by Gail Koger
Two patrol cars zoomed by me.
“Oh, thank God. The police are here.”
The dispatcher said, “I need your name and address.”
“It’s anonymous.” I disconnected.
With their guns drawn, the officers bailed out of their cars and entered the house. A little time in jail should cool Fabian down.
I followed the cops on the monitor. The idiots were checking every freakin’ room. Fabian would be long gone before they made it upstairs.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I flipped back to the bedroom and took a cautious peek. Heather was sprawled across the bed like a three-day-old corpse. Her dimpled white butt protruded from her negligee. Dang. That image was forever burned into my mind. Where the heck was Fabian? The better question was, had he stolen the ring?
The cops burst into the bedroom and grimaced in horror. One reluctantly checked Heather’s pulse and yanked the bedspread over her. The other officers investigated the closet and bathroom.
Hmm. How had the bugger gotten by them? I pulled up my tracking program. Zip. Nada. Nothing. Fabian must have found the bug. Too bad he wouldn’t find his car as easily.
My psychic radar went on red alert. I scanned the area. A flicker of movement caught my attention. Less than twenty feet away, Fabian crouched on top of the mansion’s six-foot perimeter wall. I wondered if he knew the police had the area locked down.
He dropped to the ground, stripped, and staggered out of the bushes.
Yep. He knew.
A spotlight lit him up, and a female officer shouted, “Freeze.”
Grinning like a lunatic, Fabian raised his hands and broke into song. I think he was singing “That’s Amore,” but it was hard to tell.
The stunned female officer stared at his rather awesome erection.
I was kind of impressed myself. How did he get it up on command?
Her unimpressed male partner stormed up and cuffed Fabian. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand your rights?”
Fabian looked right at me and sang, “We are bound to get together. It is destiny. It is our destiny.”
A cold chill ran down my spine. That sounded like a threat, and how could he see me? I was still invisible.
“We are bound to get together. I’m gonna get ya, get ya, get ya,” Fabian crooned louder.
“Shut the fuck up,” the male officer growled and stuffed Fabian in the back of the patrol car. “Wipe the drool off your mouth, Samantha.”
Samantha holstered her gun. “That’s Fabian, the supermodel.”
“So?” The male officer got into the driver’s seat.
A besotted smile on her face, Samantha asked, “Do you think he’ll take a selfie with me?”
“Get in the fucking car.”
She climbed in and off they went.
It was time to move on to Plan B.
Chapter Five
Plan B was definitely riskier. It put me up close and personal with my prey. Since I wasn’t dealing with Albert Einstein, I wasn’t too worried. Besides, after spending the night in jail with a bunch of pissed-off bikers, Fabian wouldn’t be in any shape to rip off any more old ladies. It was a real shame that his bond paperwork mysteriously vanished.
But it did give Fabian’s people time to find him new digs. The condo he had rented was suddenly swarming with hundreds of snakes. It seems Fabian has a thing about slithering reptiles. On a photo shoot in Australia a python thought the supermodel would make a tasty snack. It had taken Animal Control a good hour to untangle him. Fabian now resided at the Amara Resort’s penthouse suite.
The Amara boasted upscale luxury with a picturesque private pool dotted with palm trees and chaise lounges for that romantic rendezvous.
Luckily for me, the penthouse suite also came with its own butler, Millie. We were similar in size and build. Add in a silicone face mask, black wig, and blue contact lenses, and ta-da! I was a dead ringer for her. No, she wasn’t stuffed in the trunk of my car. Courtesy of a local radio station and me, Millie had won a week’s vacation in Acapulco.
In the staff’s cramped bedroom, I eyed myself in the full-length mirror. My uniform consisted of a white dress shirt, black tie, gray vest, and miniskirt. The final touch was gold wire-framed glasses. After casting a spell to disguise my unique aura, I was ready to be the perfect butler. I mean, how hard could it be opening doors for Fabian’s guests, serving drinks, and calling for his limo?
