by Mary Hughes
“You tried to tell him. I honor you for that.”
“I’d honor me if it had done any damned good.” My tone was dark with my jumble of feelings. “That suspension was part of her permanent record. Made her ineligible for any good scholarships.” I swallowed hard. “I’m pretty sure she didn’t go to college because of it.”
Thor frowned at me. “I still don’t understand. None of that was your fault. It was Schleck’s.”
My shoulders were tight and my eyes prickled. “Don’t. You can’t honestly say that Jenny wouldn’t have gotten suspended without me. Wouldn’t have lost out on college without me.”
“Using that logic, Jenny wouldn’t have gotten suspended without her parents doing the nasty.”
I almost smiled through my pain. “Maybe. But it’s not just Jenny. It happened all through school, Jenny most, but also Linda and Bert and Tina and more. When I popped wheelies on my bike or clowned around doing headstands on the high dive or did donuts in snow-covered parking lots or laid down stripes with my dad’s car, kids saw me land on my feet, tried the same thing and got hurt or caught by their parents or both.”
“Are you saying you’re lucky?”
“I used to think so, until Jenny got suspended. No, it’s probably because I’m always aware of what could go wrong, even with my most apparently hair-brained schemes. I knew exactly how broad the high-dive platform was, and the location of every parked car and light pole are in the snow-covered parking lot. But Jenny didn’t. Linda and Bert and Tina didn’t.” I held out my hands in a plea for understanding. “Bottom line, a parent doesn’t screw off in front of their child, right? For me, it took the Schleck incident, but I finally figured out the only way to protect Jenny, and anyone else who might try to imitate me, is never let them see me be wild.”
His eyes opened wide. “That’s why you act like such a prude.”
“Yes. Because I have to. I’m the responsible one, the good example, because my wild child gets other people into trouble.” I bent my head. My throat hurt. “Just like Jenny, now.”
“You’re thinking of others.” He took my hands in his. “That’s lovely, Sera, noble. But denying a part of yourself—”
“What else can I do?” I yelled, tugging my hands from the haven of his. “It isn’t safe any other way. I’m not safe.”
He sat in shocked silence.
“Sorry.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. There’s not much more, do you want to hear it?”
“Yes.”
The word was clipped, and I heard his irritation. But he might as well know the rest. “I managed to get Jenny reinstated by getting myself assigned as her mentor.” I laughed. “I wore the disguise of ‘Good Example’ so well, my teeth glinted in photos and stray dogs followed me home. But Jenny’s continual hero-worship meant I wore the disguise too long. I learned to be a real good example. Now it’s ingrained.”
“You mean, you’ve been doing it so long you mistrust your own judgment.”
“What?” I blinked at him. I thought my constantly choosing the straight-and-narrow was because I now was straight and narrow…or pinched and tight.
No. Thor had already proven my wild child was still alive inside me, no matter how deeply hidden. Something in my chest released, breathed for the first time in years.
Then I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. The moment I let my guard down and was a bad example again, bad things happened. Now, Jenny’s in jail, suffering because of me, again. I called Julian to get her out, but I need my money for her to make bail.”
“I’m not sure she should get out. She didn’t show very good judgment.”
He still didn’t get it. Still thought I was somehow not at fault. I still have a chance with him…
Except I didn’t. Nothing worth having was based on lies. Somehow, I had to get through to him, make him see my wild child was nearly dead, and she deserved it. But I wept inside.
“I did the same thing,” I shouted. “Neither of us showed good judgment. But I didn’t get caught. She did.”
“All right, all right.” He held up his palms with an irritated flick. “I’ll get your money.”
I’d won. He left me without another word for the private stairwell.
I’d won our argument, but as I waited, it felt as if I’d really lost.
Chapter Seven
Thor brought me five hundred dollars in a cash bag, more than I’d expected by about two hundred. He wanted to come with me, but by then, the sun was rising and those scorch marks had scared me, so I told him I didn’t want him along.
