Bite My Fire: A Biting Love story.

by Mary Hughes

  Bo pressed “on” with his thumb. “Hello? Yes, this is Detective O’Rourke’s home. May I say who’s calling?” Still thrusting, he held the phone to his chest. It nearly disappeared between the two huge slabs of pectoral. “It’s ‘Detective Dirk’.”

  I concentrated on speaking as clearly as I was able. “I’m—ohh…not—ohh…home—ohh.” Each word was punctuated by a powerful thrust which sent spasms flitting through my groin and accounted for the ohhs.

  “Sure you’re home. I know you now, sweetheart. You’d blame yourself if you missed something important.” Bo put one hand flat on the mattress next to my head, used the other to prop the phone next to my ear. He began riding me with a wave-like motion, swiping my clit with the whole length of his cock on each stroke.

  I yodeled into the phone.

  “Detective Ma’am?” Dirk’s muddy rasp was tentative. “Are you…okay?”

  “Fi-eye-ne,” I bleated on an especially potent downstroke. Bo grinned. “Fine,” I panted. “I’m fine. A-number-one fucking fine.”

  “Oh, good. Because I have a question about the case.”

  “Ruffles, I’m off the case—hey!” Bo’s tongue was now flicking my erect nipple in time to his thrusts. I turned my head from the phone. Stop that, I mouthed at him.

  No, he mouthed back, lips reattaching quickly to my nipple.

  I shrieked.

  “Detective Ma’am? Is there a problem?”

  Hell, yes, there was a problem. But not one that I cared to explain over the phone. Even if I could. “Look, Dirk…could you call back later?” I can say this for Strongwell—he had great rhythm.

  “It’s something quick, Detective Ma’am. And I really feel your input is important. It’s about Josephine Schrimpf.”

  “What about her?”

  “It’s about the plane reservations.”

  “Ohhh, I’m com…shit…” Bo the mad drummer changed rhythm again. Now he was banging on my cymbal at the same time that he was paradiddling my tom-tom, if you know what I mean. “Wasn’t she on the plane?”

  “No, Detective Ma’am. I mean yes. She was on the plane, along with a Maria Martinez.”

  “The maid? Oh, shit…”

  “Exactly,” Dirk said, as if I’d made some brilliant comment. In actuality, Bo had just latched onto my other nipple. “I knew you were really smart, Detective Ma’am, even though you’re a girl. You knew all along, didn’t you?”

  “I knew what all alonngghh!”

  “That Maria Martinez is Josephine Schrimpf’s lover. That the maid bit is just a pose. That they both went to the conference to carry on their affair.”

  “And alibi each other,” I wept.

  “Yes, ma’am. I have return flights for Maria on the afternoon of the eighteenth and Josephine on evening of the nineteenth, both well after the murder. It looks like our best lead is out.”

  “Oh…oh…oh shit!” Bo thrust cock and fangs into me. Caught like a butterfly between two electric cattle prods, I zapped into cinders.

  I came to with Dirkenstein’s voice in my ear. “Exactly, Detective Ma’am. Shitake mushrooms.”

  –—

  Bo disappeared to patrol at nine. Just as well, because after two monster sex sessions in less than twenty-four hours, I was a little sore.

  And stiff. I stumbled into the shower. My brain suggested all sorts of cute analogies with vampires and stiffs—or just stiffies—but I ducked my head under the hot water and ignored it.

  Finally I felt alive enough to turn off the shower and towel dry. My hair and I fought for half an hour before it won. I settled for pulling it back and twisting it into a claw-of-death clip. “Here’s a good omen for the night,” I said to my mirror twin. She didn’t look any better than I felt.

  In my bedroom I pulled open my underwear drawer. It went flying across the room.

  Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten to do laundry. But there were a lot of layers to go through before I was absolutely out. Level one was good underwear. Level two was stuff with a little wear. Level three was emergency underwear. Level four was really-emergency underwear.

  Level five was Stuff I Wouldn’t Be Caught Dead In.

  A lot of layers. I usually did my laundry well before I got to the emergency stage. But my life had been frenetic of late. The drawer was almost empty.

  Completely empty would have been better.

  I pulled out my only remaining bra and panties. Stared at them like you did an accident—both horrified and fascinated.

