Chapter Three
My alarm went off at five. I’d dreamed about Glynn kissing me and woke sweet and heavy and even more determined to lose the events of last night in my work.
Showered and dressed, I staggered downstairs at five twenty into the familial abode—not thinking about Glynn. The Wurstspeicher Haus didn’t open until eight, but I had tons to do before then. A big store has accountants and salespeople and a purchasing department and the IT guy. A small store still has to pay taxes and deal with customers and buy product and fix the things that buzz and blink. We had Mom and Pop to do all that—and me.
No lights, so I followed the lifeline scent of freshly brewed coffee and stumbled into the kitchen, then poured by feel alone. It was dark because Mom and Pop left for work before dawn. The kitchen smelled of bacon and eggs and buttered toast.
Mom’s opera music was blaring. L’Orfeo by Monteverdi, early music to start the day. She’d save Stravinsky for evening.
Not thinking about sweet, hot kisses, I grabbed a bagel, hoisted my coffee and hit the stairs down. I shivered, not lust, just simple chill. May mornings were still on the cool side and the stairwell was unheated. I gulped hot coffee as I trotted downstairs and through the door.
The office area was warmer. Our building was a storefront, literally. The store was the front half. The back was originally my grandparents’ flat, converted into offices and storage after Grandma and Grandpa Stieg went to the Happy Sausage Shop in the sky.
The stairwell opened into the dining room, now a general work area. To the right was the kitchen, now storage. Straight ahead were two bedrooms, Mom and Pop’s offices. Left was the store.
Time to forget Glynn and kisses, which I had not been thinking about anyway. I squared shoulders and headed left to work and duty.
My father looked up from his paperwork as I stumbled by. His face gleamed round and ruddy in the glow of his accountant’s lamp. “Junior, gut. Help me carry in the wurst.” Gut meant good. Wurst was what we called sausage. He heaved to his feet, which made him maybe an inch taller. At five-six, not only his face resembled a cookie elf.
“Where’s Mom?” Or actually I said “Wo ist Mutti?”, as he and I spoke German at home (I knew a bit of Italian too, courtesy of Mom). I took a quick bite of bagel, set it and my coffee on his scarred desk and trailed him to the kitchen.
“Your mother is on the phone with suppliers. They are asking why we need so much blutwurst.”
“Because people are buying it?” I snorted. “Why Mom? The only German she speaks is the stuff she learned to sing.”
“She has decided it’s time to get more fluent. She says to me, ‘Gunter, I wish to learn, to be better’. Your mother is a strong woman, Junior. You could do worse than to be like her.”
“Yes, Pop.” We’d had this conversation before. The problem was I was like her, too much. To me, learning meant not making the same mistakes she had. Time to change the subject. “It’s going to be a warm day. That’s going to stress the coolers in the store.”
“Ach, those coolers are practically brand-new.” He jerked the dolly into place and we hoisted boxes of product onto it. “Younger than me.”
“Pop, they’re fifty years old. The warranty expired before I was born. They clank like Marley’s ghost. If we could just get one new cooler with the fund—”
“That cash is for emergencies.” His tone said end of conversation.
Well, wonderful. Hold off thoughts of Glynn and kisses with the distraction of work? Silence to fret in was so helpful.
But work in silence we did. Pop threw heavy boxes on the stack like they were Styrofoam. He was strong enough to have loaded alone—for all his diminutive size, he was built like a mule. But I always helped, and not just because of duty. Pop made me, to “build up my strength”. He was big into the Protestant work ethic—but secretly I think he still wanted me to be a son.
Nixie Emerson has this thing about names having power. Her parents christened her Dietlinde in a subtle attempt to mold sassy-punker her into a normal German.
My dad naming me Gunter, nickname Junior? Not nearly so subtle.
One of the reasons I grew my hair down to my ass. Before I got the breasts, it was the only way people remembered I wasn’t a boy.
In silence, we rolled product into the store, like Glynn’s lips rolling over mine… Time to talk again. “So, um, Pop. Any problems with the shipment?”
“The usual tampering with the boxes. Mustaches drawn on the Usinger elf. ‘This side up’ pointing down. These Käsegecken. So petty.” My father sniffed.
The Käsegecken were the Cheese Dudes, our next-door neighbors. Lately they’d taken to stealing or defacing our shipments if we didn’t cart them inside right away. Sometimes they’d even go through our personal mail. I knew that because Lady Liberty stamps don’t generally sport beards. Messing with US mail is a federal offense, but magic markers aren’t exactly uncommon. And the Dudes managed to stick the mail back in our box within a day, so we couldn’t prove it wasn’t just slow delivery.