Pretty damn hard. I quickly discovered Fabian’s usual home attire was a Speedo. A fucking Speedo! How could any woman resist lusting after all that tanned, male perfection? My gaze dropped. Wowzers! The stretchy material showcased his package in intimate detail. The phrase “hung like a stallion” came to mind. His spicy scent beckoned to me, and all I wanted to do was map the length of his torso with my tongue.
No! Touching bad. Eyes up. Professional demeanor. “I’m Millie, sir. I will take care of all your needs.” Did that come out wrong?
Fabian swept me into his arms.
Crap. It had.
The wannabe Don Juan whispered huskily, “Mi amore, I must kiss you.”
My brain screamed, Danger! Danger! If he touched my mask, the jig would be up. But my family’s motto is: Shit happens. Always carry a shovel and be prepared to use it.
I didn’t need the shovel this time. All I had to do was gargle with my special mixture of curry, fish, and garlic juice. It was guaranteed to drive away even the most determined lothario.
Before Fabian’s lips could meet my rubber ones, I exhaled a long breath. The man-whore made an awesome retching sound and leaped back like a scalded cat.
I met Fabian’s horrified gaze and asked politely, “Do you need a breath mint, sir?”
His jaw dropped. “Me?”
“I didn’t want to say anything, but I think they put too much garlic in your scampi.”
Fabian breathed into the palm of his hand and shot me a suspicious look.
The doorbell rang. Oh, goody, more adoring fans. I hoped these were better behaved.
Flicking back his long black hair, Fabian flexed his chest muscles like a weightlifter and draped himself artistically along the couch.
I resisted an eye roll and suggested pompously, “Might I suggest you brush your teeth, sir, before entertaining your lady friends?”
Fabian jumped to his feet. “Show them to the pool and serve the champagne.”
“Immediately, sir.” I watched him disappear into the bathroom. God, that had been way too easy.
A torrent of Italian curse words exploded from the bathroom.
I grinned. Guess he had found Butch, the harmless but rather large bull snake I had left for him. I knocked on the door. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“No.”
Was that a tremor in his voice? “Are you sure, sir?”
Fabian growled, “Yes.”
“Very well, sir, I’ll attend to your guests.”
The doorbell rang again and again and again. Someone was a bit impatient, but a proper butler doesn’t hurry. A proper butler walks sedately.
Whoever it was laid on the doorbell. Oh, for God’s sake. I yanked the door open.
A small crowd of elderly women stood there.
My eyes widened as I took in their attire. Each of them was wearing a bikini. An itty-bitty, yellow polka-dotted bikini. Flabby wrinkled flesh overflowed the bathing suits. “Are you looking for the public pool?”
An old gal wearing a long blonde wig giggled. “Fabian invited us up for a swim.”
My brows rose in horror. Fabian was hitting the local retirement homes now? The man was in serious need of a psychologist. Bet he had mommy issues.
A crone with a hooked nose and perky DD breasts pushed her way in. “Where is my dear Fabian?”
I did a doub
le take. Oh, ick. Heather De Luca in the flesh. You’d think with all her money she would do something about her saggy, dimpled butt. A little plastic surgery on that nose wouldn’t hurt either.
The other women stampeded through the door.
“Please come in,” I said drily.
The ladies oohed and aahed over the palatial digs.
The blonde let out an excited cry and hobbled over to Thomas Moran’s painting of the Grand Canyon. “I’ve never seen a Picasso before.”
“That’s not a Picasso,” Heather De Luca corrected snottily. “It’s a Moran.”
The blonde’s face crumpled.
Heather was one hell of a bitch. Maybe the rumors that she dabbled in the black arts were true and she had put the whammy on Fabian.
“Excuse me.” The blonde touched my arm timidly. “Where’s the restroom? I have a bladder issue.” She did the wee-wee dance.
I quickly pointed to the one off the kitchen. It was snake-free. “It’s just past the refrigerator.”