  One bra, so stretched and ratty my left tit fell out. One pair of bikini briefs that my sister gave me as a gag. The crotch was emblazoned with the picture of a billy club. A pair of handcuffs balanced on the ass, one cuff on each cheek. Front and back were emblazoned with the words “Cop a Feel”. Cop, get it? Yeah, Stuff I Wouldn’t Be Caught Dead In.

  Which only meant I would have to make sure I didn’t die.

  Day-old jeans went on over the panties. Whew. One disaster covered. I paired the jeans with a shirt I’d been meaning to give to charity for ten years. It was a scoop neck knit in an appalling shade of pink that was way too small.

  My left tit fell out. The shirt’s low-cut neck made it easy to put back. Lord save me from advantages like that.

  In this ego-building ensemble I hit the street. People stared as I passed. Goofy grins popped onto their faces. I growled at them, but the little pink girly top ensured no one took me seriously. I would have killed for a really sexy black leather coat that swirled threateningly around my ankles. That would have gotten respect. Trinity got respect.

  Making do, I pumped confidence into my stride—and turned my gun belt, pulling the gun right over my belly button. It didn’t stop the staring, but it did go a long way to suppressing the goofy grins.

  I was headed for Nieman’s Bar, following up on a hunch. My night off, and not my case, but I needed to solve the murder. Even if my pride weren’t involved, there was my sense of justice. And I had a feeling Dirk would need my help. Sweet guy, but a bullet or two shy of a clip. A detective only if you subbed an f for the first t.

  As I waited at Fifth and Main to cross the street, a shadow swooped out of nowhere, wearing a sexy black leather coat that swirled threateningly around his ankles.

  “Aw, I’d kill for one of those coats.” I holstered my XD.

  Bo’s delicious lips turned up. “Would you like to earn it, Detective?” The twinkle in his eye left no doubt in my mind how he wanted me to do the earning.

  “I don’t want the pressure to perform.” The light turned and I stepped into the crosswalk.

  “Ten at night and you obey traffic laws? Nice top, by the way. I think one of your breasts is waving at me.”

  “Oops.” Left one had come loose again. I stopped mid-crosswalk, tucked it into place. “I obey all the laws. Have to set a good example.”

  “But there’s no one around to set an example for.”

  “There’s you.” I arched a brow at him. “Evil creatures of the night can always use a role model.”

  Bo looked interested. “A good role model, or a bad one? Are you offering to lead me astray, Detective?”

  I pulled him to the opposite side. “Nice try, Viking.”

  That made him laugh. “Viking. How fitting.”

  “Hopefully not in the ugly evil-rape-and-pillage sense.”

  “Vikings were family men too.”

  Well, wasn’t that an opening? At Nieman’s door I turned. “Did you really help a kid with her history homework?”

  “Reenie? How did you hear about that?”

  “You should know. You’re the one who sent Gretchen to me.”

  He smiled. The dimple winked. Ow. “Reenie hates history. Poor kid needed an A+ on her final project just to pass the class. I simply helped the subject come alive for her.”

  “That was nice. They’re just people in your building. Just, um, donors.”

  Bo cupped my chin in one hand, raised my face to his. His eyes were serious. “Those people are
not just donors, Elena. They’re my family. I do everything in my power to make their lives better, happier.”

  Father material? How about husband materi…no. Not going there. Not going… Bo’s smiled widened. I drowned between the Dimple and the Deep Blue Sea.

  I was going under for the third time when his smile darkened to a frown. Whew. He seemed to notice for the first time where we were. “What are we doing at Nieman’s?”

  “Following up on a hunch. I’ll explain inside.” I pushed the door open, let my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. “Drusilla was in Nieman’s parking lot that night.”

  Bo was right behind me, scanning the place. Apparently his eyes didn’t need adjusting. Which I suppose made sense for a possibly evil but definitely hunky creature of the night. “Dru didn’t do it.”

  “The problem is, if she didn’t do it—and I’m not writing her off just because you, my sister, and my supervisor say so—but if Dru didn’t do it, there aren’t a lot of suspects left. Maybe an opportunistic killer.”

  “Opportunistic?”

  “Yeah. Cop lingo for the killer was nearby and saw his opening and went for it.”

  “Someone in the parking lot.”

