by Mary Hughes
“No, he’s breathing.” Glynn touched a hand to Dumas’s neck. “And his heart’s beating.”
At Glynn’s touch the director groaned. His eyes fluttered open, focused slowly on Glynn. Dumas smiled. “Ah, heaven.”
Glynn snorted. “Not quite. Let’s get you sitting. You’ll be fine in a moment.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Dumas opened his mouth.
“You don’t remember,” Glynn said.
Dumas frowned. “I…I don’t remember. But—”
Glynn’s tone darkened. “You’re completely unharmed.”
“Completely unharmed,” Dumas echoed, eyes blanking.
“All’s well that ends well,” Mishela added brightly.
Good old Business Truth #4. And people think only fairy tales have morals. But I wasn’t going to dismiss it that easily. “Mr. Dumas, what do you remember? The fight, the kidnapper?”
Dumas’s eyes snapped to me. “The fight. I was sick.” The frown returned. “I remember crazy bright eyes, like pinwheels, and then…nothing. The next thing I remember is—” He smiled fatuously at Glynn. “My hero.”
Crazy pinwheels. Sounded like Dumas had been hypnotized, but why? And why kidnap him just to let him go?
And why Dumas and not Mishela, who was an heiress?
I’d thought Dumas would help me understand what was going on, but instead I only had more questions.
Just then the new dancing figurine cuckoo clock in Settler’s Square (sponsored by the Volka Polka radio station, “All Polkas, All the Time”) bonked, clanged and tweeted its quaint and touristy way through twelve strokes. Midnight. It was late, and I’d had a long and tiring day. “I need to get home.”
“Me too,” Dumas said from the park bench. “But I’m too weak to walk. Carry me?” He held his hands up to Glynn.
With a sigh, Glynn picked up Dumas and strode off. From the way Dumas’s arms clasped Glynn’s neck, fingers massaging those broad, jacketed shoulders, I thought maybe Dumas was faking the too-weak-to-walk a little.
Wish I’d thought of it first.
We slogged the six blocks to the sausage shop in silence. Glynn set Dumas on his feet at the front door. “Wait here.”
“But,” Dumas started.
Glynn didn’t even bother with his death-o-matic glare. Mishela clamped the director’s wrist while Glynn escorted me to the side entrance, where I turned to say goodbye.
A round mechanical eye stared me in the face.
I exploded. “Those penis heads.”
Glynn followed my glare and saw it too. Mounted on a plastic bracket on the brick wall across from us was a webcam.
Bad enough when the Cheese Dudes were peppering us with petty harassment. This stunk, and I don’t mean Limburger.
The webcam was aimed straight at our private door, so I was sure it wasn’t for customers. No, the Dudes had graduated from petty vandalism to voyeurism. Maybe to catch me and Glynn in action and hit us with charges of public indecency. And in case you’re thinking “big deal”, in the Corners we take public indecency as seriously as murder—unless it’s stripping in Nieman’s Bar, which is recreational nudity.
Glynn’s hand flashed under his jacket. He whipped something at the camera too fast to see. Clunk-crash.
The camera, plastic bracket neatly severed, hit walkway.
“Handy,” I said as he picked up his knife. “Titanium blade?”
He just shrugged and turned to me. His face was drawn with concern. “You’re all right after what happened?”
I blew a frustrated breath. “Elena made it clear that nothing happened. She didn’t say all the death blows were my imagination but…” But she’d pretty much implied it.
Glynn took my face in his hands. “Babi, if I could remove this horrible memory from you, I would. But since I can’t…there’s nothing wrong with your perceptions.”
“It wasn’t my imagination?” I searched his warm sapphire eyes. Looking for affirmation of my sanity? For connection, comfort, closeness…all a single dictionary letter away from duty and dream, but in reality, an uncrossable chasm.
“If this were my territory…” He heaved a breath. “Junior, I’m not saying anything—except you’re the bravest woman I know. Wrap those toes.”
I blinked. I hadn’t made an issue out of it, but he’d noticed. He noticed, and hard on its heels, he cares. “I was trying to kick with the ball of my foot.”
