by Mary Hughes
During this production, Bo floated gracefully toward the window. He pulled aside heavy Damask draperies to peer out. After Butler left, Bo said, “Bright morning.”
“Yeah, and the weather’s fine. Would you stop playing nomad and sit? You avoiding me, or something?”
He let the curtain drop. His shoulders tensed, then, with a roll, I saw him consciously relax.
When he turned, his expression was carefully neutral. But his nostrils were flared and his eyes were that vivid violet. “Of course Detective. I live but to serve.” He sauntered over and sat.
Right. Next. To. Me.
“Erk,” I said.
He picked up my coffee. “So. You have some questions.” As he handed me my cup his thigh pressed intimately along mine.
Questions? Yeah, like could he please dial down the body heat? And like, what the hell kind of cologne he was wearing, Raging Hormones No. Five? “Who exactly is Drusilla?” I managed. Before I could stop myself I added, “And what’s she to you?”
Bo shrugged, a gesture curiously as graceful as the Happy Nappy Hooker. “Besides living in the same city? Nothing.”
“I don’t believe that. You know her. She knew you.”
“Not because I’m a customer.” His amusement was clear. “I know a number of people in the city, Detective. And I have many connections.”
“I’m sure you do.” I drank coffee. My eyelids peeled back. Was this coffee or black hole in a cup? It took a couple of held breaths to step my heart rate down from hummingbird. “Like Dracula?”
Bo picked up his own cup, took a cautious sip. “He isn’t really Dracula, of course.”
How big a chump did he think I was? My mouth opened to spout something flip—when my brain kicked in. Bo Strongwell, even if he was a grunt, had proved himself a particularly sharp grunt. Cape man was not Dracula. I knew that. He knew that. I knew he knew I knew… Skip it. Anyway, why state the obvious?
To see if I believed it? Or to make certain I didn’t? “Are you sure? He had the fangs.”
“I’m sure. I’ve met the real one.”
Dracula was a fictional character. I waited for a ping on my internal lie meter. Even kidding would register as a small lie. A teasing lie, a fib.
Nothing.
I drank more coffee to cover my confusion. Nearly went into cardiac arrest. Put the cup down on the silver tray, wincing when it rattled. A couple more deep breaths helped the caffeine overdose, but the scent of powerful male sent me reeling.
So I held my breath and waited for my system to settle down. For my lie meter to kick in.
Still nothing.
Well, damn. My lie detector has been a constant my whole life. It had never failed me. I could read anyone.
Now no ping, nada. I was going to demand a refund. Twenty-six years of trouble-free operation, then bang! Two different people blank on the meter in the last two days. Bo and Dru.
Beauty and the Bo. I wondered if they were connected.
I wondered if there was a warranty. Knowing my luck, it was twenty-five years.
At that point I had to breathe or pass out. I sucked in air. Crisp, male-laden, tongue lolling—ye gods. I swallowed hard. Maybe I was asking the wrong questions. Something simple, that was it. Kidding, fibbing, way too complex. I had to ask him something straight and personal, Magic-Eight-Ball easy. Name, that was good. I was curious anyway. “What’s Bo short for? Beauregard?”
He smiled. My toes curled. His smile broadened. “It’s just Bo, Detective. Not short for anything.”
I waited, breathing as shallowly as possible. But aside from the toe-curling…no reaction. No ping, either lying or not. Not even a “maybe—ask again later”.
What did it mean?
“You’re the detective. Why don’t you look it up?”
I blinked. Had he just answered my mental question?
No, impossible. I must have said it out loud. No one could read minds. Especially not a grunt, no matter how sharp.
Then he added, “Or maybe you can…ask again later.”
Freaky. If he wasn’t reading my mind, he already knew me so well he could guess my thoughts. Either made me really uncomfortable, though for different reasons. I jumped to my feet. “Thanks for the coffee. But, um, gotta go.”
Bo’s eyes darkened. “Sit down, Detective.”
“Um, why?”
“Because I want to kiss you again.”
“I don’t think—”
“Then don’t think.” He snared my wrist, yanked.