  “Or someone in the bar who just left at the right time. That’s why I want to find out who was here the night Schrimpf was killed.”

  Bo took my elbow, guided me over to the rail. “You say ‘he’. Wouldn’t bites on the testicles indicate female?”

  “The biter and killer aren’t necessarily the same person.” My vision finally cleared to Granny Butt’s scrawny semi-naked ass wiggling on top of the bar. I dug fists into my eyes. Nope. Still able to see, in excruciating, living color. “And we know at least one male bit Schrimpf.”

  “Really? How?”

  I focused on Bo, and only on him. “The ME tested the wound area. Found saliva residue.”

  “Ah. Spit.” His eyes were also locked on mine. Which meant one of three things. He found me fascinating. He found what I was saying was fascinating.

  Or he was just as scared by the half-naked old ass on the bar. “How does spit indicate a male?”

  “DNA. But the results are confusing.” A silver orthopedic loafer planted next to my elbow. I shuddered, eeled away, but not far enough. A thigh-high landed on my shoulder. Oh, fuck me. Though I wasn’t on duty, I was a cop and I was carrying and regulations said nothing stronger than soda. But when the bartender came, I laid a five on the bar. “MGD. With a shot of tequila.”

  The bartender was a silver-haired gent who reminded me strikingly of Jeeves Butler. While I ordered he pitched a couple glasses down the bar, hitting open hands like sinking billiard balls. “One boilermaker, right. I have a party of ten, it’ll take just a bit. Anything for you, Mast…Mister Strongwell?”

  “A Red Special, Buddy.” Bo slid another bill under my five.

  I turned on Bo in surprise. “Buddy? You know the bartender?”

  “Yes. Buddy Butler.” Bo flashed me a short twinkle of dimple. “Daniel Butler’s twin brother. Apartment Three-B.”

  “Both of them live with you?”

  “Yes. I was instrumental in rescuing the whole Butler family a few years back.”

  “The whole family like Mom, Dad, Buddy, Jeeves and the Beaver? That would be more than a few years back.”

  “Whole family as in colonial ancestors Nathaniel and Martha Butler. And a few years back as in three hundred.” At my wince Bo patted my cheek. “You’ll get used to it. But back to what you were saying. Why are the DNA results confusing?”

  I shook my head. I’d get used to it? Bo saved a family centuries ago and their descendants were living with him. He was old. He could have known my parents. Could have known my grandparents. Shit, my boyfriend could have known my great-grandparents…my mind boggled. Not at the age, so much as the boyfriend. Lover, maybe. But boyfriend? What would that article be? “When Vamping Your Vampire’s Not Enough: Make Bo Your Beau”? Leaping Luminol, maybe I was the one a few bullets shy of a clip.

  So I went back to thinking about the case, much more solid mental ground. “There’s at least two sets of DNA. One matches our favorite hooker.” Drusilla’s hair, the one I recovered after our last chat, didn’t have a root tab. But the hair itself was enough for mitochondrial testing.

  That got his attention. “My kind has DNA?”

  “Yes. Remember those two guys who attacked us?” I explained about the char marks. It was a relief to be able to be completely honest about it, although I still avoided the v-word in public. “‘Your kind’ not only has DNA. The DNA’s completely human.”

  “Incredible.” Bo gazed at me with respect. “Brava, Detective. That’s quite brilliant.”

  I blushed, glad he couldn’t see it in the dark. I hated anyone knowing I was such a pushover for compliments. Especially my boyfriend.

  Then he grazed my cheek with one finger, a gently amused look on his face. Busted. I forgot he could apparently see in the dark. “Yeah, well it doesn’t really tell us anything. Drusilla’s saliva is consistent with her story. And we still can’t identify who else had their mouth down there. Only that it’s male.”

  “Thus the ‘he’.”

  “Yeah. Since Nieman’s is right next door to the crime scene, and since most of the bar’s clientele is male—” A yellowed bra, its straps let out to the knees, hit me in the cheek. I winced at the sting, then checked quickly to make sure my own aged tit-trap was holding up. Left One was slipping loose, so I surreptitiously stuffed her back. “I thought the bar the logical place to start looking.”

