Bite My Fire: A Biting Love story.

by Mary Hughes

  My father’s Irish saints preserve us. Weren’t hookers supposed to be hard, dissolute and disillusioned? Since when were they peppy and helpful?

  Oh, yeah, since this was Meiers Corners. The five surrounded me in various states of happy jiggle. “I’m Lana,” the lead hooker said. “This is Lena, Loni, Lori and Luci.”

  Breathlessly, Luci said, “You want to know about Nappy Schrimpf?”

  My head turned to her.

  “We can tell you all about him,” Lena said. My head turned again.

  “Mostly all about him.” Loni quivered in excitement. My head followed.

  “Well, at least a little something about him,” Lori chimed in.

  My head…yeah. I was getting dizzy again. “Ladies, please.” If Donner and Blitz were split five ways, they’d make the L-gang. “Did you know Schrimpf or not?”

  “He wasn’t much for talking,” Lana said. I think it was Lana.

  “He liked blows,” Loni said. Or it might have been Lori.

  “But that’s about it,” Luci said. Pretty sure it was Luci.

  Scarier thought. Maybe Donner and Blitz had split in emulation of these five. “Nothing else? You sure?”

  “His favorite was Drusilla.” Lena said this, but all five faces beamed.

  “We want to be just like her.” Lori. Or maybe Lana.

  “She’s full time, you know.” Luci. Loni. Fuck.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard,” I said. Maybe I should have just given up and called them all Lanalenaloniloriluci. “Do you suppose this Drusilla knows anything about Schrimpf’s death? Anything useful, that is?”

  “She should,” one of them said. At this point I’d rather have shot myself than caring who.

  Until she added, “Dru was with him right before he died.”

  I now had four possibilities. Well, unless it was a random killing, but Schrimpf’s pierced pouch argued against that. With the intimate nature of the wounds, the widow was most likely. Josephine was out of town, alibied. But alibis could be broken.

  Second most likely was some other “conquered” female. Lana and the rest of the “L” gang—or the Schrimpfster’s favorite, Drusilla.

  The third possibility was a disgruntled employee or vendor.

  Fourth was Mr. Mystery, Bo Strongwell. But he only had one hit on the MMO Top Three, Opportunity. In fact, nothing obvious connected him to Schrimpf. Well, other than proximity. And the fact that he set my teeth on edge. And set other parts tingling. I hushed my nipples. Alibied, too, for what it was worth. I still had to confirm that. So he was fourth, but a distant fourth. Although for my peace of mind I wished he were distant-er. My pussy objected loudly. I told it to shut up too.

  I spent half an hour canvassing for Drusilla without success. So I returned to the station and hit the employees again. I hadn’t done so well on the first go-around, probably because I’d been bushed.

  Fresh now, I started phoning. It was late, almost midnight. But I was up, right?

  I spoke with a dozen people. The conversations were short, but I got tons of new information. I couldn’t believe it. Great stuff. I made notes of everything. The best involved sex and Twinkies.

  I had no idea people could swear that inventively.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t learn a lot about the case. I needed an inside scoop, preferably one that worked the same wacko hours I did.

  Like my best friend, Nixie Schmeling.

  At five-foot nothing and a hundred pounds, I could have lifted Nixie with one hand. But she’d’a kicked my ass if I did. Nixie’s diminutive size and blonde curls camouflaged a screaming Amazon princess. She was a tattooed punk musician with a permanent hard-on for anyone cramping her style. In some ways I envied her. She was more out of place in Meiers Corners than I was, but it never kept her from being anything less than herself. She was purely, plainly, through-to-the-core Nixie.

  Nixie didn’t work directly for Schrimpf. She studied Taekwondo at Mr. Miyagi’s. (Miyagi Park, but a body double for Pat Morita. Blame the Bluebird of Coincidence.) She also taught satellite classes for Miyagi, saving to move out of her parents’ house. Conveniently, the satellite was Schrimpf’s Gym. And as a musician in the bar band Guns and Polkas, Nixie would be awake and available.

  When I got to the Schmeling bungalow I didn’t ring the doorbell. Hey, I didn’t want to wake Mrs. Schmeling and earn one of her lectures. That woman invented guilt. Instead, I stole to the back of the house and found a clod of dirt. Before my parents moved us to Chicago my sophomore year, Nixie and I had done our share of sneaking out. I wound up and launched the clod at her second-story window, was rewarded with a soft clunk. Ha. Still had it.