“You did. The bastard moved last minute.” He gathered me into his arms. I let him, just for a moment, hungry for the warmth, for the simple contact. Just a moment. A moment wasn’t a lifetime.
And when he kissed me, I let him do that too.
His mouth was gentle, persuasive. His tongue was tender slipping along the seam of my lips.
A hug and a kiss. A simple connection, a bit of warmth and tenderness before I went back to duty and dreams.
My eyelids closed, drugged by soft sensation. I sighed.
At the cue, he cupped my head and his tongue stroked with more purpose, urging my mouth open. My lips parted and his tongue swept in.
He tasted fresh, exciting. Like the sweet grass of a spring field, ripe with adventure. Kissing him was like opening my mouth on a shout and swallowing fresh mountain air. Curling fingers over his shoulders, I raised myself for more.
He wrapped arms around me. His head angled sharply, mouth opening, tongue driving. His breath turned scorching.
I arched against him. His arms tightened, fusing us, his powerful pecs digging into the hollows of my shoulders, his belly rubbing mine. My breath quickened to panting, scrubbing my stomach against his abs. Excitement thrilled me to flashpoint. I tunneled my fingers into the softest, thickest hair in the world.
He raised his head and stared down at me. His pupils were black, passionate pools ringed by violet fire, riveted to my face as if gauging the smallest nuance.
I moistened my lips, an invitation.
He thrust his knee between my legs.
I clutched his thigh with a moan. He flexed his quadriceps, swelling denim, as hot and muscular as a stallion. I bit back a groan.
His head dropped and he kissed me again, hard and deep, rhythmically flexing his thigh. The thick muscle bunched and released like a living vibrator.
I started rocking against him. Caught myself. This was going way beyond a hug and kiss. I had to stop.
He grabbed my nipple and plucked.
I bowed back, groaning. His big mouth took my groan, muffled it into a whimper. His tongue thrust like fire. His fingers pinched like clamps.
He pressed my back to the door and drove his thigh against my vulva. I screamed into his mouth. He began to rock hard, fast, beating like a bass drum. I cinched his thigh between mine and rocked in answer, doubling the friction, the fire. My arms melted, hands dropping to his massive shoulders.
His kisses turned sharp. Sucking bites and nips pulled my tongue and lips. My hands slid to his biceps, my fingers clutching weakly.
A deep thrum filled my ears. His body vibrated with it; mine trembled in response.
His mouth traveled down my jaw. “Ah, Junior.” His breath caressed my throat. “Your heat inflames me, your sweet scent conquers me. Your pulse is the music that drives my soul.” He licked my skin. I shuddered at the hot swipe. “Your taste—sweet Duw, your taste drives me mad.”
I swallowed past a throat swollen with need. “Mutual, Dylan Thomas.”
“Ah, to taste you fully.” He nuzzled my neck. “For now I must settle for pleasuring you.” He lowered his leg. Air cooled my now Glynn-less crotch, making me very aware of how aroused I’d gotten.
It woke me up. “Wha…?”
He thrust a hand down the front of my black jeans, finger hitting the sweet spot. I yelped. He smiled, half-lidded and lazy.
And stroked.
It was like thumbing a lighter. I sparked instantly. A stab of pure lust cinched my hips back, rolling them—
Taking his hand with me. His finger
slid into my body while the rest of his huge hand splayed over my pussy, hot, electric.
My eyes flared wide. He wiggled his finger and I gasped.
He thrust his thigh between my legs, nailing his hand to my crotch, and slammed into a kiss. And then he started thrusting that thick finger. I clutched his brawn as anything resembling sanity blew out of my skull. I rode his finger and sucked at his tongue and felt the sweet need I’d fought since meeting him come to a head.
He thumbed my clit and I cinched tighter, winding closer to the summit of sensation. His fingers rubbed faster, plunged deeper. I moaned into the hot cave of his mouth. My body stiffened, trembled. My skin flushed hot.
“My sweet babi.” Glynn lifted his head, his eyes so bright they practically glowed. “Come for me. Come hard.”
Devouring me in an open-mouthed kiss, he grabbed one breast and fondled it possessively as he plunged into me with his finger, stroked me with his thumb.
