Biting Nixie

by Mary Hughes

  “What…?” But she had already gone. That bit about brunch was slipped in so fast it was sure to be a set-up. But fighting a determined German mother (and specifically my determined German mother) was as productive as playing Find the Matching Snowflakes. So I clicked back over. “Julian?”

  “Nixie, sweetheart.” That was a relief. His voice was still on “vibrator”.

  Unfortunately, I was now set on “mother”. “About coming over—”

  “It’s all right.” His voice smoothed back to rich and dark. “I probably should get some sleep anyway. That was your mother?”

  Was the man psychic? “How did you know? And don’t say you smelled it. Not even your nose is good over a mile away.”

  He laughed. Julian had a very nice laugh, sort of a chocolate-silk chuckle. “Before you took that call you were hotter than a furnace. Less than a minute later you’re reluctant as a nun. Not even an ice bath can cool passion as fast as a mother.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Oh, just to strong-arm me into supper tomorrow. Oh, hey.” The bright idea bulb lit over my head. “Want to come?”

  “I’d love to, but,” Julian said.

  The bulb burst. “Yeah, I thought there’d be a ‘but’.”

  “I have evening meetings. I can’t get out of them.”

  “Dinner’s going to be early,” I said hopefully. “Five, five thirty. So I can make it to my gig.”

  “You’re playing Friday night?”

  “Just locally. Nieman’s Bar. So about supper…?”

  “Nixie, I can’t. Some other time, though.”

  “Yeah.” I hung up, disappointed. I didn’t have to have Suity subtitles to know what that meant. Some other time—like never.

  I didn’t think I could feel any worse—until I remembered the auditions. The auditions that were scheduled for last night, which I had totally missed. I whacked myself in the head. That started it whirling again so I went to my kitchen where I found the rest of the juice and cookies, and polished them off.

  Then I sat down to make phone calls. With my back against the wall, there was only one day and one place to schedule them. And only one time. I shuddered.

  I was going to have to get up early Monday morning.

  Chapter Ten

  I had forgotten about insurance for the festival, as well. Though I could have blamed it on all the stuff going on, I knew exactly why it had “slipped my mind”.

  It would kill me.

  Not literally, although I did get short of breath just thinking about it. But there was a chain of events in every person’s life. Birth. Diapers. Sippy Cups and Potty Training. School. Learning to Drive. First Job and Introduction to the IRS. Career. First Major Purchase and Credit. Buying Insurance. Death.

  And it wasn’t just being the step-before-death thing that was bothering me.

  If I bought insurance, what would happen to me? Who would I be?

  We all had heroes. Not just the bigger-than-life Superdudes of our imagination. But real people we loved and wanted to be like. Real people who were bigger-than-life in our hearts.

  My first hero was my older sister Giselle. Giselle helped me the first time I escaped from my crib. She showed me how to get my own cereal Saturday mornings. How to turn on the TV myself.

  Giselle taught me to be free. She gave me my soul.

  My second hero was my Aunt Nixie. Christmas and birthdays I got pink socks and underwear—except from Aunt Nixie. She bought me magic sets and toy guitars. My parents sent me to summer school. Aunt Nixie took me to her summer home on the lake. My other aunt, Aunt Dietlinde, gave me sewing lessons. Aunt Nixie taught me to ride horseback.

  Aunt Nixie fired my imagination. She gave me my mind.

  My third hero wasn’t a person. It was music. Music transported me out of my gray world into millions of colors. It was my drug of choice, even better than beer. It was what I could do that made other people happy.

  Music gave me my heart.

  Don’t get me wrong. I loved my parents, and Meiers Corners. I even loved Aunt Dietlinde the Drab. I didn’t like emo so much, but not even emos liked emo.

  But I didn’t want to be like them. I didn’t want to be beaten down by responsibility and respectability. Beaten down year after year until I was flat and gray. Until I was dead but didn’t know it. Or worse yet, didn’t care.

  I had to grow up some. Even I knew that. I couldn’t do band gigs without driving. I couldn’t ignore April 15. I didn’t want to wear diapers again until I was a hundred and five.

  But buying insurance? I’d never forget that’s the last gray step before death.

