollars las’ year, an’ she has a mansion in Hollywood with a Jacuzzi and everythin’?”
    Un-be-liev-able! “I thought these jobs were supposed to be legitimate . . . I mean, regular jobs for regular people,” Marisa said,