Bite My Fire: A Biting Love story.

by Mary Hughes

  Bo pried the glass gently from my hand. Replaced it with another, straight beer this time. I drank. For an evil creature of darkness, he was pretty considerate. “So, Bzziz. Blitz. Who wus…I mean was—here? Then. That night. When youze guys found Chimpf…Shim…yeah.”

  Donner exchanged a look with Blitz. “That night? Here?”

  I nodded. Strangely, the room wobbled.

  “At Nieman’s?”

  I nodded again. The room started spinning. Like a merry-go-round. It was kind of fun. I nodded some more.

  “You want to know who was in the bar that night?”

  I nodded until I thought my head would pop off. The room twirled like a kaleidoscope. Whee!

  “I’m not sure…” Blitz cut a troubled glance at Donner.

  Bo put a hand on my rattling head. Slowly, the room stopped spinning. Bo said for me, “Surely you remember who was here, Mr. Blitz. Since I know you have a photographic memory.”

  He did?

  Donner looked worried. “This is a neighborhood bar, Mr. Strongwell.”

  Somehow I’d lost control of the intrrogra…inerroga…fuck. I broke in with a clever, witty comment. “Yes.” I looked from Donner to Blitz to Donner again, waiting for an answer. They really did look like a horse and carriage. Or carriage and horse. Horse, carriage. Carriage, horse. Which came first? No, that was chickens and eggs.

  Neither horse nor carriage answered so I prompted, “That’s why I thought you’d know who was here. In the bar. That night.” The words were clear in my head. They didn’t make as much sense when I said them out loud.

  Donner picked up an unlit bar candle. Examined it. “We know who was here.”

  “So whazz the problem?” As I lifted my glass a breeze wafted over the skin of my tit. I looked down. Sure enough, Left One was peeking out. She obviously wanted to hear the problem too. But Left One wasn’t the cop, I was. I tucked her back in. She didn’t fit as neatly as she had before. I spent a couple moments trying to stuff her in right.

  Bo’s purr sounded right in my ear. “Allow me, Detective?”

  “Sure.” That was nice of him. Now I could get back to my hard-boiled interrogation without Left One poking her nose in. So to speak.

  Bo’s warm hand slipped over my breast. Cupped it gently. Kneaded it a few times before sliding it home.

  I gulped down the rest of my beer before I choked on it. “So, Blitz. Donner. Uh, Blitz. Tell me who wuz…was here.”

  “We can’t.” Donner tipped the candle at the other customers. “These are our friends, Detective O’Rourke.”

  “Good friends.” Blitz pulled out a matchbook. “Like family. We can’t betray them.”

  “Befray…betray? I’m a cop. It’s not like you’re befray…traying them if it’s legal. Wait. That didn’t come out right.”

  “Drink this.” Blitz slid another glass into my hand. “It will help.”

  “Okay.” How nice they were. How helpful. Except for telling me who had been here that night. I smiled amiably around me.

  “Perhaps a compromise,” Bo said.

  I turned my smile on him. Everyone was helpful. Especially Bo. Left One nodded her agreement. I shushed her.

  “A compromise.” Donner set down the candle and tore out a match, carefully closing the matchbook cover. “Well…it would be different if you were one of us, Detective O’Rourke.”

  Who was us? Fuck, us. Was everyone in Meiers Corners a vampire?

  “A regular customer,” Blitz clarified.

  “Oh.” I giggled with relief. Immediately I stifled myself. I never giggle. What was wrong with me?

  Nothing another drink wouldn’t fix. I drank. “My parns…parets…dad and step-mom were born here. Does that count?”

  Match poised to strike, Donner paused. “In Nieman’s Bar?”

  “Not in the bar. In Meiers Corners.”

  “Has to be Nieman’s if you want to be—a Niemanner.” Blitz emphasized the word with a heartfelt thump on his chest, a whump loud enough to make me jump.

  Donner lit the match. His tongue stuck out as he concentrated on extending the flame into the candle vase. The dancing flame caught, lighting a corresponding bright look on Donner’s horsy face. “She’s not a Niemanner.” He set down the candle and thumped, not quite as chest-resonant as Blitz. Too stringy, I guess. “But she could be.”

  “I could be.” I nodded eagerly, like a boingy-toy.