  Buddy the bartender returned. “Your special, Mr. Strongwell. Your boilermaker, lady.” He handed Bo a glass, and me a glass and a shot. Mine were amber and clear. Bo’s was dull red.

  Bo arched one blond brow. “Should you be drinking on the job, Detective?”

  A thong came zinging through the air, hit a bowl of bar peanuts. Peanuts flew everywhere, little legumey pellets spitting into patrons, mirror, and floor like machine gun bullets.

  I craned my neck to see behind the bar. The thong lay amid scattered peanuts like a dead snake.

  I had decided never to break the rules again, but if I didn’t blind myself pronto, I was going to run out the door. Screaming. And if I ran out (screaming), I’d never get the names. Without the names, we’d never crack the case.

  So, break the rules and drink. Or not break the rules and fail justice. ’Cause Dirklet was never solving this case on his own.

  Pulling my gun, I ejected the clip. Brass-checked the chamber, empty. After handing Bo the ammo, I dropped the shot glass into the beer. “Hazard pay. Cheers.”

  I slung back enough to make my eyes water. This was as close to blindness as I was going to get.

  Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow, I could go back to being by-the-book O’Rourke. I could quit any time. As the alcoholic glow threaded my veins, it occurred to me that’s what all the addicts said.

  Bo smiled. “I understand. Skål.” He sipped his own drink. The liquid in his glass moved sluggishly, like tomato juice.

  “What’s that?”

  “A Red Special.”

  Maybe he thought he could put me off with that lame excuse for an answer. He’d forgotten I had a younger, pestier sister. “Uh-huh. Which contains…?”

  The lip-curve thing. “If you asked for a Red Special, it would be cranberry juice and brandy.”

  I tinked a finger against his glass. The liquid shivered like setting gelatin. “That’s too thick for cranberry juice.”

  “Is it?”

  He wasn’t going to tell me. I decided to play big-sister hardball. “Okay, buster. How about you give me the glass and I try some?”

  “Buster. I like the way you say that. Sounds almost like lover.”

  “Does not.”

  “Does too.” The curve deepened.

  “Does…fuck. What is that?” I emphasized each word with a poke to his iron-hard stomach.

  “So persistent. All right, Detective, What
do you think it is?”

  I stared at the drink in his hand. “Red, viscous, smells like pennies…oh no. That’s just…ew!” Blood, here? A bar wouldn’t have donors, would it? And if the bar didn’t have donors… “Where does that stuff come from?”

  He shrugged. “The mortuary, most likely.”

  I should just learn to keep my mouth shut. “Oh, yuck.”

  “Or the hospital. Don’t worry. My kind pays top dollar, and we never take rare blood types.”

  “Great. A conscientious bloodsucker.” I slugged back the rest of my drink. A nice buzz hit my brain, dulling the horror of sluggish red drinks and yellowed thongs.

  Buddy unfortunately thought my empty meant I wanted another. Within moments he plopped a refill at my elbow. Without a word, Bo paid.

  Well, I just had to drink it then, didn’t I? I didn’t want to let Bo’s money go to waste.

  I drained it. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief. It did make me feel better, and warmer. I set my empty down. Buddy swooped in with a third boilermaker. Bo paid for this one too. I knocked back half and felt even better. And much, much warmer.

  “Detective O’Rourke?” A finger tapped my shoulder.

  I swiveled to see the horse face of Dieter Donner. I blinked. This was good for some reason. Oh yeah. I was here to get the names of Nieman’s customers on the night Schrimpf was killed. Donner had been here, and he might know who else was. I should intrrograte…intrro…grill him. “Just the guy I wanted to see.”

  Beyond Donner, the refined, polite Franz Blitz bowed. “Not here for the floorshow, Detective O’Rourke? Brunhilde is in rare form tonight.”

  I slewed a one-eyed glance at the bar. Wrinkles undulated way too close. Ow. My eye throbbed like I’d been clocked in the face.

  I set my half-empty glass down. Picked it up again when the silver loafer threatened to send it flying. Yikes. Better, but not better enough. I slapped the glass to my mouth and drank more.

  An aged ass wiggled in front of my eyes. It was now totally naked.

  I spazzed. The rest of my drink poured into my nose and gaping mouth. I snorted, choked, and coughed. My eyes watered uncontrollably but some demon of black karmic hell was at work because I could still see.