  A face popped into the window. I waved. The face disappeared, and a moment later the back door opened. A tiny doll of a woman popped out, curvy in skinny jeans and a Noisebot T-shirt that read Make Awkward Sexual Advances, Not War.

  She trotted down the stairs. “’Sup, Badge-Bitch. We gonna go get hammered?”

  Nixie was twenty-five, but her vocabulary was straight out of Superbad. Fortunately she was a lot smarter than she talked.

  “When I get my permanent shield we’re going to fry our brains sunny-side up. But tonight I was hoping for a consult on a case. Caffeine Café? I’m buying.”

  “Sweet. Let me go put on some clothes.”

  “What do you call what you’re wearing?”

  She glanced at herself, grimaced. “I call this ‘Concession to the Maternal Sensibilities’. It’ll just take a sec to get normal.” She disappeared back into the house. When she trotted back out she wore a threadbare Garfield hoodie with the sleeves ripped out, a belly-baring tankini, a black sequin skirt and a pair of Candie’s boots. “I hope they’ve got some of those Seven Deadly Chocolates scones. Those things are wicked hardcore.”

  We started off, our pace matched despite our height difference. I said, “So how’s your folks?”

  “Puritanical and lovin’ it. ’Course, they call it ‘stability’. How’s Gretch?”

  I didn’t want to go into it. “She’s fine.”

  “Can you make ‘fine’ sound any more like ‘deathly ill’?”

  Never try to lie out loud to a musician. They hear things the rest of us don’t even know exist. It’d be spooky if it weren’t so annoying. “All right, if you must know. She’s acting funny. I’m afraid it has to do with her new apartment manager, who’s a suspect in my case.”

  “Um-hmm. He’s a hottie too, I take it?”

  “Well, yes. But how did you know?”

  “When you said ‘acting funny’ it sounded worried. But ‘apartment manager’ didn’t sound worried. It sounded breathy. As in ‘I can’t catch my breath, because my lungs and all my internal organs hit my pussy and exploded’.”

  My cheeks warmed. “Um, maybe. But his being handsome is one reason I’m worried. I mean, Gretch is a new widow. Vulnerable, especially to hunky guys.”

  “I thought you wanted her to get out. Date.”

  “Not guys with sex on the brain. Nice guys, like Steve.”

  “News flash. Even nice guys have sex on the brain.” She gave me an appraising look. “Gals too.”

  I didn’t have to be a musician to hear that her emphasis on gals meant me. “I don’t have sex on the brain.”

  “Sure you do. You’ve gone without it for how long now? Three years?”

  “Five. It’s three months. And, ah, four days. If I were counting.”

  “Which clearly you aren’t. How many hours?”

  “Six.” I mumbled it.

  “Not jonesing at all. Seconds?”

  “Forty—fuck. Just drop it.”

  “Forty-fuck? Hmm. Clearly not obsessing. Not feening one little bit about sex. Not desperate-horny at all, especially not about Mr. Hottie Apartment Manager. Milliseconds?”

  “Enough already!” I gave her my patented cop glare, guaranteed to send a perp into stuttering shivers. Then I remembered that this was Nixie, who could spear even Vice Principal Schleck with her fine
ly honed Attitude. Not even the cop glare would pierce her armor. There was better ammunition. “I heard they had carrot cake at the Café today.”

  That sidetracked her immediately. “Ooh! Inch-thick frosting?”

  “Yup. Cream cheese.” Nixie is small so she has to eat frequently. She tends to forget that, but the rest of us don’t. She gets crabby when she’s not fed.

  At the Caffeine Café (our local twenty-four/seven brew and chew) we ordered scones (they were out of carrot cake, dammit) and caramel mochas. We hustled our loot to our accustomed back table, me with my back to the wall, her next to me. She was nibbling scone as she sat. “So spew. What’s so important?”

  “I fielded a possible murder case last night. Napoleon Schrimpf.”

  “Murdered how?”

  “Blood loss. From a couple of puncture wounds. To the, ah, scrotum.”

  “The King of Compensation, sucked dry. Ain’t that a karmic slap to the shortie vampire.”

  “Vampire?”

  “A cheap-ass bloodsucker. Schrimpf pays…well, paid as little as possible while squeezing out every last drop of value. Employees, vendors, you name it. Vampire, ha. He could have been a lawyer.”