We argued some more. I didn’t come right out and say I knew he was a vampire, but by the time I simply took the money and ran out the door, he was giving me a very narrow-eyed stare. I thought for a moment he was going to slam out behind me but a hurried, guilty glance showed him on the phone, his glare following me through the window. I was glad he didn’t come. It was daylight by the time I got to the cop shop, with its converted greenhouse jail in back.
Clenching the cash bag, I mounted the steps to the police station front door. They were steeper than usual. This was my Send Granny to Dance Camp fund. Now, I had to use it to bail out Jenny. The little peace of mind I’d tried to earn for myself, given up for her.
I did it gladly, but I still wished there was another way.
The moment I came through the door a blonde pixie of a woman rose from a bench along the wall. She wore striped leggings, a denim jacket with the sleeves ripped out to show off her tattoos, and a T-shirt with pink silk screen phrase “My New Martial Art” and below pink sequins spelling out “UCK FU”.
She swept me into a hug. “You’re a peach to spring bail for Jenny.”
I held her away from me. “A peach? Who are you and what did you do with Nixie?”
“Gotta tone down my lingo for the rugrat.” Nixie Emerson was a Marine-mouthed punk rock musician—and mother of a kindergartener. Wasn’t that the ultimate of cognitive dissonances?
“Well, thank you for sharing your husband to do the legal stuff.” I wondered briefly how the six-plus, black-haired, blue-eyed walking-sex-with-a-briefcase vampire had managed the early morning sun. Some day I’d have to ask, but now wasn’t that day.
I held out the zippered pouch. “Here’s the cash.”
“Great. Julian’s started the paperwork.” She motioned to me, indicating I should follow her on tiptoe.
We sneaked down the hallway to a processing room, door cracked to show table and chairs. Two people were in the room, the round-faced, redhead Officer Titus, and the tall, elegant, black-haired lawyer. A pile of paper nearly the size of a blue whale was spread out in front of Julian. Titus was adding to it, one sheet at a time, pulling from a file folder bigger than Mount Everest.
Exaggeration, yeah, but even the IRS and mortgage institutions would’ve been impressed at all that paper, and trees wept.
“Once you’ve filled out forms 2847, there’s 2848 and 2850—”
“What happened to 2849?” Julian raised a black brow.
“What?” It interrupted Titus’ flow. He scowled and dug in his folder. “Oh. 2849 is only for odd Thursdays. Now, as I was saying, form 2850, then two copies of 2851…”
I whispered to Nixie, “Julian will suffocate if that pile of paperwork gets any bigger. Aren’t you going to help him?”
She drew me away from the door. “Nah. He’s having fun. When he gets tired, he’ll just lawyer the poor kid to death. He’ll be out when he needs the money. Stay here with me for a while? I’m starving for big-people talk.”
“Sure. I’d planned to wait for Jenny anyway.”
“Yeah, you need to have a chat with that girl.” Nixie led me to a nearby bench, the old-fashioned public institution kind, all heavy, dark wood with thick lacquer worn satiny-smooth from thousands of arms and butts. “Jenny’s all kindsa stupid if she thinks she can do what you do.”
I blinked. That sounded an awful lot like what Thor had said—after he’d heard my story. I’d never
told Nixie.
Sure, small town. But I was still shocked. “How did you hear—”
“Your mate called my hubby. He’s worried about you.”
“My…what?”
“Your mate, Thor. Hasn’t he given you the 411 on v-guys yet?”
“The 411…you mean information. What information?” My mind reeled. Did mate mean what I thought it did?
“Never mind,” she said breezily. “Guess I’m prematu-soon. Julian said Thor hasn’t figured out he’s hooked yet, and Julian is usually right. Eh, sometimes it takes ’em a while to figure it out.” She eyed me closely. I must have looked like a stunned water buffalo, because she continued, “You haven’t figured it out either, apparently. Anyhoo, once Viking Two gets it, he’ll give you the whole story.”
None of what she was saying was comprehensible, par for the course for Nixie, but I grabbed onto the only thing she’d said where I might not mind finding out the answer. “Viking Two?”