  Bo put his hand on my head. He had a nice, warm hand. I nodded into it, feeling his palm rub against my hair. But when he spoke, he was growly Bo. “How, exactly, would Detective O’Rourke become a Niemanner?”

  Donner thumped.

  “It’s simple, Mr. Strongwell,” Blitz said. “All the detective has to do is prove herself.”

  “Like Brunhilde,” Donner agreed.

  I kept nodding like a fool. “Yeah, like Brun—Granny Butt?”

  “Exactly.” Blitz was beaming. “Bar dancers are automatically granted Niemanner—” whump, “—status.”

  “And if you’re a Niemanner—” Donner thumped, “—we have to ’fess all.”

  “It’s required,” Blitz agreed.

  “So up you go.” Donner grabbed my hands and yanked me off my stool.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “One moment.” Bo flashed his teeth. No fangs, but Bo’s knife-sharp pearlies were enough. Donner released me like I was the burning match.

  I reeled, the whole room spinning.

  Bo caught me. “Elena. You don’t have to do this.”

  “Izz’ere any other way to be a—Niemanner?” I thumped my chest like Blitz and Donner had.

  Lefty popped out.

  Bo’s hand flashed. Lefty was back snug in her nest before anyone but me knew.

  “There’s no other way,” Donner said.

  “There’s one other way,” Blitz said.

  Bo and I leaned forward.

  “Attend five consecutive dart tournaments. Or sheepshead. The next tourney is in two weeks.”

  “Yeah.” I deflated. I sucked at darts and was what Gretch kindly referred to as a chronic underachiever at sheepshead. So… “Gotta dance.” I maneuvered one foot onto a stool and hoisted.

  “Elena,” Bo said.

  Wavering on the stool, I looked down. Bo’s attitude was a peculiar mixture of protective, outraged and—wow, was that a hopeful little testosterone monster I saw? Without Hulk It?

  The protective wouldn’t have stopped me. The outrage certainly wouldn’t have.

  But it was kind of cute to see Mr. Loch Ness poking his head up for a looky-see. “Iz my job.” I clambered onto the bar and stood. And swayed.

  Whoa. The bar looked much narrower from here. And there were road hazards. Bowls of peanuts, beer spills, and…ew. Granny’s yellow bra. Apparently when she threw it into the peanuts, the peanuts had thrown it back.

  “Woo-wee!” A gravelly voice bellowed from the back. Louder than Niagara Falls, it cut through talk and music like a foghorn. “New blood! Dance, girly!”

  I tried a few experimental jumps. My shoes hit a wet spot and bang, my legs went out from under me. I nearly swan-dived into the floor.

  A strong hand instantly steadied me so I only landed on my butt on the bar. “Elena.” Growly again. I guessed Bo was upset.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine.” I leaped to my feet to prove it, instantly skidded. Caught myself, barely. I saw my arms flail in the mirror to my right.

  “Elena!” Bo leaped onto the bar in front of me. Seized me by the arms. “Don’t do this. Please.” His face was absolutely serious.

  He was so cute, worried. I grinned up at him. “Have to.” I shimmed around in his arms, turning my back on him.

  “I guess you’ll do anything to get your clue,” he muttered.

  “Not anythin’.” I wouldn’t be doing this if I weren’t desperate for those names. Well, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t.

  He sighed loud enough for me to hear before his heat disappeared.

  When he was bac
k on his stool, I started again, a little more cautiously. I worked myself from shimmy up to gyrate.

  A chant came from all around me. “Do it, do it!” Foghorn Bullhorn led the pack.

  So I tipped the sleeve of my pink shirt off my shoulder. Glanced down. Donner and Blitz were all appreciative grins. Bo’s face was thunderous.

  But his testosterone love bat was hitting random fly balls.

  Bat. Like baseball bat, get it? The wooden kind. No, not like the squeaky flappy kind. I know, I know, a vampire lover implies the flappy kind. But a girl has to have some standards.

  I twisted the other way. Several patrons were watching. The jukebox started pumping out DragonForce. Their great driving rhythm loosened me up.

  “Take it off!” Bullhorn-man yelled. Several voices joined in.

  I twirled back to see Donner and Blitz nodding in agreement. And to see Bo, steaming, both mad and aroused. So I smiled and raised my arms over my head as I danced. It lifted my breasts. And incidentally blocked his red face from my sight.