  “Could he have pissed off somebody at his gym enough for murder? Or a vendor?”

  “Could have. But didn’t.” Nixie chowed half her scone, washed it down with mocha. Tiny body, roaring metabolism. “He hired them young, was pretty easy with scheduling and gave great recommendations. Works pretty well with the minimum-wage folk. Mr. Miyagi had some pithy things to say before he sent me there, but Miyagi would never kill him. Well, not by poking holes in his balls, at any rate. Miyagi’d be more likely to kick the Schrimpfster’s ’nads through his ears.”

  “Um, right. And the other vendors? Did you hear anything there?”

  “I’m onsite three days a week, so yeah, I heard some things. Schrimpf squeezed money pretty hard. But the vendors put up with it because—get this—he paid on time.”

  “Bottom line?”

  “I can’t see anybody at the gym doing Schrimpf. The words are there, but the music is wrong, know what I mean?”

  “It doesn’t pop for you.” I sighed, reminding myself that ninety percent of the job was paperwork and the other half was legwork. Proving or disproving alibis, exhausting leads whether they pointed to dead ends or not. There were a lot of threads. But only one would be right.

  Chapter Five

  Waving goodbye to Nixie, I caught a whiff of myself. Despite the Hulk It perfume (surely not because of it), I stank to high heaven. This heat was taking quite a toll on my wardrobe. I headed toward my apartment to change. My route took me past the defunct Roller-Blayd Company.

  Lit by a single street light, the boarded-up building looked desolate. My trot slowed, uneasy. A cloud passed over the moon. A chill flitted down my back.

  Instinct whipped me around, gun out.

  “Bleh! Don’t shoot! It’s just me, Dracula.”

  My XD pointed at a slender man in white makeup wearing a plastic cape and a set of fangs faker than a porn star’s boobs. Dracula, right. “Bleh, yourself.” I stowed my gun. “Halloween’s not for another two months, buster.”

  He shrugged, sending sinuous ripples through the cape. Well, as sinuous as a trash-can liner could get. “I want to get laid more than once a year.” He was doing a bad Bela Lugosi, vant and lehd. The fangs gave his words a slight lisp.

  “You get laid in that outfit?” I crossed my arms under my breasts and shot him an eyeful of skepticism.

  Creepula’s gaze followed my arms. “You’d be surprised. Very, very—” velly, velly, “—surprised.” A smile drifted onto his face.

  What was he looking at? Irritated, I glanced down… Stupid perky nipples. “Not much surprises me, Mr.…? Er, Mr.…?”

  He glided closer, bang into my personal space. “Bleh. As I said. Dracula.” The abandoned warehouse loomed behind him, utterly dead. His gaze pierced me, a bright, unholy red.

  Brown. Bright brown, not red. I stiffened my spine. “Sure. Dracula, first name ‘The’. Look, buddy, why don’t you move along? Nothing here to interest an innocent civilian.”

  “I am anything but innocent.” Dracula took another step forward, his red mouth curling in a sensual smile. His shoes kissed mine. “Indeed, I am the opposite of innocent. I am wicked. I am Vampyre.” His corny accent made it vahm-peer.

  But the moonlight gave his fake fangs a disturbingly real glint. I had to force myself to meet his eyes. They gleamed like rubies, intense, unblinking. I started to feel odd. Hot and unsteady.

  Dracula bent toward me. His fanged mouth opened.

  “Sorry to interrupt.” The dark satin voice sounded anything but.

  I sprang back, cheeks burning. Bo Strongwell glided up, his face more chiseled, his body bigger, his aura more dangerous than I remembered.

  Dracula squeaked and faded into the night.

  Bo’s head snapped around to follow. His whole body tensed, as if poised for pursuit, a deadly hunter intent on his prey. It was a strange image for a glorified janitor, but it stuck.

  And that peeved me. “Strongwell. What are you doing here?”

  Bo’s head swung back to me. He relaxed slightly, crossed heavy arms over muscled chest. “What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”

  “I asked you first.” Juvenile, but he got under my skin.

  “So you did. Care to discuss it while we walk?” Without waiting for an answer, Bo hooked my arm and started off.

  Toward the cop shop, not home. I opened my mouth to object.

  “What is that scent?” His elegant nostrils flared. His head dropped toward me and he inhaled. “Ahh. You.”