“Thank you.” She scurried off.
I triggered my hidden cameras and clapped my hands loudly to get the chattering women’s attention. “Please follow me. I have champagne chilling by the pool.”
“Champagne,” the ladies cried in unison. Zoom! They were out the door and chowing down on the five-hundred-dollar-an-ounce caviar and hors d’oeuvres. Poof. In less than a minute, the two-thousand-dollar bottle of imported champagne was gone.
Didn’t they feed the gals at the retirement homes?
Fabian strutted out with a fully erect penis straining the material of his Speedo.
Holy guacamole, he could put an eye out with that thing.
“Good gracious,” one woman exclaimed, fanning herself.
Another gal added, “He reminds me of my Harold. That man had one hell of a big dick.”
Heather licked her lips obscenely. “I can’t wait to taste it.”
Ugh. I fought down the urge to hurl.
A blue-haired woman with a walker thumped her way closer and peered at Fabian’s cock. “Can I touch it? It’s been so long.”
A laugh bubbled up. She was priceless and quite horny.
The man-whore made his pectoral muscles dance.
I watched in fascination. What an interesting talent.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
What the hell? I looked over my shoulder and groaned. Several ladies had fainted.
The other women just stood there oblivious to their fallen comrades, their attention firmly fixed on Fabian, who shimmied and shook his tight ass.
Lordy. Was it hot in here?
“Oh my,” Heather gasped before crumpling to the floor.
Great. Four ladies and one faker down. “Should I call 9-1-1, sir?”
With a pout, Fabian stopped his dance routine. “Si.”
“This happen a lot?”
The man-whore shrugged and kissed his fingertips. “It’s amore. Sono innamorata.”
Love, my ass. I dialed 9-1-1 and explained the situation.
The fire dispatcher sighed. “Fabian? This is the fourth time this week we’ve been called out to deal with his ladies. Has he considered cutting back on his entertaining?”
I looked over at Fabian who was preening in front of his adoring fans. “I don’t think that’s an option.”
“The captain will want to talk with him,” the dispatcher said.
“Probably a good idea.” Disconnecting, I knelt by Heather and blew in her face.
Batting frantically at her rather large nose, Heather reared up and made retching noises. “Ugh. Ugh. That smell. Did a demon fart? Why am I on the floor?”
A grin pulled at my mouth. Who needed smelling salts when you had hell breath? “You fainted.”
“Get me off this filthy floor,” Heather commanded imperiously.
Before I could move, Fabian scooped Heather up and carried her over to a chaise lounge. “Rest, cara.”
Heather wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Fabian planted a kiss on her badly cracked lips. “Grazie.”
My stomach roiled. How could he kiss her?
Bam. Bam. Bam. The door shook under the blows. “Fire department. Open up.”
Someone sounded a bit cranky. I hurried over and let the paramedics in.
A hunky medic asked, “Where are the patients?”
“On the patio.” I pointed to the women still sprawled on the tiles. “They got a bit overexcited.”
The grim-faced paramedics rushed over to the now moaning women.
A medic wrapped a blood pressure cuff around an old gal’s arm. “Ma’am, are you on any kind of medication?”
The old gal grinned up at him. Her lipstick had migrated to her stained dentures. “I’m Hyacinth.” She ran a hand up his thigh and asked coyly. “Did you know I can suck the chrome off a bumper?”
The medic made a choking sound. “No, ma’am, I didn’t.”
“Let’s blow this joint and I’ll show ya,” Hyacinth promised.
Removing her wandering hand, the medic said sternly, “Behave yourself.”
If I had a suspicious mind, I’d think Fabian had put a love spell on the ladies. But why?
A big bull of a fireman stormed in and snapped, “Fabian. Where is he?”
“On the patio, sir.” I turned to gesture and noticed Heather had stuck her tongue down Fabian’s throat and he seemed to like it. That was just so wrong.
