I clap my hands together once, loudly, in the manner of a school teacher calling her class to attention. "So, now that you have your little gossip, y'all heifers can go out the way you came in, m’kay?"
"We have Mass, remember?" Tu says, looking sweet.
"Isn't it too late for Mass?" I ask. I have a sex hangover. Church is no place for me today.
"No, it's only a little past one. We can still make the 2:30 slacker Mass," Jasmine puts in, referring to the mid-afternoon Sunday church service.
"Where are your men? Shouldn't you go drag their asses to church?" I ask, seeking a reprieve from the service. The idea of sitting on a hard pew at St. Ailbe's, by turns kneeling, standing, sitting, and responding, is too much to bear.
"After the evening you had, I'm thinking an hour and fifteen minutes coming to Jesus, with a side of good old-fashioned Catholic guilt, would do you some good," says Tu. "Mitch and AJ are both out of town, lucky for you. After we get you nice and sanctified, we'll take you to the cabin and we can...hang out."
I suspect this is code for "sit around, talk about sex, and get drunk on mimosas," and I give myself a moment to consider whether this is a good life choice. The truth is, I might be persuaded to spill my guts on my invisible friend, if for no other reason than I'm kind of sick of not having anyone to talk to about it.
My nieces look at me and smile expectantly. I sigh, sip my coffee, and head for the shower.
When you think of a cabin in the country, you mostly think of a Little House on the Prairie, one-room domicile, don't you?
Well, that description does not apply to the home of our town eccentric billionaire, one Mitch Wayne, a minotaur who stays as far away from other people as possible. Mitch is the fated mate of my niece Petunia Greene, who goes by her nickname "Tu." Mitch found her on the side of the road during a snowstorm a couple of weeks before Christmas last year, sheltered her in his cabin, and after a fair amount of drama between them, finally got it together and were mated and engaged. Mitch is more than a decade older than Tu, and like most minotaurs, he is not exactly nice. It is a little surprising that Tu, who is our family's perpetual ray of sunshine, would be Mitch's mate. But their relationship seems to work for them, and I've actually seen the big brute smile at her more than once.
Anyway, the "cabin" is a three-story, rambling behemoth with massive garages in which Mitch stores the wreckers he uses to pull semi-tractor trailers out of ditches. Tu calls her fiancé’s house Stately Wayne Cabin. It's a little intimidating on first approach, and standing in front of it, Tu looks like a little girl with an oversized dollhouse.
In fact, both of my nieces are mated to successful men who adore them. I am the odd woman out, and although I'm mostly satisfied with my life and have no need of a large house, I am unmated and would like to contemplate a future with a man. Specifically, my invisible friend, Gunnar.
Tu escorts us to the enclosed porch she had refurbished after moving in with Mitch. It feels like we've stepped into a greenhouse with all the huge houseplants she has, the Saltillo tile floor, and the view of the nearby Christmas tree farm. Perdition is Blackland prairie, and we have a view of the drifts of bluebonnets in bloom.
I am quiet and lost in thoughts of Gunnar, Fat Joey, and my own life choices as my nieces bustle in the kitchen. I am the token human eccentric in a town of shifters, telekinetics, psychics, and a few other humans. If I tell my nieces about what's going on with me, I will no longer be the eccentric local conjure-woman. I will be the batshit crazy conjure-woman because my nieces are great gossips when it serves them. Do I really want to go there?
My nieces return with a plate of small sandwiches, a vegan cheesecake (minotaurs don't eat dairy, obvs) and a pitcher of mimosas. I see from the determination in their eyes they plan on getting answers from me, and are not above plying me with alcohol in order to get them.
They set the provisions on the bamboo coffee table, sit in unison on the wicker love seat across from me, exchange meaningful looks with each other, then turn near identical pairs of large brown eyes on me. Before either can say anything, I blurt my truth.
"I'm fated mates with a 1,200-year-old Viking who is sometimes a house cat, and no one else can see him," I say in a rush.
My declaration is met with identical blink blink expressions from the nieces.