Never mind that the MC post office was so punctual they had a “thirty minutes or it’s free” policy—and a record better than Ritsa’s pizza delivery.
I said, “I still don’t get why they hate us. Selling Limburger and Brie right next to our bratwurst and kielbasa. You’d think that’d be a perfect pairing. Cheese and sausage, right?”
“They are jealous. Ours is the better location. The larger store.”
“But why the vandalism? There’s more, Pop.”
“Sure, they accuse us of being old fashioned fuddy-duddies, of scaring away their customers. How silly is that? They, who are the newfangled flash-in-the-pans, are scaring off ours. When you walk into a tourist shop, you expect a cheery little tinkle-bell, ja?”
I had to admit their deathmetal recording screaming “Cheese, Marvelous Cheese” certainly changed the ambience of the area. But all I said was, “Their Web site is pretty kickass.”
“Watch your mouth.”
And that killed the conversation again. Not because I’d said “ass”. Because I’d used the W-word, Web site. In my dad’s view, anything that wasn’t built out of sausage was suspect. So while ass was totally allowable, Web site was verboten. Which made me consider Glynn’s totally allowable ass…no, no. Thinking of work, not Glynn. Thinking of opening the store, unpacking sausage. Opening a pack of large, fresh sausage, unzipping Glynn’s… I sighed.
At eight sharp I slipped on my Wurstspeicher Haus apron and took position behind the register, ready for business. Surely dealing with the rush of customers would take my mind off Glynn.
Oh yeah, the rush of maybe fifteen customers. A dozen were regulars who still bought their meat daily, ingrained by a lifetime of routine. (At least I hoped it was routine, not necessity. Meiers Corners was pretty old-fashioned, but I didn’t think they had iceboxes instead of refrigerators. Probably.)
A couple of midweek tourists were salted among the dutiful dozen. Not a lot of traffic.
I chafed. Nothing to do behind the counter but dream of Glynn. And I couldn’t leave. Despite doing most of our business weekends and holidays, even though I’d started an Internet presence, someone needed to run the daily cash register. The sum total of the work force was Mom, Pop and me.
Why not just hire someone? Well, our net on fifteen customers was maybe fifty dollars. Fifty a day versus $8.25 an hour minimum wage (Illinois’s is higher than the national)—not a lot of options. The only people you could pay less than minimum was family or a slave. Sometimes I thought they were the same thing.
Yeah, whiny, I know. I had a roof over my head, three free squares and as much gas money as I needed as long as I walked everywhere. I loved my parents and they needed me.
But I couldn’t live at home forever.
The store’s bell tinkled, barely heard over the clank of our old coolers and the soaring notes of La Traviata (Mom had moved into the nineteenth century). A customer. No matter what I wanted, my motto was “If you have the job, do the job”. I snapped on my professional smile and my brain snapped on its sausage-selling instinct.
My body snapped on a tingle, imagining a doorway filled with lyrical baritones of the Big Dark and Dangerous kind.
But it was Twyla Tafel.
“Hey, Junior. I’ve come for my blood sausage.” Twyla sauntered in on Kenneth Cole heels, a hundred and forty pounds of curves and detours wrapped in a Donna Morgan suit, blue-green. Only she’d probably call it teal or azure. An art major in school, Twyla was the mayor’s executive admin, emphasis on Executive. We have a mayor, but like king and prime minister, he does the handshakes and Twyla, the daughter of an African diplomat, actually governs.
I pulled up her order. “More blood sausage? Didn’t you just get some last week?”
“What can I say? Guests seem to like it.” She signed for it. “Oh, I need to add a personal blood sausage order. Five pounds.”
“We’re selling a lot of blutwurst lately. I wonder why. I can’t imagine cooked blood being widely popular.”
“Maybe don’t question it too closely. It’s all money in the register, right?” She gave me a bright smile as she pulled out her wallet. “Speaking of which, the city’s order is covered by our PO, but is credit okay for mine?”
“Sure. The Wurstspeicher Haus has made it into the twenty-first century in some things.”
“Thanks to you.” She laughed as she flipped out a card. “I think your dad would still be asking ‘paper or canvas’.”
“Or pigs’ bladder. Speaking of which, is a plastic bag okay?” When she nodded, I started filling one. “So what’s with the personal order? Party?”
“Julian and Nixie have a few guests.”