My knees buckled. I sat. He cupped my face with one hand. Big and strong, it cradled me from chin to temple. His lips descended until they were a breath from mine.
Apparently the Hulk It was still working its magic. And now that we were on a soft couch, not a hard wooden floor…I caught at his hand. “No biting.” I meant it to sound sharp. It came out breathy.
“No?” Bo’s teeth closed gently on my lower lip. Teased. “I got the impression you liked it.”
“I hammered your gut. You call that liking it?”
“You pulled your punch, Detective.” Bo’s lips feathered along my cheek. “And my abdominal muscles are quite strong.”
“Yeah.” I slapped my other hand over my mouth. Wiped off drool.
“I barely felt it.” He kissed along my jaw. “The reaction I meant was your big shudder, not your little tap.”
I muffled a groan. “You think I climaxed from a bite? You’ve got one swelled head, buster.”
He took my hand put it on his zipper. “Two, actually.” Mr. Monster was swimming in Loch Ness.
My groan unmuffled. “Look, Strongwell. I’m working.”
“Consider this a coffee break.” He nibbled down my neck.
I swatted at him. “Would you stop with the neck thing? What is this, Dracula II? The Apartment Manager of Dracula?”
Bo found the top button on my shirt. Opened it and licked my collarbone. The man had a tongue like a cat, all warm and rough. “Do you want it to be?”
“No.” My fingers twined in his thick hair. Probably gave him the wrong impression, like I was greedy for him to bite me or something. So I tried to explain. “I don’t like knives and I don’t like needles and…” Something floated across my brain. Something related to the case.
“Do you like this?” Bo opened another button and cupped my breasts, plumping them up into the opening. Kissed the tops, hot little butterflies dancing over my skin.
Any sane thought flitted away. “I…I don’t know.” A few kisses and I was panting. If I’d been thinking, I’d’ve been thoroughly demoralized. I was so far from thinking I actually leaned into him, encouraging him.
His thumbs flicked my nipples through the bra. Electricity zapped what few synapses still functioned. I gasped. “Fuck.”
“I agree.” Male satisfaction filled his voice. His tongue worked the tops of my breasts between kisses. “Damn, Elena. You taste so good.” The sharp edge of teeth skated over my skin.
“Stop with the biting!” I whacked his cheek but my hand had gone weak, crumbling against his chiseled bone like an oatmeal cookie.
It didn’t help that my five-year underfed pussy was jumping up and down yelling if she doesn’t want it, bite me!
The teeth were replaced by a tongue. A warm, clever tongue, dipping into my bra and finding all my most sensitive places. Cleavage, tops, sides. Bo breathed on my skin and it sang.
“Stop it.” I panted. “Bo—”
“I like that, Detective. I like hearing you say my name.” He slipped a hand into the cup of my bra, palmed the nipple. His caress sent sparks through my breast. “Say my name again. I want to hear you moan it.”
He peeled back the bra and latched onto my nipple with his hot mouth. Suckled. The sparks hit the step-up and fried me into cinders.
“Bo.” To my dismay, I moaned.
“You smell so good, Elena. Great Freyja, you taste even better.” He bared the other breast, swept his tongue over the peak until it hardened li
ke rock candy. His fingers were hot pincers working my other nipple. “So sweetly responsive. You’re so excited. I can hear your heart pounding.”
He opened his mouth. His hot breath inflamed me. His teeth scraped my sensitive skin.
I shuddered. My fingers wound in his hair.
Which meant when he bit me, I nearly ripped him bald.
“Nuts!” I tore him from my breast. He got a couple licks in before I pushed him away as far as I could. On the couchlet, it was all of six inches. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? I said no biting.”
Bo wouldn’t look at me. He stared at my breasts, his mouth working, his fingers gouging grooves into the back of the couch.
His intense stare unnerved me. I suddenly remembered double-D Drusilla and covered my Thank-Goodness-It-Fits Near-Bs with my hands.
“Don’t,” Bo growled.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be ashamed. Your breasts are beautiful.”
“How the hell…?” How did he know what I was thinking?