My pleasure crested. Broke over me, an ocean wave of satisfaction. I gasped through the release. Sighed into the afterglow. His hand gently wound me down.
Awareness returned and I remembered just where this sort of abandon led. It felt like heaven, but the consequences were hell. I had duty. I had dreams.
I scrabbled off his leg. At first he held on to me, but when it turned into an actual fight, he removed his hand from my pants and set me firmly on my feet, his fingers circling my upper arms until I found my balance. When he did let go, he backpedaled like I’d erupted in full-body pustules.
Which hurt, but I’d started it. Or ended it. Whatever. “That was unacceptable.”
“You seemed fine with it at the time.” The music in his voice was as tight as his expression.
“Seduction does that to a gal.” I tried to put a sneer in my own music, fell short. “Don’t do that again.” I jerked out keys, tried to stick one in the lock and was mortified when the keys jangled from my shaking.
He slid them from my hands, thrust one and opened the door. Sighed. “Junior, wait. I—”
“Don’t. Just—don’t.” I retrieved the keys and slipped into the dark hall. Closed the door by pressing my back to it. Or maybe the door was holding me up. I took a deep breath to calm my thundering heart.
A click.
The light blared on. “Do you know what time it is, young lady?”
My mother was waiting up for me.
The bright, bald glare of light burned my eyeballs. The voice glared too, pitched to scrape old guilt raw.
Great Galloping Galbraith. Must have pissed off the demons of the bottom line. I hoped like hell she hadn’t heard me orgasming against the door.
She stood before me, hair as black as mine, body as slender. My height too, but the way she stood, hands on hips, spine ominously straight, made her seem ten feet taller. The Egyptian-style headwrap straight out of Aida didn’t help.
I was the mirror image of her physically. I’d run from Glynn because I was afraid I was like her on the inside too.
No. I took a deep breath. I’d escaped the worst of the lustful urges that had been her downfall.
“Where have you been?” And when she got a look at my well-kissed mouth— “And what have you been doing?”
“Nothing.” The fallback of every child from two to sixty-two.
“Don’t take that tone with me, Gunter Marie Stieg.” She wagged one scolding finger as she spoke. Chunky gold bracelets jingled, underlining her scold. Maybe a stereotype, but my Italian mother very definitely talked with her hands, and by thunder, I’d better listen to both gesture and voice.
“It’s not what you’re thinking, Mother.” I quickly ran through the eightfold path. Used Business Truth #5, “Tell the customer, not what you want to jabber about, but what they need to hear”. “I was investigating a new sales avenue.”
Hey, I wasn’t lying, I was marketing. Besides, this was an emergency.
“New sales. After midnight?” Her flying hands shouted her disbelief.
“A business opportunity.” I added a Sales Maneuver, “Distract with any truth that’s not The Truth”. “You know how the mayor pulled in Broadway stars for the PAC opening?”
“Actors.” She sniffed, like she hadn’t been one herself. “They have no money.”
“Well, one of them does. Or rather, her guardian does. Maybe you’ve heard of him.” I paused for effect. “Kai Elias?”
My mother’s stare was an awl. She glared like I was lying so bad I wouldn’t sit down for a week. Although if Glynn was doing the spanking… She scowled. “Elias, of Steel Security. Of half a dozen more Fortune 500 companies. Billionaire recluse Kai Elias sponsors an actor.” Again she sneered the word, but it was the flicking finger that made me wince. “Next you will be telling me he lives in Nowheresville, Iowa.”
“Mom, really. His ward Mishela is Dorothy, here with one of his employees. I spent the evening with them.” No need to spell out how.
“Let’s say I believe you. What opportunity is this? Is the king of information getting into sausage now?”
Put that way, it did sound unlikely. I backpedaled. “I’m just laying the groundwork. Social connections, but who knows where it might lead?” I skimmed by her, headed upstairs to the family kitchen. A rehearsal takes a lot of calories, and all that running around after…not to mention the physical stimulation…well, I was hungry.
“A social connection.” She followed. “You’re trying to defect from the family business?”
Yeah. About that.
I have duty to family and I have dreams. My plan to go to New York with Oz, Wonderful Oz would take care of both.