  Friday night I spent most of my time hiding in the kitchen…I mean doing the dishes. Mother had met Mr. Crane’s new law partner, and couldn’t stop singing Bart Bleistift’s praises. I hadn’t even met St. Barty but if I were singing his praises, my songs would rhyme Barty with farty and Bleistift with…well, that didn’t rhyme with anything but it sounded like booger to me.

  As I stacked dishes, I thought maybe it was a good thing Julian had declined supper. How could he possibly compete in the Mother Race with St. Bart?

  Except Julian wasn’t competing in the Mother Race. The prize apparently wasn’t worth his effort. And I got mad/hurt at him dipping out on supper all over again. Unfairly, but there it was.

  I had to come out of the kitchen some time. And even St. Farty Booger couldn’t spoil chocolate chip cake with fudge frosting.

  As soon as supper was done, though, I fled…I mean, left. I had to get ready for my gig. We didn’t start playing until nine but it took us about an hour to set up. Before that I needed to change and put on makeup.

  Guns and Polkas was a five-piece band. Lob, Rob, Cob, me, and Durango. Lob was on drum, Rob did bass (doubling on accordion). Cob was the singer, and I was rhythm guitar (I doubled on clarinet). Durango was lead guitar. We had a sound that crossed Weird Al with Nirvana, with a little Flogging Molly thrown in. Topped off by Elvis. Our sound was…unique.

  Tonight my mind was less on my costume and more on my problems (how was I going to avoid my mother’s latest attempt at Chaining Miss Nixie, and how the hell was I going to get Julian Emerson out from under my skin now that he’d given me the best orgasm of my life?).

  So I threw on the first thing that came to hand. A black spandex microskirt with thigh-high leather boots and red nylon see-through tank under a tiny black suede vest. No bra under the tank.

  No thong under the skirt, either. Julian had turned down the pleasure of my company but hope springs eternal.

  Or maybe some other handsome dark stranger would pop up in Meiers Corners. Maybe he’d wear leather and ride a Harley and smell like sex.

  And maybe I ought to smack myself senseless with my Fender Strat. Two days ago I was perfectly happy with my life. Now I had sex on the brain.

  I had better things to think about. Like my makeup.

  The great thing about being a rock musician was you could wear the gaudiest makeup in the world and get away with it. Tonight I colored my eyelids a rich metallic teal. Used eyeliner so thick even Pharaoh would have looked slutty. I painted my lips crimson red, then slicked an inch of gloss on over. My mile-long fake eyelashes danced with glitter. Brushing a sparkly bronzer on my cheeks, I was ready.

  Anyone else would have looked like a hooker. As small as I was, I looked like an overdone fashion doll. Either way, in normal light it was garish.

  Under stage lighting I would look amazing.

  I shouldered my Pro Tec clarinet gig bag and picked up Oscar, my Strat (but I only call him that when no one’s around). In the other hand I had my small amp. Lob the drummer would bring the larger amps and mixer that the whole band plugged into, but I liked having mine just in case.

  We met in the parking lot east of Nieman’s Bar. Our lead guitar Durango was just finishing up getting a blow job from Drusilla. Dru was the Corners’s only full-time hooker. She was also the only woman I knew with
natural double-D boobs. I waved. Drusilla waved back. Only one of us had her chest join in.

  The band’s first set was par for the course. A couple drunks got up to dance, Granny Butt stripped on the bar. After break, I was tuning my guitar when I glanced up and saw Julian wander in.

  My nipples immediately popped up to say hi. Almost as quickly, they shrank back out of sight.

  Right behind Julian were Drusilla’s DDs.

  I gave my high E string a crank. The tuning machine was bent, and it turned hard. Fine. Suited my mood. Now I knew who Julian’s important “meeting” was with.

  Fucking unfaithful attorney. How insensitive was he, parading his new girlfriend in front of me? It was like Spiderman 3—but without Tobey Maguire’s cuteness.

  Intuition always told me not to trust suits. I should have listened. I gave the key another hard twist.

  If I had any doubts that Julian and DD-Dru were together, they were killed when Julian ordered. The bartender handed him two drinks. Julian passed one to her.

  I cranked so hard my E string broke. Fuck.

