Mr. Peabody's House

by Eve Langlais

  “I am here on business.”

  “What kind of business? The red flag waving in front of a rabid bull?”

  “Where is all this hate for red coming from?” Brenda yanked her arm from his grip and glared at him. “I looked very nice.”

  “You did. And very red, which is what sets off the spirit inside Peabody.”

  Her expression went from angry to excited. “So he is the one possessed.”

  “Very. But we’ve managed to keep it mostly dormant.”

  Her lips pushed out into a pout. “That’s no fun. How are you supposed to get answers then?”

  “Maybe by ensuring he’s restrained first.” Mike pushed open the door to his office and ushered her in. Only when he slammed it shut did he whirl and then manhandle her until her back pressed against the wall.

  “Ooh, Grumpy. I never expected this kind of reaction from you.”

  He hadn’t either. For some reason, the sight and scent of Brenda did things to him. Carnal things he didn’t like.

  “What are you really doing here?”

  “I told you, I had business.”

  “Bullshit. The real reason.” Because no one in their right mind would send her to question Peabody. Then again, no one knew just how fucked up Peabody was.

  “Would you believe me if I said I came to see you?” She batted her lashes.

  He didn’t buy it for a second.

  “What do you want with Mr. Peabody?”

  “I think the better question, Grumpy, is why are you here? Did your angry view of the world finally get you locked up for observation? Did you lose your favorite chew toy and go into a puppy depression?”

  “Did your mother drop you on your head as a child?” he snarled in her face.

  “I had no mother.”

  Prick. The sound of his anger deflated at her little words.

  “That’s no excuse.” He moved away from Brenda and flopped into his chair behind the desk.

  She peeked around, completely unfazed by the fact that a possessed man had tried to attack her. He, on the other hand, still rode high on adrenaline.

  “Who’s office is this?” she asked. “Shrink? The guy who doles out drugs. The man who gives people dolls and asks them to show where they were touched?”

  How about the office of a man who needed a good slap for some of the thoughts running through his mind?

  “The office is mine,” he stated.

  “They give patients offices?” Her nose wrinkled as she looked around.

  He fought an urge to scrounge for drugs. “I’m not a patient. I work here. As a doctor.” Of sorts. The Lycium Institute catered only to the non-humans. Those that needed care from someone who understood them and knew how to contain them.

  “A doctor? Do you have any idea how hot that makes you?” She stood there, hair disheveled, wearing a coat—with hardly anything underneath—tapping her chin with a finger.

  Did she have any idea how sexy that made her?

  If he liked humans.

  And even if he did, he’d choose to like a sane one, not a crazy Thumbelina-sized vixen who threw herself into danger and didn’t seem to care.

  “Why were you talking to Mr. Peabody?”

  “Are you jealous?” She sat primly in the seat across from him, crossing her legs, forcing the seam in the coat to fall open, revealing lots of bare thigh.

  He averted his gaze.

  “If you’re implying that I’m jealous that he tried to kill you instead of me, then no, not particularly. However, as his physician, I am supposed to be in charge of who speaks to him.”

  “What a lucky chance I ran into you then because he’s part of my job.”

  “What job? I thought you were a secretary.” And yes, he did sneer.

  “I am, but Chloe asked me to help her out on account that she’s so busy, especially now with the two boyfriends. Not that I’m not busy, too,” Brenda hastened to add.

  “So busy you decided to hit the asylum for a Saturday-morning visit.”

  “I wouldn’t cast any stones there, Grumpy. You’re here, too.”

  “Because they pay me.”

  “Who says I’m not getting paid?”

  “You work for the government. They aren’t known to be generous with their overtime hours.”

  “Good point.” She slouched, but not for long.

  Nothing ever seemed to keep her spirits down. Just like nothing would keep his dick down. He’d sat down behind the cover of his desk for a reason.

  “So, what can you tell me about Mr. Peabody?” She leaned forward, and her jacket gaped. Being a man—and part wolf—he couldn’t help but look.