I go on to explain Gunnar's curse. How I'm the first person to see him in his human form in all that time, and how in order to be let out of his curse, he has to put a thousand fated couples together. The entire time, their faces register various expressions of disbelief. And then I drop the bomb.
"Jasmine, you've met him," I say matter-of-factly. I watch her features carefully for a reaction. She gives me another blink blink of incomprehension, then reaches for a sandwich and a mimosa. She places the sandwich on a napkin on her lap.
"Really?" She brings her drink to her lips.
"Yes," I say, taking a sandwich for myself. This conversation is going better than I expected. "He lived with you for about a year."
Jasmine spit-takes all over the front of her t-shirt and her sandwich. Tu and I exchange glances, then hop up to help Jasmine. Her face is flushed and tears come to her eyes as she chokes.
"How—how long?" she sputters as she catches her breath. She is in her seat now, composing herself. Tu leaves the room to find something dry for her sister to wear.
I cock my head at her, not understanding.
"He—he saw me with Jesse?" Her eyes are round, her face ashen, like every drop of blood has been drained from her body. And then I understand. She never talks about Jesse, the man she lived with and who had physically abused her. Her privacy has been violated. I have nothing to say to that.
"Yes," I say. I feel helpless. My gut twists in dismay. I'm used to being the comforter, not the person causing pain.
Jasmine looks away, face flushed, ashamed.
"I'm sorry," I say. "He was there to help you."
She nods. "And you discussed me with him?"
I wince.
"Just a little," I say, putting my thumb and forefinger close together in a gesture women usually reserve for describing tiny-dicked men. I am sorry I mentioned her having met Fat Joey in the first place. An awkward few minutes pass in which no one says anything.
Tu returns, tosses a t-shirt in Jasmine's lap, and hooks a thumb over her shoulder. "Go change your shirt."
Jasmine leaves the room, and Tu plops herself on the love seat.
"That didn't exactly go the way I thought," I say.
Tu waves a hand dismissively. "She'll get over it," she says. "She wouldn't have left without something pushing her. I understand how she feels, I really do. But I'm glad my sister is safe now, and I don't really care how it happened."
This is not what I expect her to say. I think about the first time I met Fat Joey, and the first time I met Gunnar. He'd been wearing that ridiculous Abraham Lincoln suit and top hat. Idly, I begin to wonder what he'd look like in full-dress Viking garb.
My mind drifts to the possibilities. The roadie look, with the band t-shirt and Doc Martens, was compelling, but how would he look in motorcycle garb? So many possibilities. I know I shouldn't let my mind roam this way, especially since I'm probably not going to ever see him again, but I can't help it.
Jasmine returns and sits next to her sister on the love seat, nudging the other woman with a generous hip.
"Move your ass," Jasmine says, and Tu rolls her eyes.
I'm still daydreaming. I want to have sex with Gunnar again. We fucked in just about every way possible the night before, but what about a different venue? A coat check room at a theater in the city? The restroom in a club? Gunnar is big and strapping. Surely, he could hold me with those beefy arms of his and fuck me against a wall? Would he teach me some sex-related Old Norse slang if I ask him? I bite my bottom lip, thinking about it.
"So, what are you going to do?" Tu asks, snapping me out of my rumination. "And stop thinking about sex."
I look
at my girls, ignoring Tu's snarky comment, and scowl. "What can I do? I have no control over when he appears." And that is the crux of the issue. I'm too invested in him already, and I have no control over when I can access him. Very annoying.
Jasmine says, "Should have known this was all about your need to control the situation."
"What?" I say, offended. "I'm not like that!"
Tu says, "You are exactly like that."
"How many times have you made some potion or other for someone who hasn't even asked for it?" Jasmine, recovered from our previous awkwardness, joins in on the "let's bash Auntie" fun.
"That's just me being helpful!" I say, waving my arms. My voice rises in pitch, and I get to my feet in order to pace. The tile floors are pleasantly cool under my bare feet.