Trying to push her sagging boobs back in the bikini top, the lady with the overactive bladder crashed into the fireman. “Oh! Excuse me. I didn’t see you.”
“Mom!” the fireman bellowed furiously.
Her lower lip trembled. “Charlie? What are you doing here?”
Charlie took off his uniform shirt and draped it around her thin shoulders. “I could ask you the same thing. You were supposed to be at the Botanical Gardens.”
Tears dripped down the blonde’s cheeks. “We changed our plans?”
I handed her a tissue. “I think your mom has had enough excitement for one day.”
Shooting me a glare, Charlie escorted his mother over to the couch and gently eased her down. “I want you to wait here. I’m gonna have Sam check you over. Okay?”
His mom sobbed. “Please don’t be mad.”
“I’m not angry with you, Mom.” He placed a kiss on her right cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
Oh, boy. The shit was about to hit the fan. I gleefully followed Charlie.
“You sick pervert!” Charlie shouted at Fabian.
Fabian quickly unwrapped himself from Heather. “Mi perdoni. Do I know you?”
I grabbed Charlie’s arm. “Just because he likes fucking old ladies doesn’t give you the right to hit him.”
He jerked his arm free and punched the man-whore right in the kisser.
The blow snapped Fabian’s head back, knocking him into the pool. Splash! Water cascaded over the old ladies, drenching them and ruining their spiffy makeup.
I quickly called 9-1-1 again.
The police dispatcher asked, “9-1-1, what is your emergency?”
“I want to report a fight.”
“Are there any weapons involved?”
“Just his giant pecker,” I answered.
Charlie waded into the pool after Fabian.
A hand to his bloody mouth, the wuss of a man-whore retreated to the far side of the pool.
After a long pause, the dispatcher inquired, “I’m sorry, did you say his pecker?”
“I did. Fabian’s quite proud of it, but I think it’s gonna get damaged. Charlie’s not real happy with where he’s been putting it.” I watched the paramedics jump in the water and grab their captain before he could hit Fabian again.
Laughter in her voice, the dispatcher continued with her questions. “Do you need the paramedics?”
“No, we already have some.” I disconnected.
Heather stripped her top off and proudly thrust her DD breasts out. “Fabian, could you be a dear and put some sunscreen on my girls?”
“Anything for you, amore mio,” Fabian called, pulling himself from the pool.
Charlie struggled to break free. “You fucking pervert, I’m gonna kill you.”
I did a mental happy dance. My paparazzi contacts at Celebrity News would love my recording of this little shindig. It would expose Fabian as the gigolo he truly was. While he was busy clearing his name, I could find out where he had hidden Ethel Rossi’s medallion.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Time for the pièce de résistance. I chanted softly, “Verisimiloria et potuero.”
Right on cue, the bull snake slithered out the patio doors and wrapped itself around Fabian’s left leg. He yelped, jumped back, and slammed into Charlie. The fight was on.
The police rushed in.
I loved it when a plan came together.
Chapter Six
Within the hour, my video of Fabian, the gigolo, went viral. The smirking female reporter on the Celebrity News television show asked, “Does supermodel Fabian have mommy issues? A little birdie tells me his pool has seen more action than Hugh Hefner’s. But, while Hugh likes them young, Fabian prefers the more mature woman. You’d think his poor penis would get tuckered out servicing all the retirement homes in the area.”
The reporter winked at the camera. “Those little blue pills are certainly miracle workers, ladies.”
Her co-anchors broke into laughter.
A tingle at the base of my skull warned me that my grandmother was in my head. Her raspy voiced warned, “He is Dragos.”
One of the drawbacks of being telepathic was my colorful family could pop in at any time for a chat. “Who are you talking about, Grams?”
“Fabian. He’s the clan’s head enforcer and a demon hunter.”
I laughed. “No way. That oversexed doofus couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag.”
“A clever predator hides his true self and strikes without warning. Leave before he discovers who you truly are,” Grams urged.