And did he really think my boobs were beautiful?
It was stupid, it was insane, and it was just what I needed to regain my balance. I nudged my tits back into their cuppy homes. “Then why bite a hole in them? There’s no creamy filling, I can assure you.”
At that, Bo finally looked up at me. His eyes softened to a warm blue and they crinkled at the corners. “Matter of taste.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want you tasting—” I looked down.
No bite mark. Not even a bruise.
I’d felt teeth. I’d felt the knife-edge tang that meant punctured flesh. Was I going crazy?
I must have been, because even after all that, when he slipped his fingers into my hair and kissed me lightly on the lips, I let him.
“You’re right,” Bo murmured against my mouth. “I apologize. I got carried away. You do that to me.” He nudged my thigh with his leg. The motor started all over again.
I held back a groan, only to have it slip out when he circled his palm over my nipple. He kissed lightly down my neck. I moaned. His teeth nibbled…and we were right back where we started!
I leaped up from the couchlet, wondering if it was coated with Spanish Fly. It couldn’t be me. “What the heck is this piece of furniture, anyway?
Bo’s perfect lips curved. “A love seat.”
Figured.
–—
I paused with a forkful of Denver omelet halfway to my mouth. As casually as I could, I asked, “So what’s with you and your building super?”
Gretchen and I were at the Caffeine Café. They had “Breakfast All Day” but we O’Rourke girls were contrary. We were eating it—gasp!—in the morning.
Before Steve died, Gretch and I had a weekly get-together here. After, she hadn’t wanted to meet. I was giving her space, so I shrugged it off.
Now, if she was dating, she was eating, dammit.
A look of surprise brushed her face. “Me and Bo Stron…nothing. Nothing at all’s going on. Hey, did I tell you Carla Donner called from New York the other day? Out of the blue. You remember Carla. She was one of my best friends in grade school.”
I could read a lie on almost any face in the universe. With my sister, I could smell it.
Or maybe that was just my hash browns. I dug into them, fried golden and crispy. “C’mon, Gretchen, it’s me. Big sis. You don’t have to be coy. Strongwell’s good looking.” Great looking, actually, especially his big, muscular…everything. “And a widow’s got needs, after all.”
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“Well, nothing. Except you know what you’re missing.”
Gretchen stabbed omelet. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Elena, just because I turned that garden hose on you in high school is no reason to be catty. Besides, Pieter Schmidt wasn’t right for you.”
“That didn’t come out right. I just want you to know you don’t have to lie to me about Strongwell.” I poked at my hash browns. “Although I don’t think he’s right for you, either. But it’d be perfectly natural if you were doing him.”
“Doing…?” Gretchen dropped her fork. “Elena, I’m not sleeping with Bo.”
“Why not? Is he married?”
Oddly enough, that seemed to shock her even more. “No, of course not.”
Thank goodness for that. I’d hate to have been interested in…for my sister to have been interested in a married guy. “Gay?”
“For heaven’s sake, Elena. He’s not married, gay or anything but perfectly, absolutely normal.” She picked up butter knife and toast, slapped about an inch of butter on.
Her tone was indignant, but underneath I could hear something off. She was lying. But about what? Married or gay? Or—not absolutely normal?
I didn’t think Bo was married. My nipples didn’t think he was gay. Which meant Bo was…not normal?
“What’s going on, Gretch? With him, with you? You’re acting strange, you know.” A beat, and I hit her with, “Who exactly is Strongwell that you bow to him?”
Her knife hand fell slowly to the table. Surprise, denial and dismay crossed her face. And finally busted.
“What’s going on? Well.” Gretchen started playing with her toast, breaking it into tiny bits. “Things have been hard for me since Steve died.”
“I know. But you have to talk to me, Gretch. Please.” I watched more toast-mangling. “Pretty please with pus on it?” When even that didn’t get a smile, I put down my fork. “C’mon, Gretch. I’m your sister. You can trust me.”
Impulsively I took her hands. Released them, wiped butter from my fingers and took them again. “I only want to help.”