  In films, the stripper turns, unzips her gown, and it falls away. I turned, but my pink shirt was a pull-on. I groped along the back for several seconds before I remembered. Turning back, I took the hem with both hands. Pulled up. It was stubbornly tight. I pulled harder.

  The shirt peeled away like stuck wallpaper. I had to practically mud-wrestle it.

  But finally, I got it off. A huge cheer greeted my small contribution to stripper history. I twirled my shirt triumphantly over my head a few times before throwing it behind the bar.

  I mean, I was drunk but not stupid, right? I wanted to put the shirt back on. If I threw it into the crowd, it was gone forever.

  A breeze tightened my nipples. I glanced down. Stared, caught by the horror. Not stupid? Then how about stoopid?

  Because my bra, my good old baggy bra, had come off with the shirt.

  I crossed my hands over my naked tits. Got booed.

  That hurt. I mean, this was free, right? They should be grateful for what they got. And they got a whole hell of a lot more than I had meant to give them.

  Though to be fair, with my near-B’s they only got about a tenth of what Double-D Drusilla would have given them.

  Still, free was free, true? So I booed back. And anyway, only Bo fully appreciated small and mine over big and hers. So only Bo should get to see my good buds Left One and Right One in their full nipply glory.

  And speaking of Bo… “Dance,” he murmured in my ear.

  I looked back in surprise. “How’d you geddup here?”

  “A better question would be why.”

  “Oh…’kay. Why’d you geddup here?”

  That got a small lip-curl out of him. “To return this.” He held out my traitorous bra. “Keep moving. They’ll think it’s part of the show.”

  “Puddin…puttin’ on clothes?”

  “Dance,” he murmured, so I did.

  The man had magic fingers. He got the bra back in place under my tightly clenched hands while I was dancing like a pogo stick.

  “Take it off,” Bullhorn-man shouted.

  “I jus’ did!” I shouted back.

  “The jeans,” Bo said.

  “Oh.” I unsnapped my jeans, forgetting all about Level Five.

  Brita had taught me to always wear clean underwear. Now I know why. It was for accidents, all right.

  Like train wrecks.

  As Bo stepped back, I pulled down the zipper. Peeled my pants down my hips to my ankles. I was careful this time that the underwear didn’t go along. When I bent over to pull my jeans off around my shoes, a roaring cheer broke out. The bar filled with raucous applause. Hooting.

  A choked profanity came from behind me. Two very large, very warm hands plastered themselves to my ass cheeks. They burned through combed cotton.

  “What?” I twisted to look at Bo.

  In front of me, the bar was going wild. People were jumping up and down like giddy school boys.

  One man reached for my crotch. I jumped back, into the Norman Rock-wall chest. The man made another grab.

  “Hey!” I said. “Thaz private!”

  “You’re inviting them.” Bo towed me away from the hand.

  “Am not.”

  “Cop a feel?”

  I grinned. “Yeah, cop. Like p’lice, get it? ‘Cop’ a…” My grin faded. Shit. I got it.

  “Show’s over, folks.” Bo hustled me off the bar, stuffed shirt and jeans into my arms.

  I found the darkest corner in the whole bar. Bo stood in front of me, legs braced, arms folded. He looked like a prison guard. I certainly felt like a criminal.

  But as I pulled on my clothes, the most amazing thing happened. Donner and Blitz came over with the candle, held it up to me. I took it, confused.

  “Niemanner!” Bullhorn-man shouted.

  “Niemanner!” Donner and Blitz joined in with a whump-thump.

  In two seconds everyone in that bar was thumping on their chest, shouting, “Niemanner!”

  I let the resounding whumps wash over me. Fill me. “Whadja know?” I said to Bo. “I did it. I’za Niemanner.”

  “I guess you are.” He took the candle and blew it out.

  –—

  Seven hours later I plodded along, one hand holding my head so it didn’t just split and fall off. We had tramped over the entire city of Meiers Corners since leaving the bar, interviewing the people from Donner and Blitz’s list.

  My head hurt like hell. “This is unfair. You’re not supposed to have to suffer a morning hangover until morning.”

