Biting Nixie (14 page)

“I recognize the Biblical reference. By the way, Nimrod was a mighty warrior, not an idiot. But I wasn't trying to change the subject. I was trying to find out what time you're done playing.”

“Why, so you can walk me home?”

“Yes.” Before I could squawk that I wasn't a damn kid who needed to be walked home from school, he added, “And maybe stop by your place after. If you want me to.”

My stomach fell through my belly and hit my pussy with a splat. I squirmed on my stool, leaving a very wet streak. There were disadvantages to not wearing underwear.

Julian, damn him, saw. His eyes got very dark. “What time,” he said, and this time his vocal cords were as tight as my E string.

“Um…two. I should be packed up by two thirty.”

“I'll be here.” His eyes were glued to my stool. “Don't change clothes.”

“I…I won't.” My mouth was suddenly dry.

“Good.” He spun and strode out the door.

I sat and stared at that door for the whole break. Fantasizing. When the next set came, I played the entire thing with the E string a quarter tone sharp—and never noticed.

Chapter Eleven

Julian didn't show by the time we finished. Two thirty came and went. I changed all the rest of my strings. No Julian. I was super-slow packing up. Julian still hadn't come.

The band was gone. The customers were gone. It was just me and the bartender when Drusilla came sauntering back in. I hoped she was here to see Buddy.

“Hi, Nixie,” she said in her smoky alto, killing that hope. Dru was everything I'm not—tall, stacked, and dripping sex appeal. I'd never been jealous of her before. It wasn't a comfortable feeling.

“We're just friends, you know.” She perched her perfect ass on a stool next to me. “Julian and I.”

“None of my business,” I mumbled.

“No, really. You don't have to worry.”

“Worry? Why should I worry?” I gave her a perfectly cool and unconcerned and definitely non-jealous look. “Nothing to worry about. I'm not interested in a stodgy old suit. Not me. I'm Nixie the Pixie. He's Mr. Straight N. Narrow. We have nothing in common. If we were all elementals, you'd be earth, I'd be air, and Julian'd be concrete.”

“There's a reason for Julian's self-control.” Dru leaned toward me, her double-Ds surging forward like a tsunami. I jerked back before I drowned. Good thing, because one jumped out—it would have KOed me if I'd still been in range. “Rumor has it he fell in with a wild crowd,” she went on as she nonchalantly tucked her boob back in. “I guess he did some damage before he came to his senses. It made him vow not to be so reckless.”

“Reckless? Are we talking about the same man?” I snorted. I hoped she would tell me the full story, but would have pushed pencils up my nostrils before admitting it. “Emerson is so old-school he still uses Betamax. He probably plays CDs on a turntable. He's so uptight he breaks rubber bands by just looking at them.”

“Maybe.” Dru shrugged one round white shoulder. “But I heard he used to be a lot more fun in the old days. Well, I just wanted to reassure you that there was nothing going on between him and me.” She slid her fanny off the stool and sauntered out.

After that, waiting only got harder. I unpacked, cleaned my clarinet, and packed up again. I unpacked, wiped down my strings, and packed up again. Where the hell was he?

Julian hadn't come by three. The bartender was starting to yawn in my face. It was time. It was past time. Like it or not, I'd been stood up.

Where the hell was he?

It pissed me off. I mean, what good was a steady, reliable suit if he wasn't steady and reliable? All right, that was two-faced of me. I complained that he was too serious and stodgy but then complained when he
wasn't
.

The problem was I'd had too much time to stew. About Julian and Drusilla, of course. But really. Dru's reassurances only served to make me more suspicious. Just
friends
? How did Boston attorney Julian Emerson become
friends
with Meiers Corners hooker Drusilla? How would they even meet? Touring the law schools in Chicago? At a prostitute convention in New York? A cruise of the Bahamas, she with her sugar daddy and he with his law books? I mean, come on. What did they have in common besides him having a cock and her a place to put it?

“Sorry I'm late,” came a deep Boston Brahmin voice. Julian strode through the door, nodding to the bartender as he passed. “Hello, Buddy.” Julian had on coat and suit, both casually unbuttoned.

I was so relieved to see him…the fucker. “Where the
hell
have you been?”

“I love you too,” Julian said lightly, brushing a kiss across my lacquered lips.

