“Outstanding idea,” I said backing out of the kitchen just in case Jango went for the cheesecake. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from maiming him if he took the last bite.
I’d ordered six of Wanda’s cheesecakes from the Assjacket Diner and we were down to only one. It was a draw between me and the cats as to who could eat more. Embarrassingly, I was winning.
“Anyhoo, rehearsal last night sucked,” I said as they followed me to the den. “There’s an awful dance number where we basically twerk with hangers.”
“That sounds kinda hot,” Boba said with a shrug and a kitty paw thumbs up. “You nekkid in it?”
“I don’t know why I even try to talk to you idiots,” I muttered wearily. “And no we’re not naked, we’re wearing go-go shorts and sequins. But the best part—and I say best with utter and unmistakable disgust—is me tearing around the stage screaming, ‘No more wire hangers,’ while the cast twerks in terror.”
Finally I’d rendered them mute. They didn’t laugh. They didn’t snicker. They didn’t go for their balls. The cats simply stared in shock.
Damn. That didn’t bode well. If my obese, profane, tasteless, whacked-out cats thought it was bad… It was really bad.
“You want me to kill the hairy beaver?” Fat Bastard asked. “I’ll make it look like the untalented little son-of-a-bitch tripped because his brows messed with his vision.
Horrifically, I considered the offer for a moment. After I digested the fact that my cat suggested killing Bob while using the term hairy beaver, I quickly came to my senses.
“That’s extremely nice of you, but no. We’re not killing anyone because they’re talent free. If we were, I’d be the first on the hit list.”
“I call bullshit on that,” Boba protested loudly. “You’re a fuckin’ star. I hear you sing in the shower. It cracked the glass on the fubashianass mirror.”
“Okay, wait. Stop. What the hell does fubashianass mean?” I asked, blindly ignoring the fact that my appalling singing had cracked a mirror.
“He don’t know,” Jango snorted. “He makes up shit and tries to see what catches on. One place we was in, all the kids picked up on crapbasketasser. Them teenagers painted it on walls all over town.”
“How’d that go over?” I asked, wondering if they’d been dropped on their heads as kittens.
“Got run out of that municipality with pitchforks,” Fat Bastard informed me proudly.
The other two gave each other high fives and laughed like loons.
They’d definitely been dropped…
“Alrighty then, you brainiacs have to leave. Mac’s coming over for lunch.”
“No worries, Sweet Cheeks. We’re gonna take some yogi with your dad,” Jango said as he stretched and waddled toward the front door.
“Yoga, jackass,” Boba corrected him as he dragged his fat carcass after him.
“No you’re not,” I said with narrowed eyes and my hands on my hips. They were lying sacks of shit.
“We most certainly are. I hear there’s some lesbians there,” Fat Bastard grunted as he got to his feet with a tremendous amount of difficulty due to his girth.
I closed my eyes and counted to ten. It wouldn’t do any good to chastise or zap the politically incorrect dork. He was headed for an experience with pitchforks again and there was very little I could do about it.
“Have fun, make sure you cheat and bring home a few cheesecakes when you’re done gambling in the back room at the Assjacket Diner,” I said as I pushed them out of the door.
“Will do,” Boba said with a salute.
“Shit, she busted us,” Fat Bastard complained with a laugh.
“Told you she was smarter than she looks,” Jango grumbled and swatted at his cohorts.
I shut the door with a little blast of magic, making sure it hit all three of them squarely in the butt. I’ll show them I’m smarter than I look…
***
“Did you cook?” Mac asked with wide eyes and a horrified expression. He tried to mask his shock… unsuccessfully.
“I did,” I lied through an innocent smile as I watched him squirm.
It was common knowledge that I was a terrible cook. Even the cats passed on my culinary attempts and they’d eat anything. Fabio had gamely tried to eat a meatloaf I’d created, but when he turned a scary shade of green I made him stop.
“Wow,” he choked out. “That’s just um… fantastic.”
I let Mac freak out for two more minutes while I took the casserole out of the oven. This was fun. However, when I noticed him starting to sweat and glance at the door, I assuaged his fear.
“Of course I didn’t cook,” I told him with a huge grin as he heaved a somewhat insultingly audible sigh of relief. “I can’t even eat my cooking. DeeDee dropped off a casserole this morning because she knew you were coming to lunch. I think she was afraid I’d accidentally poison the King of the Shifters.”
“But then you’d have to heal me,” Mac replied in a sexy low tone that made my knees knock. “Maybe a little mouth to mouth resuscitation.”
“Hmmm, interesting. I could work with that. Maybe we could pretend I poisoned you. You fall down on the floor and writhe and moan and I strip you and heal you by riding you till you’re blind.”
Mac choked on his lemonade and grabbed onto the table for balance. He closed his eyes and started talking to the ceiling.
