Biting Oz: Biting Love, Book 5 (7 page)

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.