My parents didn’t quite see it that way. Nobody was as loyal and hardworking as family. As the fruit of their loins, I was the epitome of family, and therefore nobody could replace me. Hiring Donald Trump wouldn’t be good enough.
Or maybe they wanted to keep me home forever.
Still, I tried. “Mom, I’m not going to leave without seeing you and Pop set up. This was just an exploratory meeting.” In the kitchen I started rummaging through cupboards. “I’m just feeling him out. Feeling them out.” I buried my sudden blush in the pantry closet. “I mean, I’m getting to know them. Mishela and her, um, companion.” I found a box of popcorn, extracted one of the bags.
“You’d better not be thinking this ‘feeling out’ will involve leaving. It would upset your father. You know he relies on you.”
The plastic-wrapped bag smashed in my clenched fist. Without turning I said, “You make sure I can’t forget.”
“You should never forget. He slaved for you. I slaved for you. I gave up my career for you,” she countered in a disagreement we’d had so often it was better rehearsed than any theater. “The least you can do is commit a few hours a week to the business your father gave his life to, the business we Stiegs have spent generations building.”
You’re not a Stieg. At least you weren’t until you married Pop.
“I do, Mom.” I stared at the popcorn, trying to work back to reasonable, to make this have a different ending. “Nine, ten hours a day, six days a week. It’s most of my waking life. I’ve earned the right to dream a little too.”
“Have you? What would you be doing with those hours if not honest work? Be grateful you are not on the streets, not starving or doing drugs or playing in a punky rock band like that Schmeling girl.”
“It’s Nixie Emerson now,” I said tiredly. Diverting this scene was like trying to turn a runaway soloist. “She married a Boston lawyer. Even by your definition of success, she’s made it.”
“I gave up my career for you,” she repeated. “A star mezzo with the Italian opera. I gave that up for our family’s business, for your heritage.”
What she meant was she and Pop had done the nasty and I came along, putting the kibosh on singing professionally.
“You must always remember, Junior. Business comes first.”
And there it was, of course. The stinger. I tried one more time. “Mom, I’m no
t going to run off just because I got horny and pregnant—”
She slapped me. Which I guess I deserved.
“Do not speak that way to me. Your father didn’t have to marry me. But he did the right thing by me and I have done right by him. I have loved him and honored him and the least you can do is the same. Family duty is more important than any dreams. Home is more important, because it is real.” She seared me with “The Look”, spun from me and stomped off. Each stomp rammed my conscience.
I thrust the popcorn back into the box, hunger gone, and headed upstairs. The same conversation, the same stomping, the same guilt. It only made me more determined to change the ending, at least for my own life. Mom had been trapped in the small pond of Meiers Corners by marriage. Not me.
Family duty was top priority; we agreed on that. But we had a different idea of how that duty needed to be discharged. I’d see my parents taken care of, no question. But one way or another, I was getting out. Getting my own life.
Fulfilling my own rainbow dreams.
Entr’acte
Glynn Rhys-Jenkins glided through the night shadows, silently, like the dangerous beast he was. His hands were relaxed, ready. Though three of the vampires had been shipped back to Chicago by Elena Strongwell and her vampire husband, one had escaped. That one, the one who’d captured Dumas, was arguably the most dangerous.
Glynn hunted the bastard now.
Good thing Mishela was safe at Emerson’s, because the hunt wasn’t easy. The rogue had disguised his scent by wearing pungent human clothes. He’d strewn the trail with distractions and red herrings. He’d even waded across the Meiers River at its highest point.
Glynn sloshed through the river now, gritting his teeth. Running water, a body-sized gag buzzer for vampires. As jags sang through his system, he blocked them by dint of long training. The buzz, annoying as it was, would only get worse with age. By the time he was ancient, he’d be so sensitive he’d have to train half the day to cope with his raw animal self. He wondered how Elias managed.
In Glynn’s pocket, his cell phone vibrated. He splashed onto the far bank, blew into mist and let the water fall through. Relaxing his concentration, his body snapped together, clothes now dry. For some reason it reminded him of the first time he’d misted, when he’d snapped back naked with his clothes in an embarrassing heap at his feet.