"Yeah, but think of all the times when you offered up a solution before a problem has been presented!" Tu puts in. She saunters to me and hands me a mimosa. I drain the glass in one gulp. The liquid flows down my gullet and settles warmly in the pit of my stomach. My whole body feels warm, and I realize belatedly that my drink was spiked with something stronger than champagne. Something strong enough to make fumes hover in my nostrils. The nieces look at me with their eyebrows up, leaning forward in their seats, and wait for my reaction. Both of them hold nearly full mimosas.
Well played, nieces. Well played.
I sigh and pace a bit more while the nieces watch me like someone has yelled "timber" and they are waiting for the tree to fall. And I am the tree.
I work up a head of steam, still pacing. Thinking. Then I do something I maybe shouldn't do. I hold out my glass.
"Pour me another," I say, committing fully to a course of action whose conclusion I cannot predict.
My glass once again full, I resume my pacing. I open my mouth to speak with no idea what words will come spilling out of my mouth.
Then I feel vibrations under my feet. My skin prickles and the hairs on my bare arms stand up. Then, well, my pussy clenches unexpectedly, and I feel a presence behind me. The nieces look at me quizzically, aware that something has changed with me, but with no idea of what it is.
"I'm back," says a deep, rumbling voice behind me.
I whip around, and there he is.
Gunnar.
Human again. Really human.
Big, strapping. Self-assured and cocky.
Today, he is dressed as a Roman Centurion wearing a helmet that wraps around his cheeks with a bristly, fan-like thingy on top. He has decided to forego a shirt and instead, wears armor right over his fabulous muscles. Back in Roman days, I imagine it would not have been extremely comfortable, but Gunnar apparently takes poetic license when he decides to materialize on a whim.
I step back and eye him up and down. He's wearing a skirt-like thing that makes me think of a kilt. Gladiator sandal laces snake up his calves. I note he has a cleft chin that for some reason I hadn't noticed before. Memories of our time together bombard me, and I bite my bottom lip.
It's possible he believes he is the gods' gift to women. With him looking like this, it's not hard to see how he might have come to that conclusion.
I give him a little wave of the hand. I manage a thin smile.
"Hi!" is all I can say.
Chapter Nine
Gunnar
"Hi!" Auntie smiles at me. Her face lights up when she sees me, and I realize this is the first time she has smiled directly at me.
Auntie looks...happy to see me? She's looking at me like I'm the only person in the room. Jasmine, whom I once helped connect to her mate, is there with Tu, whom I did not help, but who managed to find her mate anyway. The resemblance between the three women is striking. All three have dark, dancing eyes, apple cheeks, and beautiful smiles.
"Nice outfit," Auntie says, cutting her eyes to the tile floor. She looks bashful.
"I told you I would return," I remind her. I smile back at her.
"Auntie?" Jasmine asks. "What are you—?"
"Is he here?" Tu wants to know.
"This gladiator getup is new, isn't it?" Auntie asks, reaching out to touch me. I take her hand, and electric sensations sizzle up my arm at the contact. Auntie blinks at me, perplexed, lips parted. It is a pretty picture, this vision of a willing woman who is into me. My dick likes everything about the current situation and stiffens to steel pipe levels of hardness.
"It feels like the first time you touched me," she says. Her lips twist into a small smile. My dick hardens to stone.
Jasmine and Tu exchange frowns and get to their feet.
"He is here, isn't he?" Tu says, eyes shining with excitement.
She follows Auntie's line of sight, her eyes on where I am, though, she can't see me. She approaches me, waving her hands into empty space. Her hands go through my midsection as if I'm not there, because of course, from her perspective, I might as well not be there. Auntie watches her niece's hand go through me.
"That is some really weird shit," Auntie says, her expression bemused. She toys with one of her braids.
"They can't see me," I remind her. "They think you're talking to thin air."
This makes Auntie release a small snorting giggle, and her fingers flutter to her lips to stifle the sound. I am used to seeing her more in command of situations, listening to customer complaints, then supplying herbal remedies to address them. She is self-assured and knows her shit. But now, she is shy. I have to admit, she makes me shy as well. It seems it has taken 1,200 years of humility to be a good enough man for a mate. For a woman like Auntie, it has been worth the wait.
