“Just relax, Dr. Schmidt,” Julie giggled. “He’s just having fun. And you will be too, as soon as I get you a refill.”
“Really,” I said. “Please don't worry about it. I'm not much for punch anyway. Community beverages are a big no-no in my field. Too many opportunities to end up slugging down something laced with a roofie.”
“Pfft.” Julie waved me away with an increasingly floppy hand. “This stuff is worth risking a roofie. And it's not like Mr. Bad Ass here would let anything happen to you. Would you, Mr. Bad Ass?” Julie leaned into him and tugged on his lapel.
I expected Liam to back away, but he didn't. Instead, his face stretched into an uncharacteristically broad, dare I say dopey, smile. “Never. She's the woman I love.”
Heat stained my cheeks. “Liam, this is neither the time nor the place for—”
“I love love,” Julie sighed. “I wish someone would say that about me.”
“Someone will,” Liam assured her. “You don't want to settle in the meantime. Too many women do that, you know?”
I looked at Liam from under a cocked eyebrow. “What has gotten into you?”
“I'm not sure,” he said. “But I wouldn't mind some more.” He wiggled his empty glass at Julie.
Julie winked at him. “I'm on it.”
I watched her fluffy pink tail disappear into the crowd.
The round face of Rolly Boggs appeared as if Julie’s passing had alerted him to my proximity. His dishwater blond hair had been replaced by a globe-like rainbow afro of planetary proportions—which made sense, considering the rest of him was garbed in a clown suit.
“Dr. Schmidt!” he called. “You're here! I'm so glad you made it!” He nearly knocked me over when he wrapped me in a full-body hug.
“Hi, Rolly. Happy birthday.” Only when he released me did I look down at my hands, empty of the presents I had meant to buy before Liam had shown up on my doorstep hard and ready. “I'm so sorry,” I said. “I didn't bring your gift.”
“Just you being here is enough.” His gaze fell to his giant floppy red shoes.
“Nice job on the party,” Liam said. “This is a great crowd.” He had not disappeared as promised, but Rolly didn't seem to mind.
“Thanks.” Rolly's painted red mouth turned up in a garish smile. “A few more people turned out than I expected.”
“A few more?” I snorted.
“My mom's ambrosia is pretty popular.”
“Speaking of which.” I gestured to the sticky mess spilled down the front of my costume. “I'm marinating in it. Do you have a bathroom I could borrow?”
“Of course. Follow me.”
“I'll be right back,” I told Liam.
“I'll be right here.” He pointed to the ground in front of him and winked.
But he wasn't. By the time I had mopped myself as clean as I could and adjusted my bright jet-black wig, Liam was nowhere in sight. Oddly, neither was Rolly, who I had expected to be waiting by the door with puppyish obedience.
I elbowed my way into the crowd looking for the familiar dark head or a pocket of unnatural quiet. Like a black hole, Liam was the kind of man you found by the influence on the bodies around him.
“Dr. Schmidt! I can't believe you really showed!”
Another stranger grabbed me by both hands, welcoming me like an old friend. “I'm sorry. I'm afraid I can't quite recall your name.”
“That's because we've never met.” He smirked at me. “But everyone knows who you are.”
“Who exactly is everyone?” I asked.
“Everyone in our world.” The way he emphasized our set the gears in my brain whirring.
Glancing around the crowded room, I saw again what I had noticed walking up the sidewalk to enter in the first place. Everyone here was unnaturally good-looking.
Almost supernaturally good-looking.
“I hope you won't think I'm impertinent for asking.” I leaned in a little closer to his long, lithe body. “But are you human?”
“Me?” He took a sip of golden liquid. “Hell no. I’m a faerie. But we heard there was going to be ambrosia.”
His wink softened my knees.
“Ahh,” I said, as several pieces clicked into place. “What is ambrosia, exactly? And how would Rolly know how to make it?”
“It's not so much what's in it as what it's in,” he said. “It can only be made in a vessel used by Dionysus.”
