Barbie & The Beast

by Linda Thomas-Sundstrom

  “Grrrr,” Darin said.

  “Take that mask off and talk to me. Is Angie out here? Really? This isn’t a joke just to get me naked on this slab?”

  “Grrrr.”

  She felt his hold loosen, and was off the marble in an instant, standing between Wolfy and the door. So what if she was mostly naked except for her bra, undies, socks and running shoes? So what if she never went undressed anywhere at all, except maybe from her bedroom to the shower? This wasn’t the time to be embarrassed.

  “I thought you were kidding.” She frowned. “Is that sound coming from my friend?”

  Darin, in his wolf costume, didn’t answer, though he also moved toward the exit.

  “This was fun,” Barbie began, noticing that one of her socks was folded down while the other stretched partway over her ankle. White athletic socks. Gad, how sexy was that? “If that truly is Angie, though, we need to find her. Can you run in that hairy getup?”

  “Grrrr.” Darin growled louder. His tone, Barbie decided, sounded pretty darned dangerous. Perfect for saving her friend.

  She smiled at a sudden thought. “You can pump that suit up whenever you want, right?”

  “Grrrrr,” he replied.

  “I’ll take that for a yes.” Barbie stole one more look at Darin’s costume—the lower bits, especially—before setting her mind to the task at hand. “Okay. Let’s get out there, Wolf Man. Let’s go find my friend.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The beast backed off a bit, though Darin knew it was still aroused. His stance as he listened for those sounds Barbie had heard surely allowed her a prime view of the proof of that arousal—though not on purpose.

  Over the sound of Barbie’s pounding heart mingled with his own, Darin perceived a cry. Was it Angie? Keep thinking, he told himself, of her. Think of Barbie’s friend. The beast’s needs were simple: Running. Food. And now, sex. Although Darin the man had some control left, the scent of Barbie’s luscious body had a tendency to disrupt his normal brain functioning altogether. He had to keep himself focused.

  “Angie?” Barbie repeated, standing there in her underwear, refusing to cower or back down.

  Darin nodded, noting that while they were on the subject of bodies and how nice they were, Barbie’s was better than fantastic. He felt another howl rise in the back of his throat as she ran around the slab and bent down to scoop up pieces of what had been her T-shirt off the floor. He allowed the howl to escape as she turned for the exit, tossing over her shoulder the strangest words.

  “Come on, Wolfy. Sic ’em!”

  The girl had bravado.

  Darin was out of the crypt in two bounds, three seconds flat, with Barbie at his side. Though she tried to slip her arms through the appropriate holes of her T-shirt, tugging the remaining fabric down over her breasts as she ran, the attempt was futile.

  She was so damned cute in that outfit, or lack of it, that Darin averted his eyes. He couldn’t erase the image from his mind, though. Her skin was perfectly smooth, tanned, taut. She had high breasts, curvy hips, and a narrow waist. She ran like an athlete, breathing through her mouth, long limbs supple. Her brown hair floated over her shoulders in a cascade of highlighted waves that smelled like a fruit pie.

  Another vocalization of lust escaped him. That pie scent couldn’t mask the musk of unfulfilled sex. Barbie was ripe with promise. The heady smell trailed her like a shadow.

  Do not look at her. Bad timing again.

  As he sprinted off down the row of buildings, his emotions scrambled, Darin couldn’t help noticing how Barbie managed to keep up and keep close. She was fast, nimble. Better yet, she was still here after seeing him change. She was everything a man like him could ask for, and more.

  What a sight they’d present to people who might happen to visit the cemetery this particular night, he realized, as they turned another corner: nearly naked Barbie and her beast. Then again, anybody out in a graveyard at this ungodly hour deserved such a shock.

  The way Wolf Boy was running, one would think a pack of animals had taken her friend. Barbie tugged repeatedly at what was left of her T-shirt as she followed him, pretty sure there’d been a fashion fad like this in years past. Shredded cotton shirts and fringed leather vests—had those Flashdance fashionistas worn anything underneath all that shredded fabric? It was a minor consideration, she supposed, when hoodlums had Angie.

