by Susan Sey
“Fuck you, pigs!” Mattie’s laugh was like gravel in a can, and she stuck one skinny arm out the window, middle finger extended as she blew through the stop sign at the corner. “Kiss my white ass!”
Nixie sat up and blinked at Erik. He came down the porch steps to squat beside her.
“Nice reflexes, princess.” He picked a leaf off her cheek with two fingers. “You ever want to play softball, you let me know. The hospital team could use a girl who’s not afraid to get her shirt dirty. Who would have thought an ironing board could move so fast?”
“Ironing board,” Nixie muttered in disgust. She rolled to her hands and knees, mentally cataloguing her injuries--scraped palms, banged knee, filthy clothes, and yes, bruised ass. She patted at it and winced.
Something hot and elusive shifted in those calm blue eyes. “Don’t take it so hard, Nixie. Some men like their women, ah, subtle.”
She snorted. “Okay, that guy was at least six hundred years old and he only had one eye. I’m pretty sure he was talking about you with the ironing board thing.”
“Those fabled people skills of yours could use a little work, though,” he mused as if she hadn’t spoken. “Hold still now. There’s a little bit of slime right--” He took her chin in his hand, used his thumb to rub gently at her cheek bone. Her heart took a funny little tumble in her chest and she slapped at his hand. It was probably just a delayed reaction to having nearly been Mattie Getz-Strunk’s hood ornament, she told herself.
“You knew that was going to happen.” She got to her feet, brushing at the frozen slime coating her jeans. A Big Gulp lid and straw had somehow adhered to her butt. She flicked it off. Erik picked at the leaves in her hair. She slapped at him again and he tucked his hands into his pockets with a shrug.
“I certainly did not.”
She treated him to a nice, long look.
“I figured she’d bolt. I didn’t figure she’d try to run you over.”
“Why would she bolt?”
“Funny story there.” Nixie glared at him and he hurried to continue. “While Mattie doesn’t get drunk, she does get stoned. And when she’s high, she’s paranoid and a little, um, violent.”
“A little violent?” Nixie gaped at him. “She tried to run me over with her truck!”
“Well, you did threaten to question her. She probably thought we were the cops. And to be fair, an El Camino is really only half a truck.” She gave him a shot to the shoulder and Erik winced. “Nice arm. You could maybe get into the batting line up, too.”
“I am not playing softball for your stupid league.” Nixie kicked her way free of the knee-high trash heap, and stomped toward the front gate.
“Up to you, of course.” He swished the gate open in time for her to blaze through. “What now?”
“What do you mean, what now? Let’s hit the next house.”
“You don’t want to go home to change?”
“And let you ditch me while I’m in the shower? I don’t think so, ace. I’m good to go.” She tucked a slimy lock of hair behind her ear and folded her arms over her chest. “The smell will wear off in a few minutes, I’m sure. And if it doesn’t, I’m going to smear myself all over your passenger seat on the way home.”
Erik nodded grimly. “Right.”
“Look on the bright side. Who would believe I’m Nixie Leighton-Brace now?” She looked around the deserted street. “Not that there’s a pack of roving tabloid reporters hanging around or anything. Guess I’m not quite the catalyst for disastrous publicity you thought.”
“It’s early yet. We’ll see what happens when the clinic opens this afternoon.”
“Fine. So we have the next four hours to find Mary Jane in relative peace and quiet. Let’s get busy. Who’s next on the to-be-questioned list?”
Erik jerked his head toward a house down the street, crouching in the squat shadow of The Wash. “Daryl Johnson. He’s the reason McDonald’s puts pictures instead of words on their cash registers. Flips burgers, lives with his mom, buys beer for the under aged. Smokes a lot of dope. Loves the ladies, thinks they love him back. If he saw anything, he’ll tell us.”
“Why didn’t we start with him?”
“Oh, I think you’ll see for yourself.”
CHAPTER TEN
Erik fell in behind Nixie as she marched down the ancient concrete toward Daryl Johnson’s house. Rotten leaves and litter fluttered in her wake like she was a one-woman ticker tape parade. She didn’t have Mary Jane’s curves, it was true. But there was a very pleasing swing to what ass she did have. He had to admit it was a nice view.