“Rolly has a punchbowl the God of Wine used at cocktail parties?”
“He threw a lot of cocktail parties in the day, which means he used a fuck-ton of vessels. You’d be surprised how many of them are still around. You'll see them in auction houses every now and then. Rolly’s old lady must have had one before she croaked.”
“This just gets weirder and weirder.”
The kid offered me his glass. “Why don't you try a sip and see what I mean?”
I eyed the golden liquid dubiously. “I don't think that's such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“What does it do?” I asked, remember Liam’s sudden predilection toward hideous puns and corny sentiment.
“Just makes you really happy, among other things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“You’re a psychologist,” he said. “You know all about suppressed desires.”
“The ability to wake those up is hardly remarkable,” I pointed out. “A couple of beers can do that.”
“Ambrosia specializes in waking up desires you may not know you ever had.” The faerie’s green eyes took on a mischievous glint. “The kind most beings can’t even bear to acknowledge even to deny.”
“How long do the effects last?”
“Couple hours. Nothing major.”
The longer I looked at the drink, the more it started to look like scotch. Not just any scotch. Samoroli scotch. Three hundred and fifty dollar-a bottle scotch. “Maybe just one sip,” I said.
The glass was cool against my lips as warm, honeyed liquid slid over my tongue like molten velvet.
“Doc! You gotta help me!”
My first thought when I looked up at the ten gallon hat galloping toward me on a body clothed in ninety-three percent denim—the other seven percent being chest hair—was that compensating would definitely be part of his diagnosis.
“Can you take a look at this?” I followed the line of his thick, stubby index finger and found myself staring at his limp, naked penis through the open zipper of his jeans.
Atomized liquid sprayed from my mouth and nose, hanging like glitter dust in the air before sprinkling to the ground.
“It's the General.” He poked the pale tube of flesh languishing beneath a belt buckle the size of a hubcap. “He's never been like this before. Somethin's wrong with him! I’m a goddamn alpha male werewolf, and this house is stuffed with more tail than a dumpster full of squirrels. This ain’t supposed to happen.”
“For the gods' sake, Randy Lee!” the faerie I’d been chatting with growled. “You can't just go waving your junk around at people like that.”
“But she's Dr. Schmidt,” Randy Lee protested. “You know what she did for Cupid. And Flick. And Marvin.”
Marvin J. Cuddlestein the Third. A little stab of sorrow punctured my chest at the mention of the Easter bunny's name. I had pried him away from his plans of suicide, true enough. But in the end, he had laid down his life for me, and died just the same.
“And there ain't no way I was gonna take my little problem to that Dr. Cinnamon Barbier,” Randy Lee continued. “No matter how good Crixus said she was.”
I was glad of the fresh wave of rage to burn off any lingering sadness. “Thank you, Randy Lee,” I said.
“No problem, gal.” He tipped the brim of his sweaty Stetson in my direction. “Ain’t no way I was gonna let a pretty woman doctor like her look me over.”
I briefly considered nailing Randy Lee right in the nuggets with my stiletto heel, but decided this would be considered unprofessional.
“And
what am I?” This was not a helpful question, I knew already. And certainly not one a woman secure in her self-esteem and identity would have asked. But the corset I was wearing had cut off circulation to my head, leaving me with the ability to feel only the most basic of emotions. Anger. Jealousy. Hunger. General piss-offed-ness.
“Hell, I didn't mean—I mean, I'm not saying you're not—”
“You know what?” I interrupted. “Don't bother. Why don't you and the General take it up with Dr. Barbier? I hear there’s no case too small for her apparently endless talents.”
I stomped away, leaving them staring gap-mouthed in my wake.