  She worked to keep up as Wolfy sprinted between buildings and across the marble-studded lawn, extending her stride, glad she had at least warmed up by running here in the first place. Darin was leading her in a wide arc toward a new row of mausoleums. The moon shone from high over the trees. Silver light bounced off the gray and white marble walls, presenting a dreamlike, surreal landscape that was stark, colorless, and in its own way beautiful. From everywhere came the unmistakable smell of greenery and grass. Floral smells sweetened the air.

  Crickets again provided a symphony. The wind had picked up, making her ruined T-shirt even less functional. Grave markers became taller and more elaborate the closer they got to the buildings. Several fountains spurted water with soothing tinkling sounds.

  Darin slowed suddenly. Avoiding a collision with his magnificent body by jumping sideways, Barbie watched him sniff the air. He then uttered a snort.

  “Angie’s here?” Barbie searched the area.

  Another snort—one that she took for a yes.

  “What do we do now, Darin?”

  He turned so fast, Barbie didn’t see him coming. In a flash he had the scrap of her T-shirt over her head, and had bound her hands with it before she realized what had happened.

  “Kinky, and no way!” Barbie protested. “How can I help if I’m tied up? What if they circle back?”

  “Grrrrrrrr.”

  She took that to mean something like I told you to stay put or I’d lock you up, and I wasn’t kidding.

  “You are a beast!” Barbie stomped her running shoe. “If it’s truly dangerous, maybe we should call the police.”

  “Grrrrrr.” Meaning, she guessed, I don’t have a cell phone, do you?

  “Geez,” Barbie muttered, tugging at her soft white cotton bonds, feeling stupid for having left her purse at the club with Angie and her phone in the purse. “Sure wish somebody here spoke English besides me.”

  “Grrr.”

  “No, I don’t have my cell phone!”

  Darin took off again, leaving her alone beside the biggest gravestone, no doubt assuming he had disabled her for a long while. Completely forgetting about good old female ingenuity. If he thought Barbie Bradley would stay put, he had another think coming. How many times in her childhood had she been forced to play the Indian maiden that her cowboy brothers tied up, or to a tree? The exotic princess tied to the mast of a pirate ship? She was an expert in the many uses of duct tape, and if Darin assumed he’d hogtied her out of action, he was sorely mistaken.

  She might not have the use of her hands. . .but she had perfectly good teeth.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Free in less than two minutes, Barbie sprinted off in the direction Darin had loped, thanking her lucky stars that the moonlight was strong enough to see between buildings. Unfortunately, the moon didn’t provide a view of a wolf, fabulous backside or otherwise.

  Just past one particularly narrow building, Barbie pulled up. The fine hairs on her arms prickled, not as much from fear as from the exhilaration of running in her underwear beneath a full moon. The wind on her skin felt glorious. The dappled moonlight in the trees was better than anything, outside of viewing Darin himself. By all rights she should have been terrified. At the very least she should have worried about being caught, for all intents and purposes naked, and prosecuted as a flasher. What would she say to her parents if they had to spring her from jail?

  Sorry, mom. A wolf of a boyfriend ripped my clothes to pieces then tossed me on a slab and licked me. He ran off. I ran after him because he said my friend was out there, too. What? Why did I believe him? Why didn’
t I run the other way? Good question.

  Darn good question.

  The words boyfriend and wolf might not go so well together in a parent’s mind, especially when the wolfish persona in question was somewhat similar to Dr. Jekyll’s Mr. Hyde.

  Maybe she could fib and say it was a publicity stunt for the country club? No. Definitely not. She had never lied to her parents and wouldn’t start now. She’d have to tell them the truth: that she had gone insane. How else could she explain Darin in a wolf costume when it wasn’t anywhere near Halloween?

  No, she decided, it was simply of the utmost importance she wasn’t caught.

  She searched for Darin among the buildings—the Darin who wasn’t really a werewolf and was only playing at being one to teach her a lesson. She got that, was on intimate terms with lessons. She even deserved one, possibly, for having come out here and complicated matters. She still expected those explanations he hadn’t yet gotten around to, though. She had to have them. As a matter of fact, she thought now as she paused with her nearly naked fanny plastered to a marble wall and her arms splayed at her sides, why hadn’t Darin just offered those explanations and had done with it? Merely a word or two to ease her mind about the blonde would have been of benefit.