My head snapped up. Twyla’s a resident of the Emerson townhouses, living there with her hot Greek, Nikos. “Guests? Like for the PAC opening?”
“You’ve heard of it?” She gave a quick, rueful smile. “Of course you have. Nixie told me you’re playing in the pit. Sorry. I’ve just been so worried about it. It’s the culmination of some pretty serious budget retooling.”
The bell tinkled. I glanced at the door, hoping for Big Dark and Dangerous, but a couple tourists wandered in. I said hello and smiled helpfully at them. They ignored me to check out the coolers.
Out-of-towners. They didn’t mean to be rude; they just didn’t know any better.
I turned back to Twyla. “Budget retooling?”
Twyla angled closer and lowered her voice. “You know the economy is pretty grim, right? Well, Meiers Corners is mostly self-sufficient, but it’s affecting even us. The mayor had a brilliant idea.”
I groaned. “An all-polka channel on Hulu?”
“Please. I had some hand in this. Problem is, we’re a local economy. That limits us. To expand, we need to go regional. We picked tourism as our vehicle, and are sinking cash into all things quaint and touristy.”
“But that’s awesome.” Little dollar signs floated before my eyes. The sausage store was the epitome of quaint and touristy.
“Sure. Except to finance the expansion, Mayor Meier talked the Sparkasse Bank into making loans. Lots of them, and some pretty serious money, including the renovation of the PAC.”
“But the bank makes money on loans, doesn’t it?”
“If the touristy places pay the loans back. If they don’t…well, we’re not just sitting back hoping tourism takes off. We’re actively promoting it. Oz, Wonderful Oz is our kickoff. We’re counting on the pull of a Broadway-caliber show to bring in the out-of-towners. If they like it well enough, they’ll come back with a couple thousand of their friends.”
“That’s no problem. I saw the show last night. It’ll be terrific.”
“That’s not what I heard.” She leaned in. “I heard it was awful.”
“Julian?” I shrugged. “It was the first dress. The stars are outstanding. It’ll be awesome.”
“I’m glad you’re confident. The bank went out on a bit of a limb. Not as bad as the bottom dropping out of realty, but if the tourist businesses don’t turn a healthy profit and can’t pay back the loans, the bank will be in trouble. Best scenario?” She lowered her voice once again until I was practically reading her lips. “The bank gets sold. And the buyers might not be so friendly to locals.”
“Ouch. If our coolers go, I’m hoping to get a loan myself.”
“Then play that show like it’s your ticket to Coolerville.”
Not only my future was riding on this production. The city’s financial health was too.
At five thirty I turned the register over to my rent-a-kid and ran upstairs for the traditional before-rehearsal, five-second shower and degreasing. Cotton really soaks up the odor of garlic and marbled fat.
I had just pulled black jeans and a black T-shirt over a lacy powder-blue thong and demi-bra (they were next in the underwear drawer—really) and was brushing my teeth when a knock came at the attic door.
“That’s weird.” No one ever knocked. Because of the setup, my parents were the only ones who had access to the attic, and they took unholy delight in bursting in on me unannounced. Especially (to my chagrin) when I was “going through puberty”, if you know what I mean. Curious, I spat and rinsed and headed for the far door. It took me across my “hallway”.
Picture a capital T. Turn it sideways and set it on our house, the top bar along Jefferson in the south. My room—bedroom and tiny bath—was at the intersection, sitting like a tree fort in the branches of the attic, the rest being bare rafters and blown insulation.
The stairwell door was at the foot of the T. A set of two-by-fours laid over the joists was my hall. I traveled it by instinct, ignoring the fact that one wrong step would put me through my parents’ ceiling. If I ever got out of here, I’d be a shoo-in for a high wire act.
I hurried to the door and opened it. Swallowed my tongue.
Filling the doorway and then some was Glynn, hands thrust in his black leather jacket pockets.
His jaw, freshly shaved, was more honed than I remembered, his skin almost dewy. His lips… I groaned. The upper begged for a nibble, the lower demanded a full tongue-swipe. Those edible lips parted, revealing strong white teeth. The tip of his tongue peeked through.
A storm of lust broke in my belly, drenched my thong.
Glynn’s nostrils flared, elegant yet animal. His eyes—smack me with a kielbasa, his eyes burned deep, hot purple.
“H…how’d you get in?” I croaked. More thong-dousing—apparently parts of me wanted to know how he’d “get in” too.
“Through the store. Your teenager wasn’t very attentive. I found my way into the house.”