Making my way to the kitchen proved to be as challenging as navigating a living maze, bodies ever changing their trajectory to obstruct my path. Prodding the last few stragglers out of my way with my battery-powered glowing red pitchfork, I found Rolly squirting easy cheese onto a tray of crackers on the counter.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Starving.” I snatched the can from him and squirted it directly into my mouth. If nothing else, Liam’s kidnapping me had turned me on to the therapeutic properties of cheese when I had—under extreme duress mind you—been forced to forsake my vegan ways for a life-saving cheeseburger. “You seen Liam?” I asked around a mouthful of salty, processed goop.
Rolly chewed the inside of his cheek and tried to find something other than my cleavage to look at. “Why don't you have some ambrosia?” he asked, turning to dip a silver ladle into an ornate crystal punch bowl.
“Rolly.” I let a stern, disapproving tone creep into my voice, counting on it mimicking the mother who had probably nagged him right into his comfort eating ways. “Where. Is. Liam?”
Slowly, and with a frown kneading creases into his doughy features, he pointed toward the window.
I took one look, screamed, and fainted.
*****
The mechanical bull was a nice touch.
This I had to admit once I’d regained consciousness.
In and of itself, it presented a rather compelling focal point next to the moonlit waters of Rolly’s Olympic-sized swimming pool.
Liam riding astride it, swinging his black coat over his head like a lasso wasn’t necessarily an issue either, though his being stark naked save for his gun holster and ankle strap full of daggers was less than ideal.
It was the two nymphs riding the bull on either side of him I took issue with.
That, and their using his erection like a saddle horn. A woman in front of and behind him, each taking turns clutching his member for dear life as the hydraulic substitute ruminant pivoted and churned, casting their delighted shouts off into the night.
Still, their presence did seem to serve a twisted purpose. When the gigantic breasts of the former knocked Liam backward, the equally sizeable jugs of the latter bounced him in the opposite direction.
“What. The hell. Is he doing?” Surely that voice wasn’t mine. Only shrill, shallow, unreasonable women on reality TV shows sounded like that.
“Motorboating,” Rolly supplied helpfully. “At least, I think that’s what it’s called.
“I can see that.” The pitch of my voice was ratcheting up to hysterical. “Why is he doing it?”
“Probably because of those boobies bouncing in his face,” Rolly said. “If I were him, that's probably why I would do it. ’Course when you're handsome like him it's easy to get ladies.”
He cast me a baleful glance that looked twice as sad coming from a clown's visage.
I stared at the punch cup in his outstretched hand. “What's in this stuff anyway? Moonshine? Barbiturates? Diesel fuel?”
“Nothing like that,” he said. “Just fruit juice and some spices.”
“You mean everyone is acting like this with nothing more than fruit punch on board?”
“Acting like what?” Rolly asked. “It’s a party. Aren’t people supposed to be having a good time?”
“But it’s your party.” As soon as the words left my lips, I regretted them. Even before Rolly’s face fell like he’d taken a sucker punch to the gut.
“Rolly, I’m sorry. I—”
“Wheeeee!” A boyish squeal floated in on the cool night air from the window over the kitchen sink.
It was Liam's.
His image through the glass was as distant and removed as the characters on a movie screen. The few steps I might have strode across the lawn to call him down under a hail of chastisements might has well have been a marathon. I could march out there. I could yell at him.
But for what? What could I say to him that would make any difference? If these were the kind of desires hiding unacknowledged in his complicated mind, what could I possibly offer him? I was—as he so helpfully pointed out—unwilling to give him any assurance of a long-term future. The words ‘I love you’ had yet to tumble from my lips as they had so easily tumbled from his.
If this was what love looked like to Liam, I wasn't sure this was a bad thing after all.
One of the nymphs leaned forward, capturing a handful of Liam's dark hair as her mouth descended to his.
In slow motion, they rode over peaks and valleys together. His hand came to rest on the small of her back as the spectators around them erupted into approving hoots and hollers. My insides heaved as if I were the one astride the spinning animal.
