Jozzie & Sugar Belle
Page 9
“I mean, er…” Joz eyed the glass casserole pan with some trepidation. Nestled in it was the Lucite block, and a copper-bottom pot on the stove held something that smelled like tire cleaner, bubbling petrol, vomit, and Vegemite.
She’d sniffed at the Vegemite when Joz spread some on his toast that morning, and declared it was just the thing to get his bits out of hock.
“You mean, I’m about to pour a boiling caustic mess over your naughties and stick them in the oven to melt the plastic?” Sugar grinned, rising on her toes. “Yeah, I can see where you’d have a little problem with that. The gold should insulate them, and give us a means of reattaching.” She stirred the mess in the pot with a long wooden spoon and wrinkled her nose a little. The edges of her wrapper moved slightly on a draft, and Jozzie was caught between sweating at the sight of her legs—healing up nicely this morning—and the plastic block in the baking dish.
Witches were great healers. Still, Jozzie was as nervous as a sheared sheep.
Her phone chimed and she glanced at it. “Fuck. That’s Frank. He must want me to come in and work.”
“Frank?”
“My boss at the tattoo parlor.”
“Oh.” Of course, Jozzie told himself, she had a job here. Friends. An apartment. Things she wouldn’t want to leave. ”You, er, can’t take a vacation?”
“I work when I feel like it. He knows that.” She lifted the spoon, judging the thick, bubbling brownish liquid coating the back of it with an expert eye. “Also, I’m a witch, Jozzie. I’m not going to crisp your nuts with a spell. At least, not accidentally. Have a little faith in me.”
“Yesmum,” he muttered. Faith was one thing, but this was his stones they were talking about.
“That’s not even the best part,” she said, cheerfully.
“It ent?” He tried to look away, at the window, at the linoleum, at anything other than the steam rising from that pot and the fact that the oven was set as high as it would go.
“Nope. I’ve got to reattach when they’re free.” She grinned. “That means you’ll have to take your pants off.”
“Bloody hell,” Jozzie mumbled, and considered escaping to the living room. He stayed, nailed in place and wincing, as Sugar flicked the burner off and lifted the pot.
“A little sauce,” she chirped, and poured the bubbling, tarry slop over the Lucite.
Twenty-Eight
Bloody Blue
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER
“It’s all right,” I said, pushing my sunglasses up to hold my hair back. LAX was a hellhole for midmorning flights; I ended up calling a cab because there was no way I was parking the Rabbit. I still hadn’t gotten around to trading it in, and Frank was steamed that I’d said no to covering a few of Dickie’s shifts. If he’d wanted someone reliable he shouldn’t have hired Dickie in the first place, but I didn’t tell him that. Why bother? Anyway, I could get another cab or rideshare to take me home with a snap of my fingers, just as soon as Jozzie was safely through the automatic doors. “She can’t be too mad.”
“You don’t know me mum.” Jozzie scrubbed at his head. He had a carryon now, a canvas bag full of new clothes, and at least he wasn’t compulsively scratching at his crotch anymore.
I guess he wanted to make sure everything was still there, but constantly scrubbing your junk in public makes you look like a pervert.
The attachment had gone smoothly, and the golden ring around the top would wear off as the tissues knit themselves together. It was a fine healing job, even if I did say so myself. “Yeah, well, moms are like that.” The shade near the smoker’s alley held an exhaust-laden breeze, and you could tell the day was going to be another hazy scorcher. The wildfires weren’t too bad yet, but the winds weren’t letting up.
“What about yours?” Joz didn’t want to go through the doors just yet. Or at least, the way he stood there with his carryon, awkward and examining my face over and over, said he had something on his mind.
“We don’t talk.” Everyone asked about your family sooner or later. “It’s no big deal,” I studied the curbside luggage booths, glanced at a German Shepherd walking a security agent around at the far end of the dropoff area. Sometimes I wondered about working as a flight attendant. It would be a nice way to travel. “She doesn’t like me, and she doesn’t like that my grandmother made me the heir.”
He visibly worked this around inside his skull. “But…she’s yer mum, right?“
“She gave birth to me. It’s not the same thing.” And now that my seventh was officially over and done with, well…I had some time on my hands.
I knew I wasn’t going to be spending it back in Belle Reve, that was for damn sure.
Jozzie shook his big blondish head again, dark eyes narrowing. “Bloody shame,” he said, and hefted his carryon. His stubble never got any longer, it was probably just how he was comfortable. It looked good on him. “Sugar…”
“Hm?” I folded my arms. He was going to go home to his nice big family, and that was that. I’d helped him, stopped an apocalypse, and gotten rid of the family curse. Next time someone said can you help me I could say nope and walk away.
I was aching to test that, really. Wasn’t I?
“I, er, me mum got me a ticket. I just…” He set his carryon down for the fifth time and dug in his new jacket pocket. “She, uh…she sent me two, actually. I told her yer name.”
My jaw threatened to drop. “You what?”
“Well, I sort of told her…I mean…well, I really…” Was he blushing? Again?
He was. Good Lord.
“I unnerstand y’might wanna pack and all, but really, we can buy y’anything y’need when we get there. There’s witches in Orstralia, and the tickie’s first-class round-trip so if ye don’t like the fam, well, you can come on home and…but I told her we were…”
“You told her we were what?” I kept my arms folded and tapped my booted toe, enjoying the furious crimson on his cheeks. He was damn cute when he blushed.
Yesterday he’d vanished for a few hours, and I thought he’d flown home on the sly. Instead, he returned hauling a couple flatpaks that turned out to be two brand-new dining chairs, which he proceeded to put together and set proudly near my tiny little kitchen table. Because I broke that one, he’d said, shaking his hair down over his eyes a little, and if I wasn’t a goner before, I probably was that second.
Jozzie visibly gathered himself, swelling up to his full height. “I sort of…Sugar Belle…I mean, I really…yer dead gorge, and a crackin sheila, and fierce, and ye’ve this funny Ermerican accent, and I sort of…what I mean to say is…oh, bloody hell.”
I couldn’t help myself. I was grinning like an idiot, but it didn’t matter because I dropped my arms, leaned forward, grabbed his T-shirt, and pulled him down. Then I kissed him, nice and thoroughly, and surprisingly, he wasn’t half bad at it.
Not bad at all.
“You idiot,” I said when I let go of him, and that sweet, dopey, dazzled grin spread over his lean, scruffy, long-nosed face. “Why do you think I brought my bag instead of a purse? I packed a spare pair of panties and Tiger’ll water my plants. I was just waiting for you to ask.”
“Oh.” He hunched his shoulders, and that grin widened. “Pair of knickers, did ye?”
“I did.”
“Christ,” he muttered, “m’balls are bloody blue.” And he kissed me that time, a real toe-curler of a tongue. He even grabbed my ass while he did it, and things were definitely looking up.
Then we had to hurry to catch our plane.
* * *
THE END
About the Author
Lilith Saintcrow was completely sober when this whole thing started.
She has since begun to reconsider that strategy.