  It was a prime directive. He liked what he saw.

  A little too much.

  He focused on her question. “I can’t tell you anything about Mr. Peabody because of doctor-patient privilege.”

  “Even if I say pretty please?” She batted her lashes.

  “No.”

  “But I’m working on his defense case.”

  “And I’m working to keep him from killing himself or others. Guess what trumps you?”

  “You’re impeding justice.” She jumped to her feet and slammed her hands on his desk.

  “And you’re trouble. I don’t want you coming back here.”

  “I might have to if I have more questions.”

  “Then visit a library.”

  “You can’t stop me from finding out the truth,” she threatened, leaning over his desk.

  The coat gaped wider, showing off the vale between her breasts, tempting him…

  I could lick a path down to those tiny little panties and…

  He half rose to meet her until they were almost nose-to-nose before growling, “Oh, yes I can stop you.” He had to stop her. Had to make her leave. This attraction he had for her was madness.

  “Bet you can’t stop this.”

  Before he could guess her intent, she’d grabbed him by the hair and yanked him close.

  Her lips, soft and tasting faintly of lipstick, pressed against his.

  Shocked, he couldn’t move as her mouth slanted over his, nibbling and sucking. Teasing him with soft kisses.

  The tip of her tongue parted the seam of his mouth, and he might have rumbled as she deepened the caress. Brenda somehow ended up atop the desk, on her knees, her arms twined around his neck.

  And his hands?

  They slid inside the coat, encountering soft skin, and lush curves.

  Pure madness.

  Unadulterated pleasure that made him want to howl and stamp a foot.

  He couldn’t help but touch her, cup the fullness of her ass, let his tongue dance with hers in a frantic embrace that saw him breathing hard.

  Sanity returned for a moment.

  He pulled away. “We can’t do this.”

  “Yes, we can.” She cupped his face. “Kiss me.”

  An order he knew he should ignore. Instead, he dove onto her mouth.

  With her already mostly naked, it was all too easy for him to slide a hand under the elastic of her panties, to reach in and cup her mound.

  To touch her.

  Feel her wetness. Her heat. Her desire.

  …for me.

  He couldn’t help but stroke her, slide a finger back and forth across her wet slit, hearing her moan as he caressed.

  A part of him knew what they did was wrong.

  He couldn’t have explained why or how it was wrong, though. How could it be wrong when it felt so good?

  He dipped a finger into her damp sex, feeling the molten, wet heat, the muscles of her channel squeezing him.

  He inserted a second finger, and her mouth left his to tease the lobe of his ear, her voice whispering a husky, “Yes, yes.”

  Yes, this was how it should be. His fingers pumping in and out of her, thrusting and pushing, her body riding them with wild abandon until, with a small cry, she came, the sweet ripple of her orgasm squeezing his fingers so tightly.

  How would it feel
to sink his cock into that blessed heat?

  Before he could remove all the garments standing in their way, she pushed away.

  “Goodness, Grumpy, that was an unexpected delight.” Her smile and flushed cheeks bemused him.

  Perhaps that was why he couldn’t react when she slid off his desk and tugged the coat closed while moving to the door.

  He gaped at her. “Where are you going?” They weren’t done. His throbbing cock screamed for relief.

  “Weren’t you the one who said I should go and never come back?”

  “Yes, but that was before…” Before he’d lost his mind. Before he’d touched her.

  Before he’d made her come on his fingers.

  “Is this your way of asking for a thank you?” She cocked her head. “Thank you.”

  “That’s it?” What he really wanted to scream was, what about me?

  “I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble at work. Tell you what, when you’re done for the day, if you want, give me a call or pop by my place.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Whatever. Your loss.” Her gaze dipped down, and she couldn’t miss seeing the erection tenting his slacks. Looking back at him, she winked before sashaying out the door.

  Meanwhile, he slumped back into his chair.

  What the fuck just happened?

  I just finger fucked Brenda. A woman who was off-limits. A woman he didn’t even like.

  Perhaps Peabody’s possession was contagious.