“You penetrated the family abode?” Penetrated. Just club me. “Um, why have you come?” Come. “Here, I mean. Why have you come here…to the store? Yes, that’s what I meant.” Shut up, Junior.
I heard a soft grunt, a stifled groan. Him or me, I didn’t know.
“I’ve come to pick you up.” His mouth barely moved, lips stiff. “We’ve Emerson’s limo.” He shifted his hands from his jacket to jam them into his jeans pockets.
“Limo?” My eyes automatically latched on to his hands, which framed a rising zipper. “You’re offering me a fast ride…?” Oh, thank you, Dr. Freud. I cleared my throat and pretended I wasn’t an ass. “You do know the PAC is only a block from here?”
“It’s on our way. I didn’t like the thought of you toting those heavy instruments when I could do something about it.”
“That was nice.” Trapped in a limo with Big Dark and Dangerous, porn flick fantasy number five. Maybe I should have refused, but lugging the headless-corpse sax was a pain. Besides, how much trouble could we get into in just one block? “Give me a sec to pack up.” I started to close the attic door. Manners took over. “Why don’t you come back? Be careful to stay on the walkway.” I started for my room.
No footsteps clunked behind me. I took a couple more steps but still heard nothing, so I twisted around to see if he was there.
I managed to twist myself off-balance. I tried to catch myself, but my foot hit the edge of the narrow walkway, skidded off. No nearby walls or even studs to grab, so I fell.
With incredible speed and grace, Glynn snared me just before I put a Junior-size hole through my parents’ ceiling. I was ridiculously grateful—until I realized he’d caught me around the breasts.
And that one big, hot hand was gently squeezing.
I sucked in a breath. Jagged darts of lust fired from that rhythmically squeezing hand and arrowed down my belly to detonate in my groin.
“Ah, Junior. You’re so soft.” Glynn’s breath heated my hair. “So lovely.” He rolled me around until I was facing him. His arms wrapped me, bands of hard muscle. “I didn’t sleep at all last night, thinking about you. Your scent, your feel. Your taste.”
I stared up at him, wondering if I had really fallen through the ceiling gypsum and was lying unconscious on my folks’ kitchen floor. This gorgeous stranger had been thinking about me all night? My brain tried to make sense of it… He dropped his head and kissed me.
His mouth took me slowly. Not leisurely slow but purposefully slow, thoroughly, his lips circling gently. Like we lay entwined on a summer beach, cool sand below, warm sun above, with nothing to do but each other. And he was going to do me oh, so right.
My eyelids drifted shut, my palms slid onto his chest. His hard, thick pecs were warm slabs of brick.
He dipped in, tongue licking lightly at my mouth. My lips parted, my breath mingled with his and I tasted masculine fire. I opened more eagerly for him—but he backed off, tonguing the corners of my mouth, tracing the outline of my lips. Rubbing lightly yet thoroughly. Sweetly, as if we had lifetimes to explore each other.
Like a kiss of commitment.
I pulled back. “No involvement” was more than an aim, it was a mantra. Duty to my parents, followed by my dreams. Commitment didn’t figure in except as a stumbling block to avoid.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you.”
I was afraid, not that he’d hurt me physically, but that he’d take over my future.
He didn’t know that and only held me more firmly. Securely. Despite my doubts, I felt safe in his warm, strong arms.
Until he bent and kissed the stuffing out of me, tongue swirling masterfully, pure, hot sensation. I squeaked but he distracted me by rubbing his muscled chest into my palms. My fingers tightened compulsively. The man’s pecs were sauna rocks set to steaming. My fear melted away, leaving only need.
I stretched up, kissed him back.
He gripped me tighter, practically fusing me with his burning body, and rocked his pelvis into me. His hips were the blacksmith’s hammer and mine the anvil, sparking red-hot lust between. And oh, what a fine, large sword was developing.
I clutched his jacket, pulled him toward my room. We’d fall into a tangled heap on my bed. I’d be eager and open and suck him in for some mind-blowing sex.
As if he read my mind, Glynn purred, “Ah, Junior. This is what filled my dreams last night. You, all warm and wet and ready for me. It seems I have been waiting a lifetime to make love to you.”
Okay, that finally broke through the red haze of my mind.
Sex, sure, in small doses. But making love? Lovemaking led to neglect of duty, which led to regret. To rainbow dreams shattered. I had been a dutiful daughter for five years, and I was just on the verge of having it all, setting my parents up while fulfilling my dreams. I was not getting distracted now.