There was a half-chewed stick of beef jerky dangling from one curl and he smiled into his collar. Damn, he liked this girl. He didn’t know a single woman who would slap at her jeans and declare herself good to go after a head-first dive into a trash heap. The women he generally dated would be in tears by now, both the ones he picked out and the ones his mother threw at him. This girl was something else. He’d miss her when she went back to being Nixie Leighton-Brace.
His smile died. God, what was he thinking? He wouldn’t miss her. Maybe the women he dated didn’t have quite her...panache, but at least they weren’t tabloid bait. And they certainly didn’t intimate that he had game-show-host teeth or bad people skills. Caps, indeed. He sucked on his perfectly natural teeth and frowned at Nixie’s back.
Still, he couldn’t deny she was interesting company. He’d go to his grave savoring the sight of her rising up from the leaves like some white-trash version of her namesake, pissed and righteous. Unfortunately, he’d probably go to bed tonight savoring the sight of her elegant hands running over the curves of her own butt, searching for injury while Erik’s mind made a beeline for the gutter. He sighed. And that was the downside to being a normal man with two eyes and a healthy sexual appetite. But it didn’t mean anything. As soon as he had the clinic back on solid financial footing, he could forget Nixie Leighton-Brace and her world-class backside.
He stopped on the sidewalk and watched Nixie stare at Daryl Johnson’s house. It was neater than most--no graffiti and a newer fence. Still, it sidled up to the side of the Wash like a submissive dog approaching the alpha. Which was appropriate when Erik considered Daryl’s relationship with the Dog crew.
Nixie rattled the gate. No snarling hounds materialized. She opened the gate and waved Erik through. “You first.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to wait in the car?”
“I’m sure.”
“Did I mention that Daryl likes the ladies?”
“Yep. And I’m pretty sure that, given my current condition, he’s not going to get out of hand.”
Erik shook his head. “Daryl doesn’t mind dirty. I think he might actually like dirty.”
Nixie stepped closer. “The aroma is my second line of defense.”
Erik’s nose twitched. “Right. Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She waved him through the gate and trailed him to the front door. Not that he could see her, but she had a point about the aroma. It was pretty stiff. He knocked on the door. Nothing. He knocked again.
Something crashed inside the house, followed by some cursing, a heart-felt moan and a little more crashing. The door opened a sliver and one sleepy eye appeared.
“What the fuck, homes?”
“Hey, Daryl,” Erik said, nudging Nixie a little farther to his left. “I’m looking for a woman--”
“Sheee-it, homes, she yours?” The eye opened fully. “Damn, she bounced on me all night. Fucking ride ‘em cowgirl, you know what I’m saying? Lucky ass motherfucker.” The door opened wider and Daryl beamed at Erik, in perfect charity with the universe for having created a woman who would fuck his brains out, even if she was just on loan from the guy at the door.
Erik lifted his eyebrows. “Unless she’s about this tall--” he waved a hand at shoulder-height “--blonde, blue-eyed and qualified to crack your chest, I don’t think so.”
Daryl’s smile didn’t falter. He just s
tood there, a chubby dimwit in droopy boxers and sweat socks. “Damn, G, she cracked everything last night, you know what I mean? But she wasn’t no blonde. You looking for a white bitch?”
“Yeah,” Erik said. “You seen one lately?”
“Shit, dawg. I seen lots of white bitches. They’re all this ain’t no Diet Coke! and I asked for the dressing on the side!” He turned from the door and treated them both to a couple inches of hairy ass cleavage. Nixie made some kind of strangled noise in the back of her throat as Daryl ambled to the ancient floral-print couch.
Erik gave Nixie another little nudge toward the side of the porch and whispered, “Stay here.”
“Not on your life,” she whispered back. “I want to meet the cowgirl. Do you think she’s still in there?”
“I need a smoke,” Daryl said. Nixie poked at Erik and made get-going eyes at him until he sighed and followed Daryl into the house, Nixie at his heels.