  Luckily I carry spares, and the exercise of changing the string calmed me somewhat. By the time I was ready to play I had almost forgotten about the Insensitive Jerk Attorney.

  The door opened again. Good. Mr. I-Didn’t-Go-Thongless-For-Him was leaving.

  Only Julian was still sitting there, Double-D Drusilla next to him. Great. So who had left?

  Or who had come in?

  Oh, no. Please, no.

  A goofy grin on his face, an instrument case in his hand, Dirk Ruffles trotted up. “Hey, Nixie. I finally thought of what I can do for the festival fundraiser.”

  “Dirk, now’s not a good time—”

  “I can help audition bands,” he said brightly.

  My mouth kept flapping but nothing came out. Finally I squeaked, “But…but you’re not a musician.”

  “But I am.” His face glowed with pride. “Saxophone. First at State three years in row.”

  “Uh, yeah. Dirk, I’m glad you played in high school, but—”

  “That was junior high.” He slid his case onto the bar and with smooth efficiency, put mouthpiece on horn. Wet his reed and slipped it on, tightening the ligature with a few expert twirls. Took an experimental blow, noodled a few notes. A few more. Then Dirk Ruffles, clueless Dirkenstein, played “Take Five” from memory, including a killer improv.

  My jaw dropped. He was good.

  He pulled a stool over. “I thought I could sit in for a few numbers. If that’s okay.”

  “Yeah,” I said, taking a quick check of the band’s nodding heads. “Sure.”

  That set was magic. Music flowed from my fingertips like fairy dust. The slow songs blended like cream. The fast songs popped with manic energy. It was like we just couldn’t miss. The whole bar was dancing or clapping along.

  The only downer was when Drusilla pulled Julian toward the dancers. But even that was magic—he shook his head. She ended up dragging out Donner, one of the bar regulars (who Elena described as a collie with a horse’s teeth). They looked like Elvira moshing with Scooby Doo. As Drusilla danced, her DDs swayed pertly, drawing the gaze of every male in the bar.

  Except Julian. He caught my eye and tipped his glass at me. I flushed and looked away. He knew I had been watching him and Drusilla. Maybe he even thought I was jealous. Which I certainly was not. My jaw kicked up and I started a furious six-string slash, a la Dragonforce. I was not jealous. My fingers scrubbed over the strings hard and fast.

  The new E string snapped.

  That, of course, ended the second set. As I replaced the string with my last spare, a pair of wingtips appeared before me.

  “What do you want?” I was not in a good mood.

  “Nice playing.” Julian’s voice was oh-so-reasonable.

  “Thanks.” I shot him a dirty look.

  “You have a bent tuning machine.”

  My head snapped up. “I suppose you’re a musician, too. Everyone’s a fucking musician tonight.”

  Julian shrugged. “I am. But I haven’t played in a while.”

  “Yeah? What’s your instrument?”

  “A little of this, a little of that.” His eyes glinted with humor. I was mad and he was teasing, which made me all the madder.

  I gritted my teeth. “I don’t suppose you’d care to be more specific.”

  “Some piano. A little flute. My main instrument is viol.”

  “Viol? You mean violin, George?”

  “Julian,” he corrected. “Actually, I meant viola da gamba.”

  Oh, great. Just fucking great. Suitguy played an instrument that hadn’t been popular since the sixteenth century. “I know your name is Julian, you nook-yoo-ler schmuck!”

  “Ah,” Julian said wisely. “Earth humor.”

  I tuned the new E string. It was a quarter tone off, sounding like a lemon hitting an open wound. “Why’re you here, anyway? Trying to impress your girlfriend?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  He admitted it! My eyes flew up. Julian was smiling wickedly. I wanted to whack that grin off his face with my amp. No, with Lob’s amp. And then maybe I’d ram my clarinet reedy-end first up Julian’s tight ass.

  “Are you?” Julian asked.

  My mad hit a wall of confusion and stumbled. “Huh?”

  “Are you impressed? That I came to hear you?”

  Julian Emerson had come to hear…me?

  No way. He had to be lying. Maybe he was trying to butter me up for some reason. Hell, he was a lawyer. Maybe he was lying just to keep in practice. I gave him a challenging glare. “I meant Drusilla, Nimrod.”

