by Mary Hughes
Damn. Everything was going wrong with the festival, I didn’t have a place for the bands, and I had no food. And no sex. I flopped down on a kitchen chair and fought the impulse to cry.
My phone played “Hey Jude”. “Yeah,” I snapped.
“Hey, Nixie. It’s Durango. Listen, I have some bad news.”
Just what I needed. More bad news. Please turn off my lights and leave quietly.
“I can’t make the gig tomorrow night.”
“What?!” Guns and Polkas is a five piece band. Lob, Rob, Cob, me, and Durango. We need every one of those five pieces. We’d sound like a kindergarten band without any one. Not having a lead guitar would sound like…like rap! “You can’t back out. We’re the headliners!”
“Nixie, I’m really sorry. But they got a kidney for my Dad. I have to be at the hospital.”
I rubbed my aching head. “Yeah, okay. I guess you have to do that.”
“You can get a sub. Otto—”
“Played everything like a Viennese waltz last time.”
“Well, what about Stung? Or Goober?”
“Stung’s girlfriend broke his fingers. And Goober plays the Alpine Retreat Friday nights.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about Goober. Why did Stung’s girl break his fingers?”
“She found them in another girl’s thong.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll think of something, Nixie.”
“Yeah, something,” I whined, or rather groused, and hung up. What else could go wrong? Why, oh why did I Have To Think That?
It wasn’t fair. Why were so many things going wrong in the first place? Why the hell did everyone expect me to solve all the problems? And what Evil Fairy of Responsibility did I piss off that I had to run this feckstravaganza?
Summerfest. Miller pavilion.
Dietlinde, I am so proud of you.
Well. There it was, of course. My mother was proud of me. And the gig of a lifetime.
As if those weren’t answer enough, who else was there? Dirkenstein? Who else knew entertainment like I did?
There was no one else. Because no one else knew about the vampire threat.
I was the only one who knew how truly disastrous not raising enough money would be. Well, Bo and his watch group knew, but I guessed they had their hands full with gangy Lestats.
No, I was it. It was time to Grow Up.
It was time to buy insurance. Which meant taking the clerical job.
I phoned CIC Mutual and accepted the job. I hung up, too dead inside even to cry. As of Monday, my life was over.
I sat down at my kitchen table and contemplated the long, bleak life ahead of me. No more Guns and Polkas. A year off would kill the band. Which meant no more music at all. I used to think if I was lucky, I wouldn’t make it to thirty. Now even twenty-six seemed too old.
“Is this a bad time?” a cultured baritone came from right behind me.
I jumped. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” I twisted, beheld Julian in all his male, suity glory. Two days and I felt and probably looked like a herd of cows had run me over—cows with diarrhea. He looked like Chippendale Business Edition. “How did you get in, anyway?”
“You shouldn’t leave your key under the doormat.”
“Well, now that you’re here, go away.” I sat down again, contemplated salt and water soup for dinner.
“Ah. I did come at a bad time.”
“Really? Define bad. Skeletal-bloodsuckers-attacking bad? Fire-burning-down-my-best-friend’s-apartment bad? Everything-in-the-festival-going-wrong bad?” My stomach growled.
“I think it’s worse than that. I think you’re hungry.”
“Congratulations, you have eardrums. Now leave me alone.”
“I don’t think so.” Julian put a hand under my elbow and lifted. “You’re awfully crabby.”
Without meaning to, I stood. “I am not crabby!” I yanked my elbow out of his grasp. I would have sat again in defiance but Julian gently took me by the shoulders and turned me to face him.
“Nixie, darling. You’re being a crabass. Let me take you to supper.”
“I am not a crabass!” I tried to shake loose. “And I’m not hungry.” My stomach promptly spoiled everything by growling again.
“Of course you aren’t.” Julian drew me gently from the kitchen. “So you wouldn’t like a big, greasy burger.” He lifted my coat from the back of the couch where I’d tossed it. “Or a thick, cold milkshake. Hold out your arms.” He dressed me like I was a little girl. For some reason, I stood for it. “Or a malted. Extra-thick. Chocolate.”