  She remained plastered to the wall, thinking. Maybe Darin’s costume had nothing whatsoever to do with teaching her a lesson for calling him a louse and then appearing on that stupid Dating Game stage. It could be that he dressed up like this occasionally in the cemetery to scare ne’er-dowells. Loiterers. Gangs. Unwieldy college kids looking for trouble. She’d happened to pick the wrong time to drop in, that’s all. It could be that Darin hadn’t known she was coming. Maybe he had rescued her from the other bachelor simply because he was a nice guy. Because she’d told him to scram at the club, there was every likelihood he’d left her apartment after helping her out of that sticky situation, not wanting to wait around for thanks. He’d merely returned to his graveyard to get on with his job.

  The costume was realistic, admittedly, but Darin wasn’t a real werewolf. Werewolves ate people. They’d have to be locked up for everyone’s protection if they really existed. The Miami PD, his other part-time job, wouldn’t have hired a genetic mutant. No, Darin hadn’t tried to harm her. Just the opposite. He had tried to protect her. He’d never even made love to her fully, though he’d had the opportunity. They had merely engaged in some very strange foreplay.

  Eventually the wolf costume would come off, Barbie knew. Darin would show himself in the flesh. No inflatable rubber, just Darin. And the real deal would be every bit as adorable. He was even now, this very minute, trying to find Angie again. Barbie’s best friend Angie. In light of all these rescues, wasn’t he a hero? A handsome if hairy kind? One with a gorgeous body, but more importantly, one with a good sense of humor. He was a guy who exhibited a love of games and the great outdoors. A guy with loyalty to his employer and a bunch of dead folks. A guy who liked animals. A guy who liked her.

  Barbie’s heartbeat quickened. What was not to love about this guy? Er, except for the cheating part.

  A sound interrupted her mental gymnastics. It came from behind her, though she saw nothing nearby except the building to which she was glued. The sound came again, probably from inside. A familiar yelp! Angie!

  Flipping around, Barbie peered at the mausoleum. Sordid details of what could be going on within were trickling through her mind: Angie atop a marble slab, and not in a good way. Angie tied up. Men throwing darts. Perverts tearing off Angie’s clothes.

  An exuberant crashing noise echoed through the night, followed by something like the rattling of a chain link fence. Glass shattered. Another yelp. Someone’s muffled shout.

  “Darin?” Barbie whispered desperately, without really anticipating a reply. Darin could be anywhere. It looked to her as if she was alone.

  No doubt Angie had returned to this cemetery looking for her in order to keep Barbie from making a fool of herself. Well, that hadn’t worked, it was fair to say. Things were beginning to feel like the movie Groundhog Day, where everything kept coming back to one place. However, and on the bright side, Darin’s werewolf costume would scare the pants off any poor unsuspecting hoodlums holding Angie hostage. Look how it had scared the pants off her!

  Barbie looked down at herself, all seminaked. An idea appeared, gaining momentum. Maybe in her unclothed state she could help. She could walk in half dressed and cause a scene while waiting for Darin to save the day. What sex-crazed frat boy wouldn’t go for that? It was worth a try, certainly. Anything to save her best friend.

  “Angie?” Barbie called out. “Angie!”

  The sounds inside the building ceased.

  A minute passed.

  Barbie definitely heard Angie’s voice then. It sounded like an oath. Brilliant! Only Angie could swear like that.

  Feeling around with her hands, running her palms up and down the wall to search for a door, Barbie found it in the form of a gaping hole into darkness. Appearing to be a tunnel of sorts, the mausoleum entrance was untouched by moonlight and terribly daunting, even for a Bradley with her dander up.

  Stomach churning, and with a call out for her faithful rebel namesake, Barbie waved a hand and touched the void. She blinked back surprise. This wasn’t a tunnel. It was a doorway covered in heavy fabric painted to resemble a tunnel, like in the old Road Runner cartoons. She narrowed her eyes. Who would seal off a mausoleum with a faux finish? Surely not ghosts, because ghosts were incorporeal and couldn’t hold a paintbrush. Renegade artists? Absurd! Miami had plenty of office space. So, who else would be in a graveyard after hours besides wannabe werewolves and ghosts?

