Biting Nixie (2 page)

“Playing for it?” Twyla's perfectly arched eyebrows rose. “Girl, you're
running
it.”

Chapter Two

After that bombshell, all I could do was stumble away from the counter and collapse. Anywhere. The floor, if I had to. Luckily I found a bench in the hallway. I dropped onto it, gasping like I'd had a heart attack. A manila folder heart attack.

Maybe, I thought, just maybe Twyla was mistaken. I opened the envelope with trembling fingers.

The paper was city letterhead. My full legal name featured prominently. The signature was definitely the mayor's fifth-grade scrawl. Twyla wasn't mistaken.

I rubbed my forehead. Why me? Why not Heidi, or Police Chief Dirkson—or even my mother?

Scanning the text told me. “Your talent for managing…the
only
one…as one of the historic founding families…as a citizen of Meiers Corners…” I had to admire how neatly the letter was done. Inflate me with praise and slap me down with civic duty.

And then came the kicker. The handwritten scribble on the bottom. “You are knowing,” the mayor wrote in flawless Deutsche-glish, “how my brother-in-law is having gotten the job for the Milwaukee Summerfest. If you successful raising our money are, I am asking him to find a place for Guns and Polkas in the Miller tent.”

Two words stuck out like neon. “Summerfest”. And “Miller”.

On the shores of Lake Michigan, Milwaukee was the scene for some hot summer festivals. Festa Italiana and Irish fest drew over a hundred thousand people each, and countless smaller fests had tens of thousands.

The crowning jewel was Summerfest.

All the festivals had food, rides, the usual. But the core of Summerfest was
music
. All kinds of music, from punk to bluegrass, from classical to classic rock. Big names, and I mean big, performed every year. Stevie Wonder. Earth Wind and Fire. LeAnn Rimes. Nearly a million people attended each year. It was the musical equivalent of the Kentucky Derby or the Grand Prix.

The Miller “tent” was the Miller Lite Oasis, recently rebuilt, with room for almost ten thousand. Some of it was seating, but most of the audience stood for the heart-pounding, foot-stomping, incredible groups that played there.

And yes. It was sponsored by the beer people of the same name. So you knew it had to be good.

Playing Summerfest was a great gig for anybody. For a local bar band like Guns and Polkas, it was getting a personal invite to heaven from St. Peter.

But…I took to responsibility like a fish to air. Being responsible for the a city-wide event? Cream me and serve me on toast, why don't you?

I sat on the bench, staring at the manila brick of obligation in my lap. Would I do it? If I did, the fate of Meiers Corners would rest squarely on my size-zero shoulders. It felt like a really thick chador, those black cloaks women wear in desert climates. Heavy and suffocating.

“Bad news?” came a deep, sexy voice.

I looked up from my prison papers. It was Suitguy. Stars above, he had broad shoulders. I wondered if they were as yummy as they looked.

His beautiful face was arranged in Genuine Concern. Unfortunately, the concern was framed by a two-hundred-dollar haircut and a perfectly knotted school tie. Damn. Why couldn't he be in Harley leathers and tats? “Yeah. Bad news.” I indicated the mayor's letter.

“Grades?” he inquired in that same solicitous tone.

Suddenly he was way less sexy. I stuffed the papers back into the envelope. “You wouldn't understand.”

“No? Let me guess. City Hall, mayoral letterhead. Something to do with Chicago annexing Meiers Corners?”

I looked up, surprised. The guy was smart. All those looks, and brains too. If only he weren't packaged in a square box. “It's so
baka
. Chicago rolling Meiers Corners. That's like going all Hulk Hogan on a gerbil.”

I waited for a reply. Tall, dark, and suity only stared at me like I was speaking Korean. His stunning eyes tracked a bit as if he was searching his brain for a translation. He 404'd—came up empty. “I beg your pardon?”

“Why's Chicago trying to annex us? We're just a tiny village.” Although legally, Meiers Corners was a city. And culturally, we were a city, too, I suppose. We had our own art museum, an independent newspaper, and a truck line. We were the nation's top producer of beer (per square mile). We were the Hemoglobin Society's clearinghouse for the entire Midwest. We even had our own symphony orchestra, consisting of three violins, a flute, a tuba, and a clarinet (I joined last month).

Population-wise, though, we were a Mini Cooper.

Suitguy understood what I said that time. “It's not Chicago doing this, per se. It's a group of back-room businessmen.”