“Well, damn, bro. There’s your white girl right there!” Daryl looked up from the joint he was rolling and gave Nixie a big smile. “’Sup, home girl.” He reached up the leg of his boxers and produced a flabby, wrinkled dick. “You want a taste of ol’ D, too? I got enough to go around.”
Erik sighed. He’d tried to warn her.
“Oh, wow,” Nixie said. She waved a hand through the air. “That’s...flattering, really, but--” Daryl waited, jiggled his equipment. Erik watched the emotions race across Nixie’s mobile face. She was going to laugh any minute now, and the last thing they needed was to wound Daryl’s pride. Especially when he was holding it in his hand. Erik searched for anything that might change the subject.
“Your mom lets you smoke in the house?” Erik asked, nodding toward the half-rolled joint.
Daryl tucked his dick back into his shorts. “No, I ain’t allowed to light up in here. But it ain’t no thing. Mama’s at church all morning and I got me a Bounce blower.”
“A bounce blower?” Nixie edged closer, curiosity clearly winning out over prudence. You’d think she wanted to get flashed again. “What’s that?”
Daryl held up a paper towel tube. “It’s stuffed with Bounce. You know, like from the dryer? You suck in the weed--” He demonstrated, taking an enormous hit from the joint. “Then you blow it through the tube,” he croaked. He lifted the tube to his mouth and exhaled a mighty stream of smoke into the end. The smell of extremely high laundry filled the room.
Erik sighed but Nixie pressed her hands against her chest and treated Erik to a brilliant smile, the kind that sold magazines by the stack. She was filthy, leaves still tucked into those coppery curls of hers, dirt caked on both knees, but when she looked at Erik, her face was pure delight.
This was why she was Nixie Leighton-Brace, he thought suddenly. This was why people ran for their checkbooks every time she smiled. Nixie didn’t care about race or class or intellect. You could plop her down with anybody on the planet and within minutes, she would be charmed with them about something. Here was a man who’d just reached up his shorts and flopped out his penis for her admiration, and two minutes later, Nixie was laughing with him.
She looked up and caught Erik’s eye, a personal invitation to join her, to share the joke, to be with her in the moment. Erik smiled back, and her approval spilled over him like warm honey. Daryl squinted at her through the smoke.
“Dang, do I know you?” he asked Nixie.
Erik watched her clamp down on that famous smile. “Could be. It’s a small world.”
“You ever come into the Chow Down? On Berkley?”
“Is that where you work?” Nixie asked.
“Yeah. You come on in, I’ll fix you up with some free grub.” He stared at her, grinning foolishly. Erik imagined she got that quite a lot. Still, she grinned back with every sign of genuine pleasure.
“You know what I’d really like?” she asked.
Daryl’s hand went for the leg hole of his boxers again.
“Um, no, not that.” Nixie perched on the edge of the coffee table, carefully keeping her filth off Mrs. Johnson’s furniture and her distance from Daryl’s underwear. “I’d really like to find my friend Mary Jane. Tyrese sent a car for her last night, to the clinic. I haven’t seen her since and I’m a little worried.” She put wide-eyed concern all over her face and leaned forward just enough to keep Daryl interested. “Do you know Tyrese?”
Daryl sucked down another lungful of smoke and leaned back. The fly of his boxers gaped open. Erik looked away. He couldn’t take it. “Yeah, baby, I know Ty.” He exhaled into the paper towel tube. Meadow fresh pot smoke poured into the room. “Mad smart, that boy. Got all kinda diplomas and shit.”
“Do you think he’ll see us?” Nixie asked. “Can you take us to him? I mean, if your girlfriend wouldn’t mind?” She glanced around the room as if the woman were hiding under a sofa cushion, and Erik suppressed a snort. Nixie’s face was all sincerity, but there was a wicked flash in those mossy eyes. She still wanted to meet Daryl’s cowgirl. Yeehaw.
“Ain’t no bitch gonna tell me what to do,” Daryl said, giving Nixie a narrow stare he’d probably seen on MTV. Then he broke into a sunny smile and said, “She gots to roll ‘fore Mama get home from church anyhow. Yo! Babe!” He scooped up his stash, hiked up his boxers and ambled toward the back of the house. “Time to jet, home girl!”
