Biting Me Softly: Biting Love, Book 3

by Mary Hughes

  “No. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “I see.” She tapped her nails against her arm. “And do you want to explain to the Ancient One why you haven’t met his timeline, or shall I?”

  “When you put it that way…fine.” Logan slapped the folder open. Zinnia had pushed exactly the right button to get him to cooperate.

  The right button. Logic gates opened in my head. As Zinnia peered over Logan’s arm and pointed, I began to see my way clear to meeting Race without tipping off Logan.

  All I had to do was get Logan to agree to meet me at Nieman’s at seven, one hour after I was to meet Race. An hour, knowing Race’s button, would be plenty of time.

  Chapter Eleven

  Zinnia and Logan retired to the back room while the sprouts and I OD’d on cartoons. The Ralph Kramden bus driver ploughed in to use the restroom, taking a turn around the office afterward to stretch his legs. He paused at the server rack, earning my grudging respect. I thought the razor-slim cases and flashing lights were pretty awesome too.

  Somewhere around two the phone rang. “Blood Center.”

  “Liese, where’ve you been?” The whiny note identified him immediately. Bernie Botcher, the rat-bastard.

  “Hello, Bernie. And goodbye.”

  “Now, Liese, don’t hang up. You’ve gotta help me. You’ve got to save my job. I need my job.”

  So had I. “Bernie, I don’t have time for this. Good—”

  “Honeypot, just listen.”

  I grit my teeth. Now I was the honeypot. “What.”

  “The wife and I just bought this bigger house, see. And I need a new car ’cause I got into a little accident with the Audi. Look, I just made a little mistake at ADD.”

  “Really.” My tone would have sucked the water out of desert sand.

  “Honest! It’s such a small favor. One little favor and I’ll be forever grateful, honest.”

  Honest and Bernie Botcher did not strike me as being in the same gravitational sink, much less on speaking terms. “I see.”

  “Help me and maybe I’ll see my way clear to giving you a job reference.”

  And there it was, of course. The Golden Carrot.

  “It isn’t fair, babe. My entire life wiped out, because of a tiny mistake.”

  For the first time I realized the man I had loved, given my research to, given my life to, was a giant pain in the ass. “Bernie, just spit it out.”

  “It’s easy, Liese. Get rid of Steel for me.”

  I laughed, no humor in it. “Bernie, for your information I’ve already done something about him. And I’m not proud of it.”

  “You’ve done it? Oh, happy days. Then I’m safe. You’re the best, Liese.” Botcher only heard what he wanted. Why hadn’t I noticed that before, either?

  “It backfired, Bernie.”

  “I’m not safe?” Fear choked his voice.

  “He may still go down. But I’ll go with him.”

  “Then you’ve got to finish it, Liese. Finish it right away, before it’s too late. Do it for us, Liese. For our love. I do love you.”

  And there they were—the Golden Words. I sighed. “Even if that’s true, Bernie, you love yourself more.”

  “Babe, don’t you remember I called you beautiful?”

  “I remember. I also remember you didn’t mean it.”

  “Of course I meant it. I said it, didn’t I?”

  “Your actions and your words tell me two different things, Bernie. And they can’t both be true.”

  “Come on, honey.” Desperation tinged his tone. “You know you still love me.”

  Unfortunately, I did. But it was tiny, withered and nearly dead, and I might just love Logan Steel more. Oh well, one mistake at a time. “Good-bye, Bernie.”

  “The job recommendation, then.” Botcher’s rapid breaths rasped over the phone. “You’ve got to finish Steel for me. Liese, don’t—Liese—I’ll never forgive you for this!”

  Despite my vulnerability, despite Mom’s radiation, I hung up.

  I pushed into Nieman’s Bar, then paused for a deep centering breath. I had a plan to get rid of Race Gillette, but if it didn’t work, Logan was going to meet him. And since the fourth law of thermodynamics (according to the great physicist Murphy) was “if anything can go wrong, it will”, that meant Race would blab about my blackmail. I took another cleansing breath and made my way to the bar and ordered a couple pitchers of beer. I had to believe my plan would work.

  Buddy loaded pitchers and glasses on a tray. I added bowls of salty bar peanuts and made my way to where Race sat with yet another female. She was rubbing herself against him, her neck curved in a way that made me think of Logan’s orgasmic bite.