"I want to know if you've ever seen me naked," Jasmine demands, arms crossed over her bosom in a confrontational stance. She, like her sister, looks at the space where I'm standing. Her eyes are right on mine, which is a little eerie.
"Tell her I usually tried to avoid looking when she was undressing," I say to Auntie. I watch the play of emotions travelling over her lovely face. Always so self-assured, her bashfulness in the moment is endearing.
"Did I tell you I love your accent?" Auntie purrs. She meets my eyes now, that same bashful expression on her face.
"You do?" I ask, frowning. "I know a lot of languages. I didn't think I still have an accent."
"I asked you a question," Jasmine interrupts. She seems more annoyed. Her eyes bounce between where I am and Auntie, who isn't paying attention to either niece now.
"Tell her I tried not to look," I repeat. "But between you and me, she might want to reconsider that tattoo she has on her lower back."
Auntie squints. She turns her head to look at Jasmine. "You have a tramp stamp?"
Jasmine is befuddled by the apparent non-sequitur. Then realization dawns, and Jasmine is offended. "Hey!" she says, anger making her voice hit a new register.
Tu steps in and takes Jasmine by the elbow. "Come on, sis, let's let them have their privacy."
Jasmine snatches her arm away from her sister's grasp and glowers. "I can walk by myself," she huffs.
"I know," says Tu, dragging her into the house, making a ruckus as they go.
"Hello, Gunnar," Auntie says, cocking an eyebrow at me and giving me a wry look. She places a hand on my chest, and I immediately go as hard as a wooden club.
"I've seen many women naked," I tell her. I feel the need to clear the air. "Until I met you, my bodily functions were all suspended. I got no enjoyment from watching women walk around in the nude."
She squints, looking at me skeptically.
"That's your business," she says, warily.
"I'm having trouble getting Duff and Twyla together," I tell her. "This is my last match..." I let my voice trail off to see how she reacts to this information.
"Really?" she says, and I see the spark of interest in her beautiful, dark eyes. "What happens when you make your last match?"
"The curse will be broken," I say. "I just need to get the two of them together. Then, I'm free to live my life. Hopefully, with you."
She frowns, gives me her customary squint, and a dee
p red blush appears under that beautiful brown skin of hers. Not the reaction I was hoping for. I am a little deflated, but bounce back quickly. My instincts have never been wrong, Auntie and I are meant to be. I suspect she feels the same, but doesn't want to admit it, for reasons I cannot discern.
She crosses her arms under her breasts, making them swell in a most alluring fashion. I want those breasts again. I want to suck them into my mouth, bite them, squeeze them. My dick perks up, endorsing this idea. I shift on my feet, trying to adjust myself without seeming like a pervert. I want to court this woman, not send her running.
But she notices my motions.
Shit.
Her upper lip curls. Not in contempt, as I would expect, but in amusement.
"You are such a perv," she tells me, her eyes sparkling with humor.
She sizes me up slowly. Then she inches up to me, her gauzy skirts swaying as she puts a little sexy swish in her hips. She's teasing me in another way now, throwing her sexuality in my face. She is trying to kill me.
She stops a mere hair’s breath away from me, looking up at me with a saucy expression.
"What do you need, Mr. Gunnar? How can I be of assistance?" Her big brown eyes sear my soul, then the little brat licks her lips, her pink tongue emerging from that blow-job-ready soft mouth of hers. It reminds me of something she might have done to me the night before. In fact, she had done it the night before, and my mind replays the sight of her sucking my pene while her big, round eyes seduce me.
I am losing my train of thought.
One of the nice things about the reawakening Auntie has triggered in my body—I can smell her scent, camellias mixed with her woman's musk. Also, to be brutally honest, her honeypot. What once was merely firm is now hard as a club. It is wonderful but also terrifying. I need to fuck this woman again. And not just again. More like over and over again.
"We need to get them together, but Twyla hasn't been to the diner," I say. "I heard people talking about it, but I have no idea why she wouldn't be there."
That Time She Broke Her Viking's Curse Page 7