“Chocolate?” I asked in spite of myself.
“Mmm. And sizzling hot fries.”
I resented that I was hungry. I resented Julian knowing I was hungry. I really resented Julian being so calm and reasonable after two days of no sex while I was a basket case. Unless he had gotten some in the meantime.
Fuck. I was surprised how much that hurt.
I had my pride. “You think you can ignore me for two whole days and then make everything all better with some food?”
“I can try.” Julian opened the door.
“Two days, Emerson! Forty-eight hours! You’re going to have to try a whole lot harder—” My eyes lit on a vehicle parked at the curb. I felt them widen as big as a football field. “What’s that?”
“It’s a motorcycle.”
“That’s not a mere motorcycle. That’s a Harley.” I floated toward it.
“Well, yes. A Cross Bones.” Julian followed.
“A Dark Custom.” I ran a hand down its sleek side. A Harley-Davidson Dark Custom. Built from blood, sweat, and chrome. And sporting a nonstandard sidekick two-up seat. I was in love.
“I hope you don’t mind. It took a while to drive from Boston.”
“Is this why you were gone?”
“I had to take care of a few business things. But it’s why I went in person. To buy the Harley. I thought you might like it.” He added softly, “I promise I’ll drive better than your sister’s boyfriend.”
Several emotions hit me at that. Warmth, that stodgy old Julian brought a motorcycle—for me. Loss, my sister’s death on a similar vehicle. Security, Julian’s gentle promise that I wouldn’t end up the same.
And was Julian my boyfriend? That just made me hot. “Are you sure you’re really Julian Emerson? Mr. Staid N. Sober? Leader of the boy band ’N Control?”
“I’ve recently had something of an epiphany.”
“Epifan-huh?”
“The time at your parents’ home. The oil?”
“Oh.” I remembered the fapping oil, the Helen Keller moment, and the anything-but-staid sex that followed.
“You do have to wear this.” Julian handed me a helmet as he fastened his own.
Whew. For a moment there, the theme from Invasion of the Body Snatchers was running through my brain (the 1956 version, not the 70s remake).
“Hold on,” Julian said, mounting. As soon as my hands wrapped around his lean waist, he kicked off from the curb and we were racing down the streets of Meiers Corners. I peeked around him. The wind was on my face and I could feel the freedom beneath our feet. It was better than flying.
All too soon we stopped. But when I saw where, I jumped off. “Der BurgerHimmel.” I sighed. Home of the Buttery Burger with Angel-soft Bun, the Mount Ararat ’o Onions (golden and crispy), and real live custard malts. I checked my emergency stash of cash. Five bucks. I dashed inside and ordered the most artery-clogging combo I could find for five bucks. And when Julian took out his wallet and paid, I gleefully added the Hog Heaven Sundae for dessert (five scoops of delicious creamy custard topped with hot fudge, raspberry syrup, chocolate sauce, crushed pecans, marshmallow cream, and five—count ’em, five—maraschino cherries).
Stuffed full, I sat back, and felt a contented smile drift onto my face. Life, I realized, did not look that bad. There were problems, true. The festival had hiccups, I still didn’t have a place for the bands to play, I had no lead guitar for m
y own group, Monday I would start a Real Job, and Julian would leave soon.
But my stomach was full. I had managed to stave off the worst of the festival disasters. I still had twenty-four hours to find a guitarist and a venue for the bands. I only had to pull oars for a year.
And Julian was here now.
I felt massive body heat, Julian sliding onto the bench next to me. I opened my eyes, smiled warmly at him. “Want to take a ride back to my place?”
His eyes turned that peculiar shade of violet that I was coming to associate with sex. “I’d love to,” he growled. Oh, boy. Growly-guy, my fave. Maybe he had two days of horny stored up, too.
Of course, my cell phone chose that moment to Munster.
I snapped it open. “What!”
“Nixie, this is Josiah Moss.” Another alderman backup. Aw, hell. He said, “I may have found a place for the bands to play.”