“Do you? Really?” Her eyes rose, strangely pleading. “Then drop your case.”
“My case?”
“The murder. Please, Elena. You said you want to help. That would help.”
“Gretch, I can’t. And even if I could… Why are you protecting Strongwell? Do you care about him?”
She blanched white. “Of course not, Elena. He means absolutely nothing to me.”
My lie meter pegged.
Chapter Eight
That morning I had my six-week trim at Dolly Barton’s Curl Up and Dye.
Dolly’s had been part of Meiers Corners forever. The salon was part of what made the Corners unique. Part of why, though our little city had been swallowed long ago by the great whale of Chicago, we hadn’t been digested. Like Jonah. Or old chewing gum. Um, yeah.
Corners people found everything they needed in the Corners. We had our own art museum, lumber yard, newspaper and truck line. Our own local blood center, part of the Hemoglobin Society. We even had our own symphony orchestra, consisting of three violins, a flute and a tuba.
But mostly we were our own city because Meiers Corners had the greatest communications system known to man—Dolly Barton.
To say Dolly was the town gossip was like saying the Bush and Clinton families had minor political aspirations. Dolly knew everything that went on, sometimes even before it happened. The Corners Times editor got most of his news tips from Dolly during his weekly eyebrow trim.
Dolly herself was a seventy-year-old platinum-blonde dynamo. She was four foot eight, forty-two D and looked exactly like the country singer except older and shorter. Like a Dolly Parton Mini-Me. She wore pink fifties diner-style uniforms and chewed a wad of gum as big as your head.
A tinkling bell announced my arrival. “Hey sugar,” Dolly greeted me. She called everyone sugar. “I’ll be right with you. Just have a seat.” She rattled a can of hair spray. Holding one hand flat over her current customer’s face, she sprayed a typhoon with the other. I recognized Mrs. Schmidt of the PTA under the lacquered helmet of hair.
I settled in the waiting area. The chairs were covered in hide of dead nauga. Pink. I picked up a magazine announcing Dewey had won the presidency. Well, not really, but you get the picture.
“All righty, sugar. You’re up.” Dolly swept hair while Mrs. Smith counted out singles.
I set the magazine down and made my way over. The only article that caught my interest was “How to Get More Sex on Those Busy Weekdays”. I had to get “some” sex before I could get “more”. Although, thinking of Bo, the man who probably had sex tattooed on his ultra-tight buttocks—
Dolly clicked scissors. “What are we doing today?”
I cleared my throat. “Just a trim, Dolly. Hey, have you ever heard of Hulk It Perfume?”
“Sure. Five hundred an ounce. I don’t carry it, but I can order some.”
“Five hundred? Dollars?” I might have gasped it.
“Need some oxygen, sugar?”
“Uh, no.” Damn. I had liked bringing out Bo’s testosterone monster. Well, except for the biting. I thought maybe…but not at five hundred dollars an ounce. Not for a glorified janitor.
“Sit.” Dolly pointed to the chair in front of the shampoo sink. As I sat she swirled a cape around my neck. “Heard you fielded the Schrimpf case.”
Even for Dolly, that was fast. “I only caught it yesterday morning. How did you find out?”
Dolly slapped shampoo on my head and worked it in like she was mixing bread. “Police Chief Dirkson was here for a mustache wax. He’s counting on you to solve it quick-like.”
“Oh goody. No pressure.”
“Don’t you worry, sugar.” She snapped gum. “If anyone can solve it, you can. Those O’Rourke genes. Though it’s pretty big stuff, a murder.”
“Especially when the chief wants it solved yesterday,” I muttered.
“Big.” She laughed. “Isn’t that a hoot? If anyone wasn’t big, it was Napoleon Schrimpf. Neither above or below, if you get my drift.”
“Uh, Dolly…”
“They say size don’t matter. But it sure does, sugar. It matters a lot. I know from experience.” She hauled me up from the basin, wrapped a towel around my head. “Now that Schrimpf, he was as small as a ten-cent vibrator.”
My face heated. “Dolly, I don’t think we should be talking about his peni—”