“I think I'm going to be sick.” I hurtled through the crowd back toward the hall, wanting to be anywhere but here. Alone in the bathroom, the mouthful of processed cheese I had just snarfed down came back for revenge. I stood before the mirror on shaky legs, my lower lip quivering and chest seizing in a way it hadn't since I was a child.
I dabbed at the tears on my cheeks with a tissue and wiped the slut-red lipstick from my lips, feeling foolish for ever having slicked it on in the first place. For having agreed to wear the outfit Liam chose. I had no hope of competing with women like that.
Never would I be the kind of unabashed, brazen sex goddess that Liam and Crixus both seemed to favor.
Quietly, I slipped down the hallway in search of a quiet bedroom where I could be by myself. I paused halfway down the hall, hearing a familiar moan on the other side. It couldn't be. Not—
“Julie,” a husky male voice gasped. “You taste exquisite.”
My first emotion was irritation. Would there be no end to my arriving at doors to hear her getting off on the other side?
My second was fear.
Julie had only been at this party for a couple hours. And whoever she was in there with could have been using some sort of supernatural magic to encourage her compliance.
My third was anger. Memories of Crixus and the spontaneous orgasms he had subjected her to in order to extract information sent a bolt of irritated energy into my limbs.
“All right,” I barked, throwing the door open and flicking on the light.
Julie and her suitor gasped, startling me as I looked into the dark eyes of Byron Alexander Davenport.
“This wasn’t really what I had in mind when I mentioned exposure therapy. Anyway, isn't it her neck you're supposed to be sucking?” I asked, seeing the livid mark on her exposed breast.
“Dr. Schmidt—” Julie stammered, groping at discarded clothing to cover herself. “I'm so sorry. I—we—”
I shook my head. “Don't apologize. Seems like everyone else here is doing about the same.”
Her eyes sharpened as she looked at my face. “You've been crying. What's the matter? What happened?”
“It's nothing,” I said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Byron straightened his cravat and threw his long black cape over his shoulder. I couldn't decide if it was part of a costume, or just his standard evening attire.
“I must apologize for my lack of decorum, Doctor. Especially as you were kind enough to welcome me into your practice.”
“What practice?” I scoffed. “I’m a walking joke. In my world and in yours.”
“That isn’t so.” Byron was beside me then, laying
a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Your talent is legendary.”
“Please. I can’t even keep the Easter Bunny alive.” A rogue tear escaped the corner of my eye.
Byron caught it with a chilly finger. “But just look at what you’ve already done for me. This is the closest to a woman I’ve been in centuries. Would that not be considered progress?”
“It would,” I agreed. The shift of topics to something professional brought me a measure of comfort. “Though I would prefer you made progress with someone other than my assistant.”
“We can't always choose who we find ourselves attracted to. Isn't that so, Doctor?” Byron's tone was polite, but insistent. I wondered what Julie might have told him about Liam or Crixus. Either way, I couldn't deny the truth of his statement.
“Yes, that's so.”
I looked at Julie’s flushed face. Her hopeful smile. Every passing moment I remained felt like one stolen from her. From them.
“I'll leave you two alone now.”
I backed out of the doorway, turning the light off as I left.
At the next door, I knocked. When no one replied, I quietly slid inside and closed and locked it behind me. I sank down on the edge of the brass bed and let my elbows drop to my knees. More tears came. To pass the time, I picked through the individual threads that comprised the complicated tangle of emotions behind them.
Jealousy. Disappointment. Fear. Anger. And the most surprising of all...regret. For what, exactly?
“You didn't open your package.”
I jumped and shrieked, but my scan of the room revealed no one.
Until he moved.
The deliveryman emerged from the shadows, his features slowly arranging themselves behind the dark sunglasses he wore even now. Light in the room was scarce, and seemed reluctant to attach itself to his face.
“You…Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“You didn't open your package,” he repeated.
Undeadly: The Case Files of Matilda Schmidt, Paranormal Psychologist (The Case Files of Dr. Matilda Schmidt, Paranormal Psychologist Book 6) Page 5