  Huh. Either that was suspicious, or I was starting to see everything in Fang-o-vision.

  Race caught sight of me. “Hey, dollface. Come join me and my babe, here.” His babe, right. Like his Honeypot and his Shweetie Pie.

  But his come-hither wave was unsteady. Empty glasses littered the table. I allowed myself to hope. My cunning plan to get rid of Race (a plan so cunning its Bond villain name was Dr. I-No) was already started, without me doing a thing.

  Race eyed the pitchers appreciatively. Babe eyed me much less tenderly. I grinned and stuck out my hand to her. “Hi. I’m Liese, a business associate of Race’s.”

  She looked at me like I was bellybutton lint. “What kind of business?”

  “Wha…oh, no. Security business.” Not hooker business. No way I’d do that, unless Logan was my exclusive customer…hmm.

  She eased up enough to give me a smile. One of her front teeth overlapped the other, giving her a girlish, wistful look. “I’m Babe.” She shook my hand.

  Huh. She really was his Babe. Well, in Meiers Corners coincidence was so normal it was Meal Deal #3, so I just topped off both their beers. Race gulped his down, wiped foam off his lip, belched, then set the empty in front of me with a thump. I filled it again. “So, Race. Why am I here?”

  “To get drunk.” He took an empty glass off the tray and slapped it down in front of me. “Keep up this time, dollface. I’m watchin’.”

  I poured, stopped when a thought hit me. And yes, it hurt. Botcher got me drunk when he wanted to get laid. Race couldn’t want that, could he? “Why?”

  “Drunk’s trust. I don’t trust nobody who stays sober while I drink.”

  I started pouring again. “That’s a relief. I thought you might want to take advantage of me.”

  “Hey, good idea.”

  Me and my big mouth. “What about Babe?” And Honeypot and any other female who thought sleaze equaled sex appeal because both started with S.

  “There’s plenty of this studmuffin to go around, dollface.” Race fumbled with his belt. “Lemme show you.”

  “No!” I clapped a hand over his. “Trust is a good enough reason. I’ll try to keep up.” Actually, having been raised in Meiers Corners, where beer was cheaper than water, I could probably drink him under the table. But no reason to show off, right? “And just to prove to you I’m on the level.” I took the glass, opened my throat and tossed the beer down in eight seconds. Not as good as Honeypot, but I was out of practice.

  “Pass one down here, Razey-poo.”

  I jumped at the voice from under the table. I snuck a peek then shot back up, red-faced. So that’s where Honeypot was tonight. I peeked again. She was going at Race with relish. Had he dipped it in chocolate?

  But now instead of just Race, I had to consider Babe and Honeypot too. Did this change my plan? Pouring a glass for Honeypot, I considered my options. A couple of pitchers was enough for a small party. I decided my plan could still work, as long as I stayed soberest of the bunch. I passed Honeypot’s glass to her.

  That was when the first beer hit, making me really warm. But not fuzzy, right? Right? Panic hit me. How would I know? Granted, in college I could drink like a whale but since Botcher the most I’d had was a glass or so. What if I’d lost the ability to guzzle?

  A test. I needed a
test to prove I was still sober. I picked a couple peanuts out of a bowl, leaned under the table. Honeypot was still going at it. I aimed at the dark spot in her low-rider jeans, sank one peanut, then another. Two for two.

  Yep. Still sober. I headed back up. My cunning plan to hit Race’s button, his temper, and hit it hard, could still work. Just a little push and he’d get belligerent.

  What’s so cunning about that, you may ask? Nothing, actually. The brilliance was getting him drunk. See, Buddy the Bartender also was Buddy the Bouncer. Belligerent Race was just weeknight entertainment but drunk belligerent Race—well, Buddy would launch his ass through the door so fast I was hoping Race’d achieve planetary orbit.

  With Race gone I could meet Logan safely. We’d have our talk. Another reason to keep as clear-headed as possible. Logan and I were going to talk about some sensitive issues. Which meant sipping my beer, very carefully—

  “Drink!” Race shoved the bottom of my glass forehead-high.

  I gulped beer, half of it pouring down my cheeks and chin. Sputtering, I grabbed a paper napkin off the tray, swiped my jaw.