“Shady businessmen, uh-huh. Now why am I not surprised? Who?”

“We call them the Coterie.”

I had to snort. “The Coterie. Catchy.”

Suitguy shrugged. “They're a powerful and exclusive group. So, Coterie.”

“And if not for this ‘Coterie', we'd be happily tossing like normal.”

He gave me that “where's the subtitles” look again. But he answered readily enough, “Chicago suburbs surround Meiers Corners. It would follow that some attempt at annexation would be inevitable.”

“Shit. Give me a second to parse that, would you?” Typical suit. Why use one word when fifty would do? I picked out the main—idea, not vein. “Inevitable, right. But who's fault is that? We didn't velveeta-melt into
Chicago's
territory.” The Corners began as a tiny independent settlement of 1800's German immigrants, a healthy distance west of Chicago. Acres and acres of farms and fields lay between us and the Big City. By 1900 Meiers Corners had grown to three miles and three thousand people.

During that same time Chicago grew to one
million
.

The giant metropolis oozed around the Corners like a middle-age spread. Without realizing it, we were soon surrounded. Seven thousand of us. Three
million
of them. The jeans were getting awfully tight.

Unless the East Coast wonder-shark could spring us free.

What a choice. Pay Chicago or pay Mr. Four-K-A-Day. I trust lawyers about as much as I do vice-principals. I like them even less. I wasn't sure we were picking the right option.

I grunted. “It's inevitable—unless we crank out enough mad skrilla so our shyster can fap on their shyster.” Suitglish translation: Takeover is inevitable unless we raise enough money for our lawyer to screw their lawyer.

Suitguy blinked. “Fap?”

Of course he had to pick
that
word. He couldn't have known what it meant. But with his deep, sexy voice, he made it sound pornographic. Which, of course, it was.

Fap was a word used in manga and anime porn for the sound of sex. Think “Bam!” and “Zowie!” with naked pictures.

Before I could explain (if I even wanted to try), a bray like a cheap trumpet snapped both our heads around. “You there! One minute!”

A baseball in a bow tie swept toward us, all broad toothy smile. Lew Kaufman. Lew was the mayor's campaign manager, PR whiz, and cheese ball salesman all rolled into one. Twyla called him Lightning Lew because he zapped anyone in his path. He was Salesman on steroids. Probably had a big “$” tattooed on his chest.

Lew's eyes lit on Suitguy and went
ka-ching
! He grabbed Suitguy's hand and pumped. “Kaufman's the name, welcome's my game. First time visiting Our Fair City? Let me take you on a tour of Our Fair City Hall. Ha-ha!”

Gently, Suitguy tried to extract his hand. But nothing short of a jaws of life was going to make Lightning Lew let go. Lew simply grabbed on with both hands and continued to piston away, like Suitguy was the only water pump in the Mojave Desert.

“Over there's the mayor's office.” Lew pointed back toward Twyla's. “You know he's mayor 'cause he uses two secretaries. Of course, the secretaries really run the place, ha-ha!”

“Ha-ha,” Suitguy agreed in a dry tone.

Lew stopped shaking long enough to clap Suitguy's broad back. The resulting boom (and the slightly pained look on Lew's face) clued me that Suitguy was even harder-muscled than he appeared. Lew drew back his injured hand and cleared his throat. “Well. You'll want to see the Department of Records, down the hall. You and your lovely wife. This way.”

I almost didn't catch it. Lovely—wife? Looking between Suitguy and me, I didn't get it. He was a gorgeous, tall, powerful, tall, obviously rich, tall, conservatively dressed male. And did I mention he was tall?

And here I was, a punk moppet with tattoos.

How did Lew get man-and-wife out of that?

Suitguy and I exchanged a look. For a split second, we shared perfect understanding. Lew had gone psycho.

“Can I carry your papers, little lady?” Lew reached a hand toward me.

Well, at least he didn't think I was a child. “I can carry them. And anything's better than having to read them.” I stuck the envelope under my arm and popped up brightly from the bench. “Lead away, Gungho-din.”

“Huh?” Lew's eyes crossed.

“That's Gunga Din,” Suitguy said.

“Whatever.” I turned to Lew, looped my arm through his. “I'd love a tour with my”—I fluttered my eyes at Suitguy—“little hubby.”

Suitguy shot me a black look in response. What a surprise, no sense of humor.