I was speechless for a second. “But that’s good news.”
“Not exactly. See, it’s the old Roller-Blayd factory. The place is big enough, and better yet, mostly empty. But there’s no heat. And no sound system. And, um, no chairs.”
“It’s better than nothing. Reserve it, and I’ll see what I can do about the other things.”
“Can do.”
“Problems?” Julian asked, rubbing my shoulder with one strong-fingered hand.
“Yeah.” I told him about needing a place for the bands, and how Moss had found something but there were problems. It felt good talking about it. And somehow, I got talking about all my other problems. I wound up with, “The worst is Durango canceling. I don’t know where we’ll find a lead guitar on such short notice.”
Julian hadn’t said anything but a few “uh-huhs” while I was spewing. But as I slowed down, he said, “Well, let’s look at the easier things first. The mortuary has chairs, don’t they?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Call Moss back and see if he’ll deliver them. And rental companies have large-sized space heaters. Unless the place is an abandoned oil refinery, that would probably do the trick for heat.”
“It’s an abandoned skate factory. Should be safe enough.” I was impressed. Julian was not only smart, but a problem-solver. I could definitely fall in love. I might even be able to overlook the three-piece suits. Especially with the added Harley incentive. “And the sound system?”
“Know of any place that sells equipment? Maybe they’d loan some to you in return for advertisement.”
“I wanted to rent stuff from Woofers ’R Us. Their equipment is perfect. Better than perfect. Real high-end.”
“It was too expensive even to rent?”
I blew a frustrated breath. “Yeah. After the fucking insurance. Do you have any idea how much the insurance for this shindig is costing?” My life. But that was another story. One I wasn’t admitting to anyone.
Julian eyed me closely. “Well…several local businesses owe Bo one way or another. I bet he could get them to loan you the equipment. Then it’ll be covered by their own insurance.”
I blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that.” I wondered if that would reduce my forty thousand soul-weight. “That’d be fantastic.” Two problems solved. I began to relax.
“As far as the lead guitar goes, what about me?”
I was still thinking about the sound equipment. If Bo could talk to Woofers ’R Us, then…I gaped at Julian. “You? As lead? But…but you don’t play guitar.”
“The viola da gamba happens to be tuned the same. A step off, but I don’t have perfect pitch. It’ll be fine.”
“Fine? Last I looked, gambas weren’t electric.”
“But they’re tuned alike, which means I can probably pick up electric guitar pretty quickly.”
“Julian, we don’t play sixteenth century bransles! We play polkas—”
“Which are nineteenth century. I can manage. And besides, what choice do you have?”
When he put it that way, it seemed like none. Still… “We won’t have time to rehearse.”
He shrugged. “I was pretty good at improv back in the fifteen hundreds. I’ve heard it’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget.”
“Ha-ha. Improv then was nothing like now—wait. You aren’t kidding, are you?” Had Julian Emerson really done improv on his viola da gamba in the sixteenth century? In the courts of Henry VIII and… “You! You were the relation who served Elizabeth I!”
He bent his head in a graceful acknowledgment. “And James I. Not Charles I, though. I had emigrated by 1625.”
Shit. Had the man…vampire standing before me actually met kings and queens of England? It seemed impossible, outrageous. “Didn’t they know? Didn’t any of these paragons glom on to the fact that you’re a vampire?”
“Shh,” he said gently. “Not so loud. Not everyone in Meiers Corners know we exist.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“And no, they didn’t. We pass easily as humans, and we’re very careful not to be discovered. We’re powerful, but we’re still vulnerable, after all. A few million of us in no way balance billions of human beings.”
“Mm…million?” I stuttered.
“More or less.” Julian shrugged. “Though all but a few thousand are fledglings.”
“Fledglings,” I echoed, still trying to come to grips with millions of vampires.
“Twenty years dead or less. There was a large upswing in the population with the advent of autoimmune diseases. Possibly there’s a correlation. But that’s not the point.”