  I flushed. “It’s hot out. And police work is stressful. And—”

  “It’s delicious.” He licked his lips, a subtle caressing with his tongue.

  “Ah, sure.” Flustered, I traipsed alongside him. “Oh, hey. That must be the perfume I’m trying out.”

  “No. It’s you.” His eyes closed and he took a deep breath. His thick fringe of dusty lashes were soft against the carved granite of his cheeks. “Mmm. Absolutely delightful.”

  “Really?” Pleasure washed away my embarrassment. I didn’t think he was smelling anything but perfume, but maybe I didn’t have to go home and change. Without thinking, I put a hand over his. His skin was intriguingly warm and smooth, roughened near the edges by small golden hairs. A shudder of excitement hit me, as if he wore a thin glove of sheer energy.

  I pulled my hand back. Whoa. That was weird. Gingerly, I touched him again.

  A buzz jolted me, streaking from fingers to chest. My nipples tightened and tingled. My heart rate jacked, my eyes popped wide. Surprised, I glanced at him, to see if he felt it too.

  “Exquisite.” His nostrils flared as he drew another deep breath. His lips pursed like he was tasting something really good. He had the most beautifully shaped mouth, the color of good red wine.

  Janitor and suspect, yes. But a damn good-looking janitor-suspect.

  Suddenly, his brows cinched into a frown. His eyes snapped open and the energy clicked off.

  My brain clicked on. We stood in front of the Blood Center. I was on duty. Bo was a suspect. I tugged away. “Don’t think you can get off so easy, Strongwell. I asked you a question. What are you doing wandering around an abandoned warehouse?” An empty building, the perfect place for illegal, immoral activities. Murder. Mayhem. Illicit sex.

  Although looking at him, at his size and strength, maybe not murder. At least not with wimpy little knitting needles. Illicit sex, though…lots and lots of illicit…damn. “You’d better have a good reason. Other than patrolling.”

  He almost smiled. “What can I say? I live my job. Let’s move away from here.”

  “What’s the matter? Blood Center give you the willies?”

  His smile broadened. “You’re clever, aren’t you?”

  Even that half-smile made me want to gobble his delectable lips. I tore my eyes
away, lit on Dolly Barton’s beauty salon (and MC gossip center), which reminded me I had a haircut appointment. Which distracted me enough to blurt, “I live my job too.” Which embarrassed the crap out of me. Again. What, was I trying to pump him or befriend him?

  “You have a very pretty blush, Detective.” His expression soft, he grazed a fingertip over my cheek.

  I felt Bo’s gentle touch like a tattoo machine driving permanent lust under my skin. I swatted his hand away, but feebly, like a girl. “Working.”

  “Can’t we work and enjoy ourselves at the same time?” He murmured it, lips barely moving.

  Holy Donut, that ruby mouth was fascinat—damn. “No. We can’t.” Or at least I obviously couldn’t. I marched down the street, crossed Lincoln with only the barest of look-both-ways-before.

  Bo caught me outside the Fudgy Delight, cuffing my wrist. I wasn’t a small woman but his hand made my arm look almost delicate. I stared down at where we were joined, skin to skin…another jolt of sensation rippled through me.

  Dammit, I was on duty. Never before had I had such trouble maintaining a proper distance. Frankly, it scared me. “Let go!” I tugged. Pulling against iron would have been more productive. I got exactly nowhere. The man was strong as a horse.

  But I was smarter. I jerked up and back, right against the break between thumb and forefinger where his grip would be weakest. I put my whole body behind it.

  It worked beautifully. I yanked free.

  And sailed smack into the door behind me. Old and weak, the lock gave. The door burst open. I tumbled in.

  The Fudgy Delight had been a dance hall in the forties. It had a small stage, room for a couple dozen tables and a recessed dance floor. I tumbled through the door straight down a short flight of stairs into the dance pit, ended up sprawled on the lacquered wooden-slat floor. Around me, stripes of moonlight picked out café-style tables, some in the dance pit, more on the level circling it.

  Bo was instantly on his knees beside me. And I do mean instantly. I was still sliding when I saw him reaching for me.

  “Elena. I’m so sorry, I couldn’t stop you…are you all right?” His fingers ran over my limbs, head and neck, checking for injury. “Any tingling, burning? Loss of feeling?” His tone was actually worried.