I love you.
He didn't mean it but my innards did a little thrill. “Answer me, Emerson. You can't just waltz in here an hour late—”

“I had a spot of trouble on the way. Shall we go?” He picked up my amp and guitar.

“Just like that,” I fumed. “You had a ‘spot of trouble' and everything's okay. Well, it's
not
okay! I want an explanation. You'd better have hit a fucking iceberg to be an hour late!”

Julian stared at me, intently, like he was reading my brain. “I'm sorry, were you worried?”

About to cut each of his shiny vest buttons into a shiny new ass hole, I stopped. Deflated. Realized I
had
been worried about him. “No, of course not.”

Julian, damn him, didn't even blink. “That's sweet.” He gave my lips a longer, deeper kiss.

“I was not worried,” I muttered against his mouth.

“Of course not.” He put down my amp and guitar and pulled me in for a soul-searing kiss.

The sound of a throat emphatically clearing brought us both around. The bartender stood there, tapping his foot, pointing at his watch. “Find a bedroom.”

“My apologies.” Julian picked up my amp and guitar. “Nixie?”

As I slung my clarinet over my shoulder and followed Julian out, I hoped the bedroom he had in mind was mine. Then I was distracted by his ass. Nice, I thought. I wondered what it would look like without the coat covering it…or the pants. Maybe I would get to see tonight.

I followed him, fantasizing the whole time. I live a little under a mile from Nieman's Bar. That's a lot of fantasizing, especially with an ass as dreamy as Julian Emerson's. I think my thighs were squeaking as I walked.

We made it about four blocks before Julian dropped amp and guitar case and turned, growling.

“What's wrong?” I dropped my own freight, cast frantically around me for danger.

To my utter shock, Julian grabbed me. “
You
. Your arousal is driving me mad!” He yanked me in by my hips. His hands slid under my skirtlet and encountered naked butt.

It was instant explosion. Julian's mouth came down on mine like a jackhammer. His strong, hot fingers bit into my ass. His mouth was on fire. My ass and mouth were searing. I felt like a candle burning at both ends. No, that's too tame. Like a firecracker belching double flames.

I jacked my hips up and back. Obligingly, Julian's fingers shifted down, rasped across my vulva. “Bedroom,” I panted into his mouth.

“Too far,” he said, stabbing fingers into me. He hoisted me into the air, settling me against his waist. As one hand continued to plunge into me, I heard the distinctive sound of a zipper being pulled down.

Smooth male flesh teased my pussy. Pressed against my swollen lips. Smooth and huge—damn! Julian's head was as big as my whole vulva. How would that monster feel going in? I shuddered with anticipation.

“Where are they?” a masculine voice shouted.

And a woman. “Don't try anything! I'm armed!”

Julian groaned. The zipper sounded again.
I
groaned.

“Where are who, Strongwell?” Julian called, setting me down. His voice was my favorite tight and growly and I groaned even deeper.

It was Elena who answered, in clipped cop mode. “Someone phoned. We got a tip. About where the bad guys…what have you two been doing?”

I peeked around Julian's bulk. Elena was staring at me like I'd gone crazy. And maybe I had. Tiny punk musician and skyscraper stodgy suit? Elena was right to stare. “Nothing,” I squeaked.

“Nothing,” Julian agreed. “Unfortunately.”

“Doesn't smell like nothing.” Bo's smile looked suspiciously like a trouble-making grin. “Smells like se—”

“Serious stuff, yes I know, Strongwell.” Julian gave him a dirty look. “Why are you here?”

“We got a tip,” Elena repeated, stowing something that looked like a bassoon on her back—if the military made bassoons.

“A tip? About the Coterie? Or this gang we've been dealing with?”

“The gang,” Elena replied. “About where they sleep.”

That's how she said it. Not “where their headquarters are”, or “where they're holing up”. Where they
sleep
.

“We got a phone call.” Bo flashed a strange, warning-sort of look at Elena. “Tipped us the gang was
staying
here.”

“Here?”

“At the abandoned Roller-Blayd Factory.”

Sure enough, we were a block away from the old boarded-up building. I hadn't noticed, too taken with Julian's own, er, stiff plank.

“A phone call. We'd better check it out, then.” Julian didn't sound too enthusiastic.