“No. The point is you’re still a secret society.”
Julian kissed me gently. “No. The point is I can help you. If you’ll let me.”
I stared into his eyes. I saw from their deep, intense blue that he meant more than just helping with the band, or even just with the festival.
But how much more? And how much would it hurt when he stopped helping? When he left?
I already knew I’d never forget Julian Emerson. He was smart, handsome, and a problem-solver. He was generous and thoughtful. He was an amazing lay.
He had blown the competition, not only in the Mother Hunt but in the Orgasm Grand Prix, out of the water.
He had written on my heart with indelible marker.
Oh, no. So not going there. Even lusting after Suitguy was simple and unthreatening compared to falling in love. If I were in love…not just freewheeling sex, but hearts and rings and commitment—who was I then? Not sassy, independent Nixie.
And worse, if I fell in love with Julian Emerson—moldy old vampire and stodgy attorney—who was I becoming? Bright, exciting Nixie would be lost, drowned in a tide of forever and family. No longer Nixie the Pixie but Dietlinde the Drab.
Names have power. My mother called me Dietlinde because she was trying to force me into the conservative, responsible mold. Dietlinde Schmeling was bad enough. But I wouldn’t recognize Dietlinde Emerson…shizzle. Where did that come from?
Julian, with that almost supernatural perceptiveness said, “It might be you who changes me.”
“Oh, now that’s just too scary. How did you know what I was thinking?”
“The degree of panic on your face. The frown lines between your brows.” Julian smoothed my forehead with a warm thumb. “You fear nothing and no one. Except losing your freedom.”
“My mother calls it restraint. Caution.”
“She just wants you safe,” he said gently.
“Yeah, well, why is safe so boring?” I crumpled my greasy papers and got up. “I almost envy my sister, dying on a motorcycle. At least she got to live before she died.”
“You’re living.” Julian rose behind me. “You get paid for doing what you love. You have your own apartment and car.”
“I don’t earn much,” I said, devil’s advocate. “I have to visit my parents three or four times a week or I’d starve.” I got to his motorcycle, touched the chrome wistfully. “And if I’m so free, why does it seem I never get five miles beyond Meiers Corners? I had more
freedom as a kid. At least then we took field trips to Chicago.”
“You could get out more.” Julian handed me my helmet. “You could visit me in Boston.”
The helmet nearly dropped from my hands. The truth hit me so hard I felt like screaming. There, in a nutshell, was what Nixie the Pixie would become, tethered to aristocrat Julian Emerson.
Nothing but a joke.
I pictured me in Boston, city of Ivy League schools and conservative blue-bloods. Like Meiers Corners but older and actually stodgier.
With the added incentive of being way too classy for a punk like me.
In Meiers Corners I was an anomaly. Funny, but kind of sexy, too.
But in Boston, Julian’s old-money friends would make me look like new garbage. They’d all laugh at me.
I was exciting to Julian here because I was different. A vacation fuck. But if I showed up there, I’d be just one of a long line of women vying for his attention, and not in pole position, either.
Sure, Julian might ask me to visit. But once I got there…once he saw me amid his sophisticated friends and his gorgeous and elegant women—
He’d reject me.
And what was worse was that I would care. His rejection would break my heart…fuck. “No! No way I’m setting foot in the Home of the fucking Hoags!”
Julian blinked at me. “I thought you wanted adventure…”
“Ooh, adventure galore with Snobby, Priggish and Prude. As invigorating as swimming in concrete. Be still my frantic, girlish heart.”
“I thought you might like it.” If I didn’t know better I’d have thought he sounded slightly hurt. “But you don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
As I thought! A charity invitation, extended out of pity. “You’re so kind,” I sneered. “How thoughtful, to invite me and then yank it away! I’d rather get run over by a truck!”
“No need to get sarcastic,” Julian said, vowels flattening. “You complained about not getting out enough.”
“Complained?! I never complain. Are you trying to pick a fight?”
“Me…? What is wrong with you? A trip to Boston—”
“Is my idea of a personal hell!”