  “I know.” His expression gentled. “You have nothing to worry about. Dru and I are just friends.”

  Yeah, sure. And Romeo just had a casual relationship with Juliet. “I thought you had meetings all night.”

  “I did. I do. I had a break, and thought I’d come listen to you play. I have to go back soon.”

  “And what about Drusilla?” I could have slapped myself to be so transparent.

  He shrugged. “We met in the parking lot. She had a break too, so I said I’d buy her a drink. What time do you get done?”

  “Nice try changing the subject, Emerson.”

  “I like it better when you call me Julian. Oh, well. At least I’ve improved from Nimrod.”

  That sidetracked me. “You get that without subtitles?”

  “I recognize the Biblical reference. By the way, Nimrod was a mighty warrior, not an idiot. But I wasn’t trying to change the subject. I was trying to find out what time you’re done playing.”

  “Why, so you can walk me home?”

  “Yes.” Before I could squawk that I wasn’t a damn kid who needed to be walked home from school, he added, “And maybe stop by your place after. If you want me to.”

  My stomach fell through my belly and hit my pussy with a splat. I squirmed on my stool, leaving a very wet streak. There were disadvantages to not wearing underwear.

  Julian, damn him, saw. His eyes got very dark. “What time,” he said, and this time his vocal cords were as tight as my E string.

  “Um…two. I should be packed up by two thirty.”

  “I’ll be here.” His eyes were glued to my stool. “Don’t change clothes.”

  “I…I won’t.” My mouth was suddenly dry.

  “Good.” He spun and strode out the door.

  I sat and stared at that door for the whole break. Fantasizing. When the next set came, I played the entire thing with the E string a quarter tone sharp—and never noticed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Julian didn’t show by the time we finished. Two thirty came and went. I changed all the rest of my strings. No Julian. I was super-slow packing up. Julian still hadn’t come.

  The band was gone. The customers were gone. It was just me and the bartender when Drusilla came sauntering back in. I hoped she was here to see Buddy.

  “Hi, Nixie,” she said in her smoky alto, killing that
hope. Dru was everything I’m not—tall, stacked, and dripping sex appeal. I’d never been jealous of her before. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.

  “We’re just friends, you know.” She perched her perfect ass on a stool next to me. “Julian and I.”

  “None of my business,” I mumbled.

  “No, really. You don’t have to worry.”

  “Worry? Why should I worry?” I gave her a perfectly cool and unconcerned and definitely non-jealous look. “Nothing to worry about. I’m not interested in a stodgy old suit. Not me. I’m Nixie the Pixie. He’s Mr. Straight N. Narrow. We have nothing in common. If we were all elementals, you’d be earth, I’d be air, and Julian’d be concrete.”

  “There’s a reason for Julian’s self-control.” Dru leaned toward me, her double-Ds surging forward like a tsunami. I jerked back before I drowned. Good thing, because one jumped out—it would have KOed me if I’d still been in range. “Rumor has it he fell in with a wild crowd,” she went on as she nonchalantly tucked her boob back in. “I guess he did some damage before he came to his senses. It made him vow not to be so reckless.”

  “Reckless? Are we talking about the same man?” I snorted. I hoped she would tell me the full story, but would have pushed pencils up my nostrils before admitting it. “Emerson is so old-school he still uses Betamax. He probably plays CDs on a turntable. He’s so uptight he breaks rubber bands by just looking at them.”

  “Maybe.” Dru shrugged one round white shoulder. “But I heard he used to be a lot more fun in the old days. Well, I just wanted to reassure you that there was nothing going on between him and me.” She slid her fanny off the stool and sauntered out.

  After that, waiting only got harder. I unpacked, cleaned my clarinet, and packed up again. I unpacked, wiped down my strings, and packed up again. Where the hell was he?

  Julian hadn’t come by three. The bartender was starting to yawn in my face. It was time. It was past time. Like it or not, I’d been stood up.

  Where the hell was he?

  It pissed me off. I mean, what good was a steady, reliable suit if he wasn’t steady and reliable? All right, that was two-faced of me. I complained that he was too serious and stodgy but then complained when he wasn’t.