“You know Thor’s previous gig, working for Bo Strongwell, also a big blond Scandanavian? Bo’s Number One Viking, ’cuz he’s older.”
“Like a few years?”
“Or a few centuries…” A choked sound interrupted her, maybe mine because her gaze narrowed on me. “Sure. Years. Now, Viking Two has you as a mate. About time, if you ask me. V-guys get lonely without mates.”
Confirming she knew about vampires, that Thor was a vampire…and that he was my mate? I didn’t know which word was worse, mate or my. The bare wooden bench suddenly felt too hard, and I rose to my feet to pace. “Look, I don’t know what a mate is, but if it’s like boyfriend, let me set you straight. We have nothing in common. He doesn’t even like me, not really.”
“You keep telling yourself that.” She frowned. “Is it the fangs and blood thing throwing you off? ’Cuz they don’t eat it—well, they do drink it, but the blood’s for their veins, not their stomachs. They really only need to drink a couple times a week.”
My heart pounded, blood rising at the thought of Thor’s fangs sinking into my flesh, releasing the pressure… “No! That’s not…I’m not objecting to that.”
“You’re immune, though, right? To v-guy woo-woo?” She made Svengali eyes and little plucking motions with her fingers that I interpreted as hypnosis.
“How do you know that? I don’t think Thor even knows.” I shook my head in confusion. “And why are you talking about it? I thought it was all a big secret.”
“It is. At least until they figure out how to heal point-blank thermonuclear blasts. Kidding. I know because Thor called us about you. V-guys only get that clingy about their mates, their mates are all immune, ergo ipso factotum, you’re immune. Anyway, circling back to the point. It’s not your fault Jenny played the same prank as you and fucked…I mean abgefooked it up.”
I sank onto the bench, so confused I was actually glad to get back to the topic I’d disliked before, because at least I understood it. “It is my fault when she looks up to me. I should’ve been a better role model.” I shook my head vehemently. “I am never having fun again!”
Nixie looked shocked. “Not even in private?” She took my hands, as serious as I’d ever seen her. “Look, Julian taught me some smart sheiß that might help you. When the whole band is jamming, play the part as written. But you can improvise in the solos.”
“Meaning…?”
“Be the model sieg-heil citizen in public. But when no one is looking, be yourself.”
Freedom. The thought resonated inside me until my blood sang, and I lifted to my feet.
Then another thought hit me, and I sank back down and cradled my head in my hands.
“This is Meiers Corners. How can I ever be sure no one is watching?”
* * *
Julian bailed Jenny out with my cash. I walked her home, then got ready to teach.
As I mentioned, I usually stay home April first, to avoid all the good townsfolk acting like utter asses. This year, though… This year, I was one of the asses. It was only fair I go out and be the butt of other pranks.
Arming myself with a hat pin, pair of scissors, rubbing alcohol, nail polish remover, and handkerchief, I went to school.
I suffered through balloons filling my office (hat pin), plastic wrap on the toilet seat in the ladies’ room (scissors and alcohol), a cup full of hilariously malfunctioning pens and pencils (nail polish remover), and “smell my flower” (handkerchief).
But the instant classes were over, I ran home, because on April First “office hours” were synonymous with “Sitting Duck.” There’s fair and then there’s just stupid. Stripping off my conservative tweeds, I donned my cat-burglar prankster outfit—black jeans, a black T-shirt, and black soft shoes. I left my hair in its neat twist.
At the usual time of six-fifty, half an hour before sunset, I set out for Nieman’s Bar. Granny had already arrived to do her usual April Fools joke where she strips down to a bikini made of frosting and candles—her birthday suit, get it? Yeah, Granny’s equivalent of a Dad joke.
I mouthed hi to her and instead of grabbing a tray to ferry beers, I ferried my bucket into the private stairwell behind the bar, where Thor waved me in.
He led took me upstairs, the old owner’s flat converted into modern efficiency apartments. Camille’s renters tended to be young, single, and male. A student I recognized from MCTC had volunteered to be our test subject. Thor was bucket man and I wielded the camera—no more accidental upskirt-shots for me.