I jerked away. And stumbled, again nearly sailing through the joists.
Again Glynn caught me, but this time he set me away from him, his eyes violet-blue slits between black lashes. “What’s wrong, babi?” His voice sounded like maybe he was insulted and I wondered if that startling color of his eyes signaled strong emotion.
Time for “distract with any truth that was not The Truth”—a Wurstspeicher Haus Sales Maneuver, for those of you keeping score at home. “I don’t want to be late again. For rehearsal.”
“Oh?”
“See, if I do good, when the company goes to Broadway, I go with. So I have to do good.”
His eyes stayed narrow a moment longer, almost glittering. Then he nodded and held his hand toward my room, indicating I should go first.
I stared for a moment at that long-fingered hand, as sexy as his honed jaw and talented mouth. “But you knew that, right? If Mishela goes, you’re going too.”
“I have other obligations.” He flexed his fingers, a reminder that he was waiting for me to lead the way.
His long, strong fingers flexing, flexing between my thighs… I swallowed hard and went, but I kept my gaze glued to my feet the whole way. Not to avoid tripping. To avoid sexy hands. “Aren’t you going to New York?”
“I’m not.”
“Why not?” My instruments were where I left them after practicing at lunch. Normally I put them away, but there had been an emergency in the shop. A sausage emergency, now there’s an oxymoron. “Mishela needs a bodyguard for little Meiers Corners but she doesn’t need one in New York?”
“It would take too long to explain.”
“I have to pack up. You have time.” I disassembled instruments, mindful of Glynn with each joint. Stupid hands.
“New York is a different…territory, for want of a better word. Elias will hire a bodyguard who is native to the area, to avoid conflict. What’s all this?” He came into my room to point at my African collage—Pyramids, the Sahara and Mt. Kilimanjaro.
“Places I want to visit.” I knew he was trying to distract me, but I’d barely managed to stop thinking about sexy, strong hands, and now in this tight space I couldn’t avoid the heat of his big body, overwhelming the cool spring evening. Or his scent, masculine and leather-clad, mingling intriguingly with the light smell of new-mown grass. It made me think of laying him down in a field, climbing on top, snagging my thong out of the way and…stuff me into sheep guts and boil me, I was such a sausage-brain. I slammed the sax case shut and picked it up.
Or tried to. Somehow Glynn was there, shouldering me aside and snaring the handle in his own big strong hand. “You can carry the little ones, babi.”
I tried to think of something to say to take my mind off his fucking hands. Ooh, fucking hands rubbing between my… I cleared my throat. “Babi. What language is that?”
“Welsh.”
Which explained the lovely lilt to his words.
We managed to make it downstairs without me jumping his big, hot…damn or his lovely, strong…fuck. A limo awaited us at the curb. I’d never ridden in one before and wanted to savor the experience, but Glynn hustled me in next to Mishela, barely pausing to toss my sax in before sliding across from us and slamming the door.
I frowned. “What’s that smell?”
Mishela quirked a smile. “Hello to you too, Junior.”
“Hi. Don’t you smell that? Something’s burning.”
“Is it?” She blinked big green eyes, and her eyebrows lifted like she was the most truthful being in the world. I knew it as a Sales Maneuver. Maybe actors had Truths and Maneuvers too. I wondered if they used different numbers.
The limo turned in to the underground parking structure and dropped us off on B1 (I didn’t see who was driving but I did catch Hybrid on the back of the limo…yeah, environmentally conscious extreme consumption). From there, we trotted upstairs. With Glynn carrying the sax, we made good time, despite my still-wet thong hitching every other stride. He wasn’t just decorative but useful. If a guy like that were mine…dammit, Queen Bess was wrong. The problem hadn’t gone away, it had gotten worse—and I still had no idea what to do about it.
The nice thing about being dedicated to your work is that you can put awkward questions on hold to do the job. Mishela peeled off to go to the dressing rooms. Since Glynn had my sax, he continued alone with me, but I was confident that my professionalism would not let me trip him and grind his naked hips into the plush new carpet.
Mostly confident.
He held the house door open for me. I said a professional thanks and slid by him with a professional foot of airspace. I shivered at his body heat, but dammit, it was a professional shiver.
The moment Julian Emerson saw Glynn, he set down his cello and jumped to his feet. Tucking my sax next to the pit, Glynn took off with Julian. Huh. Blue-blood lawyer and Welsh bodyguard, BFFs? That might explain why Glynn had Julian’s limo, but I wondered why Julian had warned me to be careful around Glynn if they were friends.