Remembering my own threatening call, I asked, “What did the voice on the phone sound like?”

“Weird.” Elena shivered. “Raspy, but hollow. Like a cheap radio with the bass off and the treble cranked all the way up.”

Julian frowned.

“Yeah, sketchy.” I remembered annoying Deep Throat boy. “I may have spoken with your guy.”

“When?” Elena sounded curious.

“When?” Bo sounded alarmed.

“When!?” Julian shouted above them both. He sounded plain furious. “And why the hell didn't you tell me?”

“Language, Julian.” I waved him down.

He didn't look soothed. “You will tell me when this call occurred. You will tell me right now!”

I blinked. Deep Throat boy was weird, but no weirder than Headless Horseman Cutter. Why was Julian so upset? “Don't get your undies in a bundle, Emerson.”

“Nixie, so help me, if you do not tell me right this minute, I will personally make you sit through reruns of Spanish soaps.”

Ooh. Julian was learning all my weak points. “Fine! Some daggy guy rang me on my Juke last night. Kept calling me
Dietlinde
. What a Nimr…I mean faphead.”

“What did he want?” Bo asked before Julian could verbally manhandle me any more.

“He told me to drop the fundraiser.”

“What?! You can't!” Surprisingly, it was not Julian who said this, but Bo.

“Nixie.” Julian took me by the shoulders. “Did this male say what would happen if you didn't?”

“Yeah. Something ‘bad'. How fuzznucked up can you get?”

Julian's frown turned from anger to confusion. “Fuzznucked?”

“Fuzznucked up,” Elena corrected helpfully.

“No subtitles,” I told her.

“Poor Julian,” she said.

“Poor Julian,” I agreed.

“Nixie! Spanish soaps!” Julian snapped his fingers in front of my eyes. I have to admit it was effective in regaining my attention. “What do you mean, ‘bad'?”

“He just said ‘bad', Julian. Okay? He didn't explain it, didn't expand, expound or expatiate. He said bad, and that he wasn't joking. I just blew it off at the time. This Ruthven guy was a bit woo-woo, if you know what I mean.”

“Ruthven.” Julian exchanged a look with Bo that I could only call tense. “We'd better get them home.”

So
I
traded looks with Elena. I had a feeling about who ‘them' were.

She spoke for both of us. “No. No way. We've got as much at stake in this as you do, gentlemen.” Under her breath she added, “Maybe more.” Turning to Bo she said, “We came here to investigate the warehouse, Bo. Let's do it.”

“Elena,” Bo said. “This may be more dangerous than we thought.”

“Bo,” she returned with that warning tone of voice only married people can do. “We came here to investigate. I'm investigating.”

Even I could hear the unspoken,
Whether you like it or not.

Elena shouldered her bassoon grenade launcher (which I figured from my conversation with Bruno must be an SMAW) and stalked toward the warehouse.

Bo ran after.

Julian sighed. “I should stay with them. In case they need help.”

I picked up my clarinet. “Let's go.”

“Nixie—oh, never mind. You'll be safer with me anyway.” He took guitar and amp and followed Bo and Elena at a smooth glide.

I trotted alongside. “Julian…do you know this Ruthven guy?” And then, because I was coming to trust him, I added, “Do you think he sounds kind of…inhuman?”

To his everlasting credit, Julian did not laugh at me. “Yes, I've met him. And yes, I find him a bit odd.”

“Woo-woo odd, or creepy odd?”

Julian shrugged. “Ruthven tends to be melodramatic. Who else would style himself ‘Lord'? But that doesn't mean he isn't dangerous.”

“Is he part of the Ichabod Crane gang?”

Julian eyed me strangely. “The what?”

“Ichabod Crane. You know, Legend of Sleepy Hollow? Headless Horseman?”

“Yes, I get the Washington Irving reference. How does it relate to a gang—” Julian actually stopped speaking, almost impossible for a lawyer or politician. Ground to a halt. “You don't think Cutter was decapitated, do you? And somehow had his head reattached?”

I pulled up next to him, and smiled sweetly into his face. “That's impossible.”

“It
is
impossible.”

“So is he? Is this Ruthven guy one of the Lestats?” I threw out the name to see if I could get a reaction.