  7

  My lips and body couldn’t stop tingling, and it wasn’t just because of the sushi I had for lunch—an interesting experience seeing as how I walked in wearing a doctor’s coat, red heels, and fresh lipstick. I needed food to help me process what had happened with Mike.

  I’d kissed him, and he finger fucked me to Heaven.

  He would have done more, too, but I wanted to think I was getting wiser. Sure, sex on his desk would have been epic. But what about afterwards?

  Would he have zipped up and coldly told me to go? By leaving on my own terms, the ball was now in his court. If he truly wanted more of me, then he’d have to come and find me.

  Bold. Kind of scary. Because now I’d have to play the waiting game to see if he was interested.

  In the meantime, while I waited for him to track me down like a dog after a thrown stick, I went into full-on sleuth mode.

  I had a mystery to solve, one involving spirits and shit. Which reminded me, I needed to look into becoming ordained. If I was going to be dealing with crazy, possessed people, then I should have some kind of religion backing me.

  After lunch, eaten in my underwear on my living room floor while watching Poltergeist at 2X speed—brushing up on my knowledge—I took a quick shower before I dressed in my Norma Louise Bates best. If you’ve never watched Bates Motel, the story of how young Norman got his psycho on, then you’re missing out.

  As to my outfit… Baby-blue dress with a full skirt, fitted bodice, a lacy sweater, and sensible brown pumps. I fluffed my hair, adjusted the girls, and left my place, ready to tackle the next part of my fact-finding mission.

  Having interviewed Mr. Peabody, I found myself full of more questions than ever. Was Mr. Peabody the only victim of possession? Had his wife and kids also been taken over?

  Only one way to find out. I needed to visit the family.

  But I kind of promised I wouldn’t go to that house alone.

  Silly assurance really because everyone knew bad shit happened at night. Besides, Peabody was the cuckoo one. I would be safe. But just in case I wasn’t, I set up a delayed text for my BFF. A kind of “here’s where to look for the body if I go missing” type of thing.

  Having done the responsible thing, I turned to the folder Chloe had on Peabody—which I took pictures of because the office had a thing about active files leaving the building. It, of course, had their address and the basics.

  Peabody was married, his wife one Margaret Ann Peabody, age thirty-six. According to the grainy DMV image, she possessed a round face framed with mousy brown hair. A dull expression.

  For the kids, Marcus and Melinda, all I had were ages. Fifteen and thirteen.

  Horrible years. That was the span of time when I wore the headgear almost twenty-four-seven. Every morning, I set off the metal detector at school. In the end, I didn’t mind. It allowed me to smuggle a knife in with me. It came in handy when I had to threaten to cut off Gordon’s nuts. Stupid jerk kept calling me Metal Head and asked if my boyfriend, the toaster, had dumped me yet. Gordon said it one time too many, and I might have snapped.

  The boys had a much healthier respect for me after the knife incident. When all the shit came off, and the ugly duckling turned into a swan—with attitude—Gordon even tried to get in my pants. The ultimate revenge? I did his best friend instead and told the biggest gossip in school that Gordon had a tiny penis.

  My GPS announced, “You have arrived at your destination.” What it didn’t tell me was to brace myself for disappointment.

  Slowing to a stop in front of the house, I double-checked the address—999 Cloven Hoof Lane.

  Right place, but massive letdown.

  The house that I’d imagined, sitting atop a hill surrounded by a rusted fence sporting turrets—because, hello, haunted houses had turrets—turned out to be a vinyl-sided, split-level in suburbia.

  To compound my deflation, it even had a white picket fence and a rosebush—not currently budding, not even with dead, black petals—out front.

  This was the evil abode that supposedly possessed Mr. Peabody?

  It explained his sense of style.

  Hopping out of my truck with my satchel purse hung over my shoulder, I felt ready to face anything. I’d brought some tools to scare the nails out of any haunted house—hammer, pry bar, and a small jar of plaster. If you asked me, many an evil incursion could have been stopped if the homeowners just damn well filled in that crack.