But hey, maybe here was the secret to dialing down my attraction to Glynn. Maybe Nixie and Julian had the goods on him, some personal wart since the whole knifey, teeth-picking thing hadn’t worked out. Grilling was in order. After assembling my sax, I grabbed my gig bag and slid into the chair next to Nixie, who was already warming up. “So we went out with Glynn and Mishela last night and didn’t explode or catch any communicable disease.”
“Sad for you,” Nixie said around her clarinet mouthpiece. Blowing a couple more notes that squeaked like fingernails on chalkboard, she grimaced and yanked off the reed, slid it into its case and pulled out a new one.
“Julian warned me off Glynn too. What is it with you guys, anyway? Mishela’s perfectly nice. And Glynn…” Well, Glynn was Glynn.
“So nothing happened? ” She stuck the new reed in her mouth. “Nothing at all?” The reed wobbled like a sucker as she spoke.
Besides wolf-dogs and Rocky’s strange reaction? “What counts as nothing?”
Nixie sucked on her reed a long time, seriously thinking, which worried me. I’d wanted a wart, but Nixie doing serious meant a plague.
Finally she drew a breath. “Knowing how dedicated you are to your folks, I shouldn’t worry. But if there’s even a chance of you and Glynn coupling up, you need the 4-1-1. He’s not what you think, Junior. He’s a—”
Clapping hands cut her off. “Places, people.”
Hot pink, lime green and saffron yellow sashayed onto the stage, making my eyes water. Director Dumas. He called, “Places for warm-up. Last night was a disaster, so we’re going to do mirrors. Everyone up-up-up.” He glared into the pit. “Including musicians.”
Takashi waved his baton as if it could parry Dumas. “We need to run the overture and entr’acte.”
“Later. Get your asses onstage for the warm-up. Stage crew.” Dumas whirled, waved to the hesitating, black-clad figures. “Everyone means ev-ry-one.”
Mishela glided into view in the wings, Dorothy braids swaying. Glynn was a dark, faithful shadow behind her. Near her, Scarecrow, Lion and Tin Man also poked their heads around the side curtains.
“Everyone! Actors, crew, musicians. Now-now-now, what are you waiting for? Yes, even you stars.” Dumas pointed at Dorothy and her companions.
Scarecrow shrugged his bony shoulders. “Let’s do this.”
“Parents and sitters too. You, skulking there.” Dumas jerked two fingers at Glynn. “Let’s go!”
Glynn edged back into the wings, ready to bolt. Smart boy. Acting exercises held as much appeal as flossing with barbed wire.
Dumas simply strode into the curtain legs, latched on to Glynn and pulled. The director was surprisingly forceful, but Glynn was a Welsh mountain, obstinately not going anywhere.
Until Mishela gave him a pleading look. Glowering, Glynn came.
Whoa. She wasn’t the boss of him. Which meant not only did he not pick his teeth with a knife, he was the rare male who set aside his own desires just to be nice.
A primitive need flared in me, an elemental me want.
Glynn’s big, dangerous body hit a pool of light. Dumas’s glare shattered into an agog stare. I sympathized. No matter how many times I saw that man candy, I went into hyperglycemic shock too.
But here was an opportunity marked obvious. I’d never want to throw anyone to the sharks, but if Glynn had diverted Dumbass, I was taking advantage of it. I hunkered down, disaster narrowly averted. Julian and Nixie exchanged a relieved glance.
Until— “Musishuns up here. Nowsh.” Dumbass’s diction was a little off, but drool will do that.
With a sigh, Takashi clicked baton onto stand. “We’ll get done sooner if we cooperate.” He gave us all a look of apology. “Please?”
Grumbling, we moved out like nonflossers lining up for Jill “The Drill” Schmerz (MC dental hygienist and WWII reenactment enthusiast), nobody wanting to be first. Takashi grabbed my elbow and marched me to the stage. He certainly would be successful, doing what needed to be done. Ass hat.
“Everyone pair up. Quickly now.” Dumas tried to tug Glynn onto center stage, but Glynn was doing his Welsh mountain thing again. He didn’t move an inch, which wasn’t surprising considering he probably had a good fifty pounds of pure muscle on Dumas. Dumas glared, found himself glaring at strong throat, shifted up.
I saw the exact instant Dumas intercepted Glynn’s sapphire Scowl of Dismemberment. Dumas fell back a step. “You then.” He pointed indiscriminately, his eyes still locked on Glynn. “You, come here.”