“Right this way!” Lew latched his other arm to Suitguy and dragged us both toward the stairs. “This here's the Fire Door. Installed in 1872, after The Fire burned the first Town Hall to the ground. It's Real Steel, solid as a rock.” He opened the door and shut it with a clang several times. “Hear it? That's Real Steel.”

“Real Steel, honey,” I said, beaming at Suitguy.

Suitguy only grimaced. “I've just remembered a pressing engagement. Sorry.” He twisted away from Lew and lit out.

Lightning Lew made a grab for him. “But you gotta see this!”

Suitguy was
fast
. Lew barely caught the flappy back vent of Suitguy's suit coat. But it was enough. When Lew yanked, Suitguy allowed himself to be recaptured. Probably didn't want to risk a rip to his eight-hundred-dollar Armani.

“Now look at these stairs.” Lew dragged us through the Fire Door (Real Steel). “These stairs are tiled with gen-yoo-wine imitation marble. Recovered from the original Town Hall after it burned to the ground. Reused in the 1872 rebuilding.”

Suitguy looked pained. “Thank you. But really. I must go.”

“And the railings! Forged steel. Painted red, see? Now there's an interesting story about the paint.”

“How delightful,” Suitguy said. A trapped animal could have chewed his arm off. He didn't have that option.

I reached over Lew and patted Suitguy gently on the biceps. “Don't bump the jams, honey.” Under the fine wool I felt hard muscle and sinew. And a hum of something. Something that said power, and heat, and…blood.

Blood?

I yanked my hand back. Where the hell did that thought come from?

Suitguy slewed me a look. I pretended not to see the question in his gaze.

Lew grabbed us both and urged us up the stairs. “This is the second floor. Now over here's the Second Floor Closet.” Lew released us to fling open the closet door. “Can you believe the space? The organizers were put in in 1988 by Thorvald Heinemann.”

Suitguy wasn't listening. He touched my shoulder, lightly, like a butterfly. Incredible how light, considering how strong he seemed. “Are you all right?” he asked under Lew's spiel.

I couldn't help looking up, into his eyes. Framed by those black lashes, the intense blue of his irises stunned me. My whole body clenched, like he'd hit me with lightning.

I shook myself. Blood, and now lightning? What had gotten into me, anyway? “Yeah. Perfectly hawt.”

He blinked. “Haute?”

Lew came back, clapped one arm around each of us. “What do you think of Meiers Corners so far, Mr. and Mrs.…?” He looked at Suitguy expectantly. Prompted again. “Mr. and Mrs.…?”

Lew was trying to coerce Suitguy's name out of him. Names have power, as I well knew. I watched Suitguy's stunning eyes shift from me to Lew, and I could see the electric intelligence behind that gaze. Suitguy was well aware of what Lew was trying to pull.

His intense gaze drilled into Lew's head like an auger. Lew's smile lost some of its toothy arrogance. “I told you
my
name.” His tone went pouty, like a little boy.

Taking pity on Lew, I said, “I'm Nixie.”

After a slight pause, Suitguy responded. “Emerson. Julian Emerson. But this isn't my wif—”

“Julian
Emerson
! Well, no wonder!” Manhood restored, Lew grabbed Suitguy's hands and pumped like an air riff. Like he'd only been practicing before. “Nice ta meetcha, Mr. Emerson. And little Nixie! I knew you looked familiar. I didn't know you got married.”

Neither had I, but it was kind of fun. Though Suitguy…
Julian
was clearly annoyed. His face was stern and his body was all clenched up. Muscles tightened and bunched, straining against the fabric of his shirt, his coat, his pants…yum. Even under all that conservative cover, Julian's body was hot. In what I imagined to be a wifely gesture, I tucked my hip into his thigh. Hard, thick muscle met my touch. Double-yum. “It was a whirlwind romance.” I smiled up into his stern, beautiful face.

Something flared in Julian's eyes. Something that said he was suddenly aware I wasn't the child I seemed.

Lew beamed at us both. “Well, congrats, Nixie. You got yourself one of the hottest catches of the century, if
People
magazine is right.”

I tore my gaze away from Julian's bright eyes. “Huh?”

“Yes sirree,” Lew enthused. “Now I see why you came to help us out, Mr. Emerson. Don't usually get such heavy-hitters in Meiers Corners. But if little Nixie here is your wife, well, 'nuf said!”