  I scrubbed nose instead. Darn, was I getting drunk? I leaned over and shot another peanut at Honeypot’s plumber’s crack. It hit her left heel. Shizzle. I groped around for a few more peanuts, fired off half a dozen, put four in the hole. Okay, not so bad. I surfaced. “You know, it’s a fallacy that drunk people tell the truth.”

  “What’s blow jobs got to do with it?”

  Fallacy, fellatio. So close—yet so not. “I mean I can lie even after a few beers.”

  “You’re havin’ more than a few. Drink.” He gave my refilled glass an irritated poke.

  I didn’t want to wipe beer off half my body, so I drank. Filled our glasses again.

  Honeypot surfaced. She and Babe were still working on their beers so it was just me racing with Race. Get it? Racing Race? I giggled. Oops. Time for a soberness test, but my personal Stanford-Binet was standing now, so no more chucking peanuts into her jeans. What to do, what to do? I tossed up a couple peanuts and tried to catch them in my mouth. They bounced off my chin and landed in Babe’s cleavage.

  Okay, that worked. Hey, I sunk ’em, didn’t I? Another couple beers would get rid of Race. Half an hour, tops. Just enough time left to sober up before Logan came. I wouldn’t be completely clearheaded, but close enough. I sipped my beer, very carefully—

  “Hey, Liese. What’s up?” A husky alto, right behind me.

  I choked down half my beer. Came up coughing.

  Elena and Bo stood bracketing me. Bo pounded me helpfully on the back. I gave a weak smile through my coughing. “Hi, guys—” cough, cough, “—what’re you—” cough, cough, “—doing here?”

  “Bo’s taking me to fish fry,” Elena said. He gave her a look and she amended, “We’re going to fish fry. Both of us are eating fish fry.”

  “It’s okay. I know about v—”

  “What’s he doing here?” Bo’s eyes flared sudden hot violet, glaring at Race. “Go back to Chi-town, Ra—”

  “Race Gillette, glad to meet you.” Race leaped to his feet, teetered, slapped one hand to his head which apparently steadied him enough to thrust the other toward Bo.

  Bo shut his mouth with a snap. A rather loud snap, like an angry dog.

  “Well, Race Gillette, I imagine you were just leaving.” Elena patted a bulge in her jacket, right where a gun would be.

  Race withdrew his ignored hand. “Like that little peashooter could hurt me? Come back when you’ve got your big gun.” He wagged his eyebrows suggestively.

  Yuck. Logan’s eyebrow wags were cute but not Race’s—although some of the yuck might have been the crotch-rubbing he did with the eyebrow-wagging.

  Elena reached into her jacket. “I do have my big gun.”

  I stiffened. Bo grinned, fang tips just showing. Race fell back a step. Even Honeypot and Babe froze.

  And Elena pulled out—a pack of cards. I relaxed. Race, to the contrary, started stuttering. “No. Anything but Shpees…Shpits…cards. It’s unnatural, is what.”

  “You, me, Bo and Liese.” Elena pulled up a chair and shuffled. “Afraid to take on a couple of women and a Viking, Race?” She riffed cards with a practiced flourish.

  “Go get ’em, Razey-poo,” Honeypot said.

  Razey-poo turned bright red. “Um…we can’t. There’s only four. We can’t play with only four.”

  “We could use a fifth.” Bo looked at Babe and Honeypot. “Which one of you—”

  “Ooh, a fifth! Good idea.” Babe raced off to the bar.

  “I guess that decides it.” Elena dealt Honeypot in.

  We played for a quarter a point. Elena tended to play by the book, which meant she usually broke even. Bo was pretty good and so was I.

  Either Race was better than us all, or he had Lady Luck firmly on his side because he won almost every hand. ’Course maybe Lady Luck had help from the fifth of tequila Babe brought back. Race insisted on everyone doing shots.

  I was still half-sober though, at least by the Babe-cleavage meter. I sank one out of every two peanuts. Although that might have been because she started chasing them down, her hands on her boobs like they were catchers’ mitts.

  But Elena lost. Bo lost. And I lost, big time. And not just money.

  “Fish fry?” a familiar croon came. “I think it’s more like you’re fried, princess.”

  I jumped. Heart pounding, I twisted. “Logan? Is that you?”