Nixie waited, her eyes trained on the doorway, an expectant look on her face. Erik waited, too, for the inevitable discovery of a missing woman and a missing wallet.
“Hey, she done took off already.” Daryl was back and clearly nonplussed. “Forgot to leave her digits, too. Shit.”
Nixie gave a soothing little cluck. “Shy, maybe.”
Daryl brightened. “Yeah.” He scrubbed a hand over his head and shrugged. Short attention span. Erik figured it was a blessing. Probably kept him from noticing anything amiss with his life, or dwelling on it when he did. “You wanna get some chow?”
“We’d like to visit Ty,” Nixie told him gently. “You were going to take us?”
“Right!” Daryl snapped his fingers and nodded. “Right.” He stood there, a bit uncertain. “Now?”
Nixie nodded slowly. “Yes.”
Daryl lifted his shoulders. “Okay. Let’s roll.”
Nixie had seen far worse than the Wash as far as ghettos went. Refugee camps, shack cities, whole communities living on garbage dumps. Comparatively, the Wash was the lap of luxury. But there was a feel here, an energy that Nixie recognized. It was a toxic stew of poverty, hopelessness and fury, and it hung in the air, as real to Nixie as the stench of urine and old grease.
Daryl heaved himself up the last flight of stairs, then bent at the waist and sucked wind. “Damn, I got to switch to Diet Coke.”
“I think it’s more the fries,” Erik told him. He joined Nixie on the landing where she delivered a sharp hip check. Erik gave her a what? face.
“Try not to antagonize the guy who’s taking us to Mary Jane, huh?” she whispered.
He shrugged. “Kid’s on a collision course with angina.”
“So tell him after we get Mary Jane back.”
“Right.”
Daryl straightened and swiped a sleeve over his shiny forehead. “Shit. Okay, I’m good. Let’s roll.”
He led them down a dim hallway that smelled of cigarettes and ammonia. The occasional fluorescent bulb gave off a soft hum, and TVs chattered away in the apartments they passed. Daryl stopped at the end of the hall, rapped on a door.
“Tyrese? Yo, Tyrese! It’s me, Daryl Johnson. Yo, homes, got some folks want to talk with you. It’s about that lady doctor down at the clinic. You know, the one with the onion butt?”
Nixie leaned toward Erik. “Onion butt?”
He didn’t look at her, just shook his head.
Daryl knocked again. “Tyrese? Come on, man, open up.”
Nixie frowned at Erik. “Onion butt? What the heck does that even mean?”
He sighed and ignored her. Nixie poked Daryl. “Onion butt?”
<
br /> “Booty. Big, round, scrumptious, poppin’-ass booty. Kind so good it can make a brotha cry, know what I’m saying?” He gave her a quick inspection. “You ain’t got one, sister girl. Sorry.”
Nixie sighed and Erik hid a grin in his collar. “You’re not the first one to mention that to me today.”
Daryl knocked on the door again. “Hey, man, you in there? I got a doc out here, if you need sewing up or some shit like that. You being all shot up and whatnot.”
There was the sudden rattle of locks being worked--several locks, if Nixie heard correctly--and the door swung open. Standing there in the doorway was the most beautiful creature Nixie had ever seen. His skin was the color of really high-quality baking chocolate--dark and sweet and pure--and it was stretched over a lean, elegant set of bones that made even the white bandages at his shoulder look haute. Nixie blinked at him, a little stunned. His mouth, even set as it was in irritation, was full and lush, the cheekbones high and sharp under deep brown eyes.
“Keep it down, huh, Daryl?” Tyrese said. He was shirtless in deference to the shoulder wound, and while his chest was certainly beautiful to look at, it wasn’t his physique that hit Nixie. It was the energy. This man was born to command. Nixie had felt this same power vibrating off heads of state, CEOs of multinational corporations, and warlords of all stripes. It was the same energy that hung in the air around Erik, and had surrounded her parents like a familiar perfume.
Daryl seemed oblivious. He just grinned at Tyrese like an overgrown toddler. “’Sup, Ty?”
“’Sup, Daryl.” Tyrese returned the greeting wearily. “Who’re your friends?”