  “It is morning, Detective. Almost six a.m.” Bo glided next to me, ultra-smooth, beyond graceful. I guessed he wasn’t trying to hide his true nature from me anymore. I almost wished he was. His supernatural glide made me feel five times as hung-over.

  “Then why’s it still dark?”

  “Sunrise isn’t until six ten.”

  “I find it slightly creepy that you know that so exactly.” As I plodded, I ran over the list one more time. “Was the entire city at Nieman’s that night?”

  “Want to stop? We’ve interviewed about half the people Blitz gave you. Well, the half that’s awake.”

  Seven hours of tromping, hell yes I wanted to stop. But… “Just one more.” I held up the list. Snapped fingers against one name. Winced at the sharp sound. “This one.” I remembered the slightly frightened look on Blitz’s benign face when he came to that name. Donner whispered, We don’t know what his real name is. We just call him—Vlad.

  “He’ll be hard to find, if Vlad is who I suspect he is.”

  “And who’s that?” Working my brain boosted the volume on my headache another notch. “Wait. Not my-name-is-Dracula.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why would he be hard to find? Aren’t you the master vampire? Don’t you know where everyone is in your nest or pod or iPod or whatever it is?”

  A small smile played over Bo’s lips. The man had a finger-licking good smile. Or Elena-licking good. I thought of that smile between my thighs, and my stride hitched.

  That made him smirk. Of course Bo had to smirk like sex. His lips not only curved, they undulated when he smirked. Rippled like my hips did when he played tongue-hockey on my clit.

  A bolt of sheer lust incinerated me at the thought of tongue-hockey. Ow. Forget love hurting. Lust really hurt.

  Except…Rocket Five Years Three Months had already launched. Why was I as horny as a teenager from watching lips? I narrowed my eyes at him. “Did you hypnotize me into being your sex-slave or something?”

  Which only made the lips play more. Ow, ow, ow. “Which question do you want answered first, Detective? Vlad’s location, or sex?”

  The job comes first, I told my throbbing, beleaguered…er, brain. “Fakeula. Can you find him?”

  “Not the question I would have chosen.” Bo’s smile edged from smirk into wicked. Owie ow. “I can find Dracula, but not easily. Now, if I had tasted his blood, I could track him anywhere in the city. Unf
ortunately, I haven’t.”

  “Tasted his blood? Yuck.”

  Bo bent to me, his breath warm on my neck. Fingers skated along my skin like feathers. The sharp point of a fang traced behind them, making me tremble. “Tasting the right blood isn’t yuck, Detective.”

  My headache drained away. “Yeah, okay. Convinced.” I jammed the list into the first pocket I could find and leaned into him.

  His arms went around me, his hand sliding easily into my stretched-out bra. Fingers caressed a nipple. My breath exploded in an “Uhh.”

  He plastered my back against his hard chest. My butt moored on his Viking ship, anchoring on the big sea serpent rearing up its bow. Fingers unsnapped my jeans. Pulled down my zipper.

  My pleasant arousal turned to panic. “Stop! What is it with you and sex in public?”

  “It can add to the thrill.” Bo’s hand traced the tops of my Level Fives.

  I shivered with response. Ground out, “I got enough added thrill throwing my bra away in front of a couple dozen people.”

  Bo sighed, straightened away from me. “Such self-control, Detective.”

  “Right. That’s me. Hard-nosed cop.” I surreptitiously adjusted my panties. The sodden crotch had welded itself into my slit.

  “Shall I help you, Detective?” A warm hand slid in.

  I yelped. “Don’t…ah.” Fingers found the bunched up cloth, straightened and smoothed it. Gave my clit hood a stroke. I gritted my teeth. “I have to interview one more.”

  “Are you sure, Detective? Wouldn’t you like to take a small break?” The finger stroked hypnotically.

  We were outside the empty Roller-Blayd factory. Nobody was around. It was dark. Who would know?

  A second finger increased the friction. I forgot about interviews. I forgot about my hangover. I forgot about us being in public. “Oh…oh…”

  I forgot to turn off my damned cell phone.

  Tweedle-deedle-dee! “…oh, shit!” So freaking cheerful. So stupidly oblivious. A bolt of renewed headache skewered my brain as I yanked the monstrosity out, flipped it open without checking the caller ID. “O’Rourke.”

  “Detective Ma’am! Am I calling at a bad time?”