“What are you doing?” I asked as I piled the yummy smelling casserole onto two plates and added some crusty homemade bread DeeDee had thoughtfully provided.
“Praying to the Goddess for strength,” he muttered as he sat down in the chair at the opposite end of the long table from me.
“How’s it working?”
“If you stay four to six feet away from me it will work fine,” he explained as he adjusted his jeans and quickly placed his napkin in his lap.
“Maybe all we have together is sex,” I said watching for his reaction.
The thought was depressing, but what if it was true?
“I disagree,” he growled, clearly unhappy that I’d even suggested such a thing. “Even though I’d give my left arm for you to ride me like a cowboy, I want way more than that from you. I want everything, heart, soul and body—preferably naked.”
“I said blind, not a cowboy.”
“Same thing,” he replied, again readjusting himself.
“Nope,” I argued. “If I were to ride you like a cowboy, I’d get naked except for boots and a Stetson. Blind means I’d just be totally naked. However, I’m wearing a fabu sheer mocha bra today so I might leave that on. So, cowboy—hat and boots. Blind—naked except for bra. Got it?”
Mac’s head dropped to the table with a thud and the sound he made went right to my underused girly parts. I was being so mean, but he was such an easy target.
“I’m sorry,” I told him and I meant it. “I’m not playing fair. How about I conjure up a long winter coat and one of those hats where just my eyes show? You should probably stop showering and maybe wear some preppy clothes like madras pants and a pink polo shirt. I hate madras pants—total turn off.”
“Stop showering?” he asked with a pained chuckle.
He was jack-knifed forward and I was sure his Bon Jovi was killing him. My Little Red Riding Hood was making me squirm in my chair.
“Yep and wear preppy girly-man clothes, but that probably wouldn’t even work,” I admitted. I’d still want him even if he wore a clown suit, a man bun and black socks with sandals.
“Okay, how about this?” Mac proposed as he tried to find a comfortable position for his Bon Jovi. “All clothing stays put. We drop the poison scenario and go for the high school virgin and quarterback situation.”
“Cheerleader,” I added.
“What?”
“I’m a high school virgin cheerleader. I was never a cheerleader and I always wanted to be.”
“Fine,” he said as he stood gingerly and approached.
“Wait,” I yelled making him stop dead
in his tracks. “Did you bring condoms?”
“Condoms?” he repeated totally confused.
“Yessssss. Props are an important part of making it really work. Remember the Granny cap when we played Little Red Riding Hood? We have to have condoms. You have to show them to me and then swear on your life if I agree to do the nasty that I won’t get pregnant.”
“You’re serious?”
He was torn trying to figure out if I was for real.
I was.
If I couldn’t get laid, I needed the game to be realistic.
“Is your motorcycle out front?” I asked as I grabbed a jacket and my Birkin bag. “Wait, I might have some condoms.”
“You have condoms?” he hissed through clenched teeth and a little bit of fang popping out.
Dang that was hot.
Shifters didn’t use condoms. They couldn’t carry disease and could only impregnate their mate after they were mated. He was clearly unhappy that I had any kind of sexual aid or block, so to speak, that might include someone other than him.
“They’re not mine,” I hissed. “They’re my dad’s.”
The statement certainly brought the foreplay to an abrupt and very silent end—until we both groaned loudly in pain and started to laugh.
“That’s pretty much a boner killer right there,” Mac choked out with a shudder.
Shitballs, he was correct. I wasn’t even horny anymore. The thought of my dad needing a condom was gag inducing. The thought of my dad needing a condom with Baba Yaga was scarring. It was worse than eating my cooking.
“I am so sorry,” I apologized in a strangled whisper as I slapped my hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t get ill. “Not my intention to kill your boner. I’m pretty sure my Little Red Riding Hood just locked the door and threw away the key.”
Mac sat back down and grinned like an idiot as he tried to stop laughing. “Well, at least we know what kills the mood.”
“This is true,” I said as a grin pulled at my lips. “I suppose if we get out of hand we can just shout Fabio’s condoms.”
“How about we shorten it to FC. I’m fairly certain if I use the term too frequently my balls will permanently retreat to my stomach,” Mac begged in a brief respite from his laughter.
My grin now matched his and I couldn’t hold back my giggles. Most guys would be mad that the amorous part of the afternoon was thwarted. This gorgeous man thought it was hilarious. Goddess, I was totally in lo…
No. Not yet. I wasn’t fixed and functional enough for the tree house.
He deserved me at my best—or a good as I could get. And so did I.
“Do you wanna watch TV?” I asked, all of a sudden feeling shy. I hoped to hell he wasn’t poking around my brain and hearing all my thoughts. It was one of his gifts—a most annoying one.
“I would love to watch TV with you. I also might be persuaded to massage your pretty feet,” he replied as he stood and held out his hand.
“Can we watch Project Runway?” I asked as I took his hand and followed him to the den dragging the food with me.