  I’d also brought a can of air freshener with me in case the priest hadn’t agreed with the house’s digestive system.

  Funny how I didn’t have a problem believing Mr. Peabody’s story now, not after what had happened at the asylum.

  I sauntered to the front door, clipboard tucked under my arm, cardigan over my shoulders because nothing screamed harmless lady collecting information more than a sweater and sensible shoes.

  Knocking on the bright red door—could it be the cause behind Mr. Peabody’s aversion?—I stepped back and did my best to look innocent.

  I don’t know how well I succeeded, given my lips kept pulling into a grin.

  Mike liked me.

  Kind of.

  And I was helping to solve an attempted murder case.

  Life didn’t suck, and I couldn’t help being happy about it.

  The door opened, and expecting the miasma of death or, at the very least, dust and mold, the disappointment proved very real when the scent of freshly baked cookies wafted out.

  Mmmm. Cookies.

  I blinked at the woman standing just inside the door. “Mrs. Peabody?” I queried. She didn’t resemble the image I’d seen at all.

  Unlike the dowdy woman in the picture, this woman held herself straight. Sleek brown hair fell in waves over her shoulders. Her bright eyes were perfectly outlined, her lip gloss very discreet.

  As for her clothes, she took my Norma Louise Bates and raised it to a June Cleaver with pearls.

  Damn.

  “Can I help you?” she asked in a lovely modulated voice.

  This couldn’t be Peabody’s wife. The guy I saw would never have won the heart or hand of this gorgeous, sophisticated lady.

  Then again, I hadn’t seen what he hid in his pants. Must be quite the schlong, given not only was his wife hot but there was also only one Mr. Peabody. A couple that opted to pay higher taxes rather than bring another man into their home was unusual these days.

  The mystery deepened.

  A bright smile pulled at my lips. “Hello, Mrs. Peabody, I’m her
e on behalf of the insurance company.”

  “And which company would that be?”

  Being a secretary meant I saw more information than people imagined, such as names of companies, legal treatises, plus how things were managed. Things like say…a husband being incarcerated for insanity.

  Someone had to pay for it, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the state.

  “Bates Insurance.” I held out my hand.

  The woman stared at it before shaking, her grip firm and not the least bit sweaty.

  Not nervous at all.

  “How can I help you, Miss…” She trailed off.

  “Letecia Peterson.” I’d gone to school with her. Hated her guts because she was naturally pretty, but she came in handy now.

  “I’m not sure why you’re here, Ms. Peterson. I already spoke to someone on the phone.”

  “Yes, but we still had a few questions, so they sent me out to find some answers.”

  “On a Saturday?”

  “Insurance is a twenty-four-seven job, ma’am. May I come in?”

  For a moment, she paused as if someone had pressed a button. Her expression went blank, her lips remained parted, her eyes unfocused, then she returned to reality.

  “Of course, where are my manners? Come in,” she said with a titter.

  A giggle that marched up my back and left shivers in its wake.

  Stepping over the threshold, the world didn’t suddenly lose all color, turning black and white. The wallpaper didn’t peel; the floors didn’t creak. The sunshine didn’t suddenly get hidden, smothered by the ominous presence of the house.

  Instead, the smell of cookies grew stronger, and I noticed the freshly painted walls in a light gray, the sparkling hardwood floors, and the light jazz playing in the background.

  Since Mrs. Peabody wore her shoes inside, I kept mine on, as well, following her down a hall to a bright and clean kitchen just as a timer dinged.

  “The cookies are ready,” she sang. “Have a seat.” She slid around the massive island, the polished granite top at odds with the age and style of the house.

  I plopped my butt on a stool and remarked, “Your house is gorgeous.”

  “Thank you. We’ve been doing some fixes here and there. The joys of owning an older home.”

  The cookie sheet was placed on top of two pot holders. I almost drooled on them. Utter cookie perfection from their golden color speckled with melted chocolate, to the heavenly aroma wafting up from the pan.