  Which was actually pretty silly. Who else called me princess in that deep, seductive voice? But before I could utter any other immortal phrases suitable for chiseling on my frickin’ headstone, Race croaked, “Lord Logan?”

  Or maybe it was “Lord! Logan?” Yeah. That was it.

  Bo jumped in. “Logan, this is Race. Race Gillette.”

  “Race. I see.” Logan acknowledged Race with a faintly mocking smile. “Hello, Race. Don’t you owe me money?”

  Race coughed. “Um, I don’t carry cash.”

  “That pile of quarters in front of you looks like quite a bit of cash.” Logan pulled up a chair next to Race, reversed and straddled it. Stirring a long forefinger through Race’s winnings he cocked his head. “Sounds like…sixty-two dollars. And fifty cents.”

  I blinked. “You can tell from the sound?”

  Logan slung me a smile edged in smug. “Money and I have a certain affinity.”

  “Handy for a CEO,” Bo said. “I just raid for mine.”

  Elena punched him on the arm. “You do not.”

  Race, eyes wild and glued on the exit, pushed quarters haphazardly at Logan. “Take it all. I gotta go!” He jumped to his feet and ran.

  Before he got two steps Logan snared his wrist. Race spun, hit the table and rebounded to crash into his chair. Immediately he leaped to his feet, tried to jerk away. He even did it correctly, pulling at the thumb-forefinger gap, but Logan moved with him and kept hold.

  “Sit down, Race.” Logan pitched Race onto his chair. This time Race stayed.

  “W…why? I’ll get more cash, promise. But this is the only money I have now. Really.”

  “Let’s think this through logically, shall we?” Logan bared gleaming teeth at him, not anywhere near a smile. This expression was savage. A hunter, stalking his prey, bringing it down. Eviscerating it. “You owe me money. You have no cash. Therefore I’ll just have to give you a chance to win it.”

  Race whimpered.

  Logan picked up the cards and shuffled with a professional flourish. Race started blubbering.

  “Logan—” I put a cautionary hand on his arm. Race had been winning easily. Race hated Logan. Race would take Logan to the cleaners.

  Logan’s predatory smile softened. “Are you worried, princess? That’s sweet.”

  “Don’t you understand? He beat us. Elena, Bo, me—we’re all experienced players. But Race took almost everything we had.”

  Logan leaned close, his murmur heating my ear. “I’m experienced too.”


  “I don’t mean sexually!”

  Eyes widened around me. Blushing, I hissed, “Elena and I have been playing sheepshead all our lives. Since school, during lunch.”

  “I’m sure it was fun in high school—”

  “First grade.”

  “I’ll try not to embarrass you too much.” Logan began dealing. “Shall we play for a dollar a point?”

  What followed next was almost too gruesome to describe. Within an hour Bo lost fifty dollars and Elena lost a hundred. Babe and Honeypot teamed up, but even together they lost over two hundred.

  Which might seem odd since they only started out with fifty. But when the HoneyBabe team was down to a couple bucks, Babe disappeared for five minutes. She came back minus the peanuts and plus twenty. Then Honeypot disappeared. She returned three minutes later with forty bucks—and a satisfied look. Of course, she was the one with the open throat…no. I did not want to know how they were getting their money.

  I played a good, solid game which should have kept me even. Tonight it only kept me from losing my life’s savings.

  And Lady Luck’s favorite, Race? His pile of quarters dwindled to nothing. He began writing I.O.U.s with an ever-whitening face.

  Shockingly, the big winner was Logan. He played sheepshead as if he were born with ten queens. His skill was breathtaking and his daring had me cringing in my chair.

  Neat stacks of quarters grew in front of him like little houses. Then little hotels. Then little skyscrapers. In no time at all he’d amassed a whole city, Race’s I.O.U.s filling the streets like deep snow.

  By the second hour, Race was breathing heavily. He shot a desperate look at Bo. “You’re almost out of quarters. Don’t you have to go patrol or something?”

  Elena shrugged. “Dispatch will call if something comes up.”

  “And I still have cash.” Bo pulled out his wallet, withdrew a fifty and gave it to Honeypot. “Get three rolls from Buddy, and another couple of pitchers of beer. Keep the change.”

  “Tequila?” Babe held out her hand too.

  Bo rolled his eyes. Elena plucked a twenty from the wallet and put it in Babe’s palm. “Boilermakers for everyone.”