Unfortunately, he pointed straight at me.
I pretended I hadn’t seen his Judas finger, but Takashi oh-so-helpfully shoved me forward. Somebody was so getting a gumwad under his stand at break.
But Business Truth #3 is “If you can’t run, gut it out”. I went.
Dumas snatched my wrist, twirled me and shoved me ass-end into Glynn. I stumbled, would have fallen had not Glynn caught me—again. I blushed at how clumsy I was around this hard, sexy male, both tongue and feet. At least this time he grabbed waist, which was less intimate than breasts.
Or so I thought until my butt landed against his hips and his big, warm hand splayed over my stomach, covering my whole stomach. A bright bolt of need shot through me.
With a clap of hands, Dumas spun away. “Pair up, pair up.” He pranced center stage, heading for Mishela.
“Mine!” Gollum-like Steve darted in and grabbed for her wrist.
Glynn growled, low and not quite human, eerily like the animal last night. Pressed to him, I felt him tense to leap. Big, muscular Glynn, stick-thin Steve. This would be bad.
But before Glynn could jump, Julian Emerson seized Mishela’s wrist out from under Steve’s bony fingers. Julian drew her to the slim guy in patched jeans and a straw hat who was the Scarecrow, Jon Wise. Jon smiled adoringly at her.
Steve pouted.
Behind me, Glynn tensed more. He didn’t seem to like the idea of Mishela with Jon either. I tried to diffuse the situation. “Jon’s a star. Besides, how much trouble can he cause in the middle of a crowd?”
Glynn only growled, real animal this time. It jacked me straight, which rubbed my bottom against him. His growl cut off as he jacked straight too. And something else jacked stiff.
I’m not totally inexperienced, so I recognized the blooming in his jeans. What I didn’t recognize was the size. What, did he have a pneumatic XL sock? An inflatable, deluxe rubber raft? I deliberately tried to come up with the least arousing comparisons I could because, sweet lord, Glynn’s XL—make that XXL—nestled warm and snug into my bottom like coming home.
Speaking of coming home…he rubbed his cheek against my hair and murmured, “You’re right, babi. Sometimes I become too distrustful. Thank you.” He curled close.
I leaned automatically into his warmth. If I had the comfort of this strong male to come home to every night, it might almost be worth giving up dreams…ring me up as produce. Warts, picking teeth, professional distance, none of it seemed to work with him. I had to get away—
“Face your partner. Mirrors, everyone.” Dumas zoomed in and twisted me in Glynn’s arms, making escape impossible. Damn him. I wasn’t sure if I meant Dumas or Glynn.
The director flitted from pair to pair, a shrimp-pink butterfly with lime peel wings. “One person moves. The other matches it. Try to anticipate your partner. Come on, people, I want to see some synergy here.”
I put space between me and Glynn, trying to lower my blood pressure, but my eyes landed automatically on his fly and I coughed, waved a hand at his portable power tool. “I don’t think I can mirror that.”
He blew air. “Just do the exercise. Let’s not make this difficult. I’ll follow you.”
His eyes didn’t follow me. His gaze was over my head, on Mishela.
That cooled me off like nothing else could have. I was trying not to be interested, but I was a moderately good-looking female. Couldn’t he at least give me a courtesy ogle?
“I don’t need to look at you.” He growled it, a man-growl this time.
“What?”
“You pouted because I’m looking at Mishela instead of you, but that’s my job. Besides, I don’t need to look at you to want you. You’re burned into my memory.”
“I never pout. It’s not professional.”
“You do. And it’s adorable.”
“I don’t—huh?” Adorable? He was sweet as well as sexy? Here was a man who might be worth giving up duty and rainbows…spank me with a sackbut.
Other pairs were doing a sort of mime-in-box thing. I held up one hand, flat like I was pressing it to a mirror, and circled it. Time to get some mental space too. “Hey, how many viola players does it take to make a batch of chocolate chip cookies?”
Glynn matched his palm to mine and followed me effortlessly. Without looking. “How many?”
“Ten. One to make the dough and nine to peel the M&Ms. It’s funny because they’re violists.”
“Ha.” His eyes were still on Mishela.
“Why does she need a bodyguard, anyway? She’s no Hollywood star.” I did a quick double hand wave.
He followed, again effortlessly, again without looking. “She’s important to Mr. Elias, and Elias is important to us.”
“Us.” I snapped my fingers and so did Glynn. Damn, he was good. “Who’s us?”
“A neighborhood watch.”