  Smart-aleck criminals, that’s who. Clever perverts. Wolves of a sort other than Darin, or college freshmen. Super frat boys might do this. Secret societies. It might be a nest, a hideout for males bent on serious trouble. And just then the idea of young men in a secret mausoleum holding Angie hostage was a lot scarier than a crypt full of ghouls.

  She had to go in there. But what if they took her, also? What if one of those crashing noises was Darin in trouble? If something happened to him, what were the chances she’d ever be licked on the inside of her elbow again? Get to run through the cemetery in her underpants? See how his hair fluffed up under a full moon?

  How would she find out who the blonde was?

  There was a whole mess of problems if Darin vanished. Who would leave sexy messages on her answering machine? Keep Miami’s streets safe? Take care of the graveyard? (It was a safe bet folks weren’t knocking down the door for that job.) Who else would dress up in a wolf costume and chase her around, ensuring an entirely memorable evening? Who had the nicest behind she had ever seen on a man, was secure enough to name a dog Dog, and cared enough, showed enough promise to even suggest adhering to her stupid rules on dating?

  “Wolf Boy, that’s who,” Barbie said aloud, pushing forward to part the heavy curtain with shaky hands.

  Darin might be in there. Angie might be in there. Whoever said that women were the weaker sex didn’t know squat. Think female puberty. Think dating, and learning to handle the male population in general. Think childbirth and dirty diapers. Think deciphering the world of cookbooks and shopping malls, managing to walk anywhere in high heels, wielding eyelash curlers, facing the good-old-boy club at work, and every single other thing womanhood entailed.

  “Why don’t you think about teaching a classroom of tenth-graders in the inner city? Yes, think about that,” she muttered. “Not to mention how difficult it would be to find another really good hairdresser if anything were to happen to Angie.”

  That did it. Shoving her way through the opening, Barbie shouted loudly enough for even the deafest ghost or frat scum to hear. Real volume, Bradley style.

  “I’m coming in!”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  She got inside easily enough, then stumbled down a set of worn marble stairs. Her pulse skyrocketing, eyes wide, she hauled herself up in surprise. Gaping. Mouth open
. Standing there, expecting darkness, what she found instead was as mystifying as anything she could possibly have dreamed up. Something very uncryptlike. Leaning more toward the Twilight Zone.

  The place was cavernous, with a vaulted ceiling and tall gray walls. Light flickered from candles in sconces too numerous to count, providing a hazy illumination. Twelve-foot-high mirrors in gilt frames leaned against two corners, reflecting the candlelight in an eerie glow. Gigantic tapestries, rich, though muted by age into vast expanses of diluted color, hung from branch-sized bronze rods. Oil paintings were everywhere—portraits, hunting scenes, animals, castles. Heavy antique furniture edged the room, in both light and dark wood, upholstered lushly in every conceivable shade of red. All of it was tufted, tasseled, and dripping with old-world opulence.

  The place was every bit the size of the AM-PM Mini-mart, and twice as frightening in the middle of the night. Barbie stared some more.

  The gray marble floor had been covered by a Persian carpet in shades of brown and gold, with twisted fringe and a few visible worn spots. The raised slab dead center of the room, similar to the one on which she had recently been stretched out—mausoleum tract homes? she wondered— doubled as a table and was covered with a swath of ivory lace.

  On the makeshift table sat an ornate bronze candelabra with a bunch of candles burning. In perfect arrangement beside the candelabra were settings of gold plates and bowls, gold flatware, and crystal goblets that sparkled like rainbows. Complete place settings for two. Totally unexpected. Beyond weird.

  “Barbie?”

  Confused, tight-jawed, Barbie turned her head. The room seemed terribly underpopulated for a gang’s crib. Too quiet. No oddballs whooped it up with lassos or paraded their stuff. No coats, hats, or boxer shorts hung from the chandelier, which was a complex dripping of crystal, candles, and solidified wax. There was not one skinny guy in a backward baseball cap. No leather-clad biker boys with shaved heads and cigarettes dangling from between their teeth lounged in the chairs or upon the several velvet cushions strewn about the floor. In fact, none of the carved chairs or stools were occupied at all.