Thor and I rehearsed our prank with an empty bucket until we could do it without giggling. Well, until I could do it without giggling, because apparently, once he committed to doing something, he was sober to the point of being intense. Not that my giggling silently would have been a problem, except when I shook the video.
Then, to ensure our victim was asleep, we waited several hours after sunset before we struck out for 892 East Roosevelt. Bruno said his friend Jocko was an early-bird sort, usually in bed by nine. I wondered who took the closing shift at the gag shop.
I didn’t worry about finding the place. Our fair city was founded by good Germans, and they laid out streets like a grid. In fact, our north/south split, the Meiers River, wasn’t straight enough, so they dammed and dredged until it was. Numbered streets ran parallel to the river. East/west streets were all presidents north of Main and trees to the south. We just had to go to Roosevelt and head east until we hit 892. Even if we couldn’t find the place by address, Meiers Corners’s folks had a habit of displaying their family name on everything, including mailboxes and garden-gnome butts.
The prank required a bucket of ice-water, and since we didn’t know if Jocko’s plumbing was noisy enough to wake him, we half-filled the bucket at the bar and took the bag of ice with us. Walking with the sloshing bucket proved awkward within the first block, and Thor suggested we take his car, so we returned to the bar.
He led me again into the private stairwell, but this time, I was surprised when we descended past the basement—which he told me was all apartments—past a subbasement, ditto—into a sub-subbasement, a garage filled with cars.
He motioned toward a red Porche. Such a guy car. I was vaguely disappointed. The only thing that would’ve been more typical was a jacked-up supertruck—not the good, working vehicle kind, but the totally for show, see-my-dick kind where you know the bigger the truck, the smaller the dick.
And no, I wasn’t jealous. Not that I was admitting to, at any rate.
But when I started to heave my bucket into the sportscar, he stopped me. “That one.”
I was shocked. He pointed at the sedan parked beside the Porche, a gunmetal gray Merc. Sleek, understated, powerful.
I would expect a foreign head of state to drive that car, or an old-money tycoon. Not an earringed, leather-vested vampire.
“Yours?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” He popped the locks and opened the back door.
“It’s just, I figured you for more of a Harley Sportster motorcycle sort.” I set
my bucket inside, in the foot well.
“Sorry to disappoint.” He hefted the bag of ice onto the seat behind it and clicked the door shut, then opened the passenger door and motioned me in. “I have a Harley, but it’s a Street Glide Special.”
“Nice.”
The engine purred when he started it. He spiraled up a ramp, emerging through what I’d always thought was a utility garage, onto the parking lot.
Driving, he was a revelation, too. Instead of laying rubber of any kind, he drove with smooth efficiency.
He might have upbraided me for my watchwords “Trustworthy” and “Reliable,” but here was a male who was all about being dependable and solid. Something inside me eased. I felt safer just being with him in that car.
We had to find the place by address after all—no Jocko gnomes or mailbox or even Fulvous Flamingos—but there was a shiny silver 892 crowning the front of a Cape Cod style house. All was dark.
“Front and side entrance,” Thor said. “We’ll check out the garage to make sure he’s home, then use the side door.”
“Gotcha.”
Thor led me to the far side of the garage, out of sight of the house, and lifted me by the waist to look in the window.
“Car’s there,” I whispered.
“Good.” He set me on my feet. “Stay here until I call you.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to pick the lock. I don’t want you to be an accessory.”
“How long have you lived here? This is Meiers Corners. He probably hasn’t locked the door.” I led the way to the side entrance. “We’ll just go in.”
Sure enough, when I twisted the knob, the side door opened easily into a kitchen smelling of beef and sour kraut.
Thor just made a soft noise of disgust, went to grab the gag materials out of the car, handed me the bucket and followed me inside.
The back rooms were dark, but a shadowy desk and shelves in one, and table and hutch in the other, suggested these were office and dining room. Bedroom must be upstairs.