He paused and winced just a tiny bit. “How about for every two episodes of Project Runway, I get one episode of Deadliest Catch?”
“I can live with that.” I cuddled up to him on the couch and rested my head on his strong chest. He smelled so good and I felt so safe.
I found out Mac was very opinionated when it came to fashion. Much to my amused dismay, he yelled at the TV through all four episodes of Project Runway. However, his appreciation for Tim Gunn made his bad TV etiquette tolerable.
The foot massage was as close to an orgasm without having sex as I’d ever experienced and DeeDee’s casserole was the bomb. The afternoon was perfect. He was perfect. The cuddling was perfect. It was just a damn great sex-free afternoon with a handsome, funny, smart man who laughed at my jokes and challenged me in ways I’d never known.
Now I just had to get perfect.
Well, maybe perfectly imperfect.
Hopefully that would be enough.
CHAPTER 9
Rehearsal was going swimmingly… that is, if you enjoyed drowning in hell.
“Um, Sassy,” Fabio choked out as he partially covered his eyes. “What exactly are you doing?”
Sassy was playing my daughter Christina. While circling Jeeves, she was spastically and sexually humping the air around him. This was appalling and wrong on every level as Jeeves was playing Christopher—her brother.
“No, no, no! I did not write that,” Bob the beaver insisted with a look of horror on his face. “She can’t do that.”
“I know,” Fabio hissed under his breath. “I’m trying to let my actors have free rein at interpretation. It makes for happier thespians.”
“Not working,” I muttered as I watched Sassy continue her hump-walk. Thankfully she was wearing her own clothes. I’d hate to see an outfit of mine performing such a lewd move—I’d have to burn it.
“There are no lesbians in my play either,” Bob snapped, wielding his script like a sword aimed at my dad.
“Everyone STOP!” Fabio yelled, bringing the rehearsal abruptly to a halt.
There were about ten of us in the Community Center waiting our turn to be directed by my dad who was incredibly close to zapping the hell out of his staff and cast.
“Let’s get a few things straight here. The word thespian is now off limits. Forever. I am very open to your thoughts and character ideas. However, in the end, this is not a democracy. I see the big picture while you as actors only see your part. Sooooo, while humping the personal space of the man playing your brother is a fascinating choice, it will not be in the play.” Fabio finished with a brief bow and put upon grunt.
Oh my Goddess. My dad was kind of brilliant.
“But it’s an important and pertinent part of the story.” Sassy slapped her hands on her hips to stop them from gyrating.
“How so?” my father asked gamely as he tried to hold his composure in check.
“Christina is adopted?” Sassy asked.
“Yes,” Fabio replied warily.
“And Christopher is adopted?”
“Um… yes,” Bob answered with wide eyes as he pulled on his uni-brow frantically.
“Were they adopted from the same mother and father?” she queried with raised brows and a triumphant expression on her idiotic, yet ridiculously attractive face.
No one wanted to answer the question because we all knew where she was headed. The silence was loaded. She was cray-cray and clearly over-sexed to have come up with this theory. Since no one was forthcoming with the reply she was waiting for, she unfortunately supplied it.
“It stands to reason since they’re not blood related in any way whatsoever, they very possibly could have had a relationship. I say let’s explore that and see what happens.”
“Let me pose a question since I’ve been thinking about having Jeeves play one of the studio heads,” Fabio ground out as diplomatically as a director on the edge could. “I believe Jeeves is not being used to his utmost ability as Christopher.”
Jeeves grinned at the compliment and blushed sweetly. Sassy’s eyes narrowed, but she was confused—as usual.
“Sassy dear, would you feel the need to swivel your hips if say, Bob was playing Christopher?” my dad asked.
Bob’s gulp of fear made me giggle and watching Sassy seriously consider her answer was pure comedy—the kind that made you very uncomfortable and embarrassed for the comedian.
“I see what you’re saying,” she said with a serious nod. “I’m pretty sure I could hump anyone if it was for the good of the show.”
Not exactly the reply my dad was going for.
“While I find your dedication humbling, I’m fairly sure I’m going to be ill,” Fabio told her. “Bob will now be playing Christopher. You will not hump Bob. Are we clear?”
“Wait. What?” Bob screeched in a soprano pitch that put all the women in our cast to shame. “I’m the choreographer and the writer. I can’t play a rol
e.”
“Yes you can,” Fabio stated calmly as his fingers sparked ominously in opposition to his tone. “You will play Christopher so your play doesn’t turn into a musical porno.”
Bob slowly made his way to the stage as if he was walking to the guillotine—whimpering the entire way.
“Let’s try a scene with Zelda,” Fabio suggested as he waved his hands and created a brisk wind that blew Sassy, Bob and Jeeves right off the stage and into the audience. “Just take it from page three and give it to me with feeling.”
A Witch In Time Page 7