“I see.” Glynn the Dangerous. A homey neighborhood watch guy? I circled double figure eights. “This important Mr. Elias… You don’t mean Kai Elias, do you? President of Steel Security’s board?”
“Among others.” Glynn followed, hands level with mine. “Mishela’s his ward. If something were to happen to her, it would…distract him from more important matters.”
“What, like counting his money?”
“Like government consulting.”
“So you’re telling me that business mogul Kai Elias not only lives in Iowa but is part of your neighborhood watch?” I’d just realized Glynn’s palms traced his figure eights over my breasts. Blushing hot, I changed to patting my head and stomach. “What government consulting does he do? Coralville’s city council?”
“A bit bigger. The Pentagon and White House.”
That sounded more like bazillionaire Elias. So what was he doing playing around with a neighborhood watch? “Does Elias—”
“He’s a very private person. That’s all I know.”
It cut off that topic, at least for now. I switched motions and subjects. “So you bodyguard in Iowa for a living?”
“I do a variety of things, of which guard is one. And I’m only based in Iowa. I work all over the world.” He mirrored my new gesture, a taffy-pulling motion. It made his pecs dance under the wedge of T-shirt revealed by his jacket.
My tongue lolled. Oh, for the jacket totally off, so I could see the whole chest ballet.
His tongue poked out. Oops, apparently my tongue-rolling wasn’t purely mental. I sucked my lust—and tongue—back in.
But it reminded me. “Why the jacket all the time? You don’t strike me as the cold type.” In fact, the times we’d touched, he’d struck me as very, very hot…yeah.
“I’m more comfortable with it on. Are you done with the interrogation?”
“Interro—” I stuck fists on hips. “And what does that mean?”
His fists hit his hips at exactly the same instant. “Interrogation. To ask questions, or a formal examination. What would you call it?”
“Having a conversation.” I frowned.
He frowned in exactly the same way. But something, maybe the quirk of a black brow, made me realize he was teasing me, confirmed when he added, “Such a cute pout.”
“I do not pout.” Sweet, strong and funny. I was closer than I’d ever been to throwing aside duty and dreams to clamp on to his ass or chest and never let go. If I had to endure much more of this enforced closeness…but it had to end, hopefully soon, and then I’d run away. Permanently. I’d never again be close enough to feel…to smell…to kiss…
“Stop, people, stop-stop-stop!” Dumas clapped. “That was terrible. Clearly we need to go back to the basics. Report tomorrow at six for a half hour of drill. Everybody.”
I jerked back. There was a general groan, but I groaned loudest.
I was such a schmuck.
If you’ve got the job, do the job. I wanted to grab Glynn and never let go. I wanted to run away and never come back. But I trooped down into the pit, took up instruments and played my very best. Tomorrow I’d come back. I’d try like heck to get out of acting drills, but I’d return. Sometimes the personal code of honor thing sucks.
Rehearsal went better with the local fill-in actors not so spooked at trumpets and drums coming from the pit. Even the dog playing Toto, a little terrier belonging to my uncle (everybody is related in Meiers Corners, even the livestock), stopped trying to hide behind the scenery.
Dumas staged the final bows, and when the house lights came up, he clapped his hands. “Good job, people. Sit down for notes.”
Mishela slid to the edge of the stage, her ankles dangling over into the pit. Her expression was a poignant combination of eager and hesitant. “Hey, Junior. Where’s Rocky?”
“She’s at another rehearsal tonight.”
Her face fell. “Oh. Well. Meet you at Nieman’s?”
And chance her shadow? Not. “I would,” I began, and her face fell further. Still I plowed on. “But money’s a bit tight—”
“Glynn could pay.” She smiled at the dark essence back in the wings. “Right, Glynn?”
He couldn’t have possibly heard her, but he nodded. Or rather the top of the shadow folded once like a nod.
“So, Nieman’s?”
Her face lit so hopefully. I remembered she was lonely and sighed. If Glynn could suck it up and do what was needed rather than what he wanted, so could I. “Sure. Nieman’s.”
“Mishela.” Dumas trotted up to the pit wall, a frown on his thin face. “As the star, you need to be in top form.”
“Glynn will make sure I don’t stay out too late, Mr. Dumas.” She nodded toward the big shadow.
“Ah, Glynn.” Dumas repeated the name like my dad would say “profit margin”. “Well, all right. But just to make sure—I’ll come along.” After dropping that bombshell, he raised his voice. “Let’s go, people. I want to get these notes done before I expire.”
