Dragging my nails lightly across Johnny’s chest, I snuggled tighter against him and let the feeling of security in his arms take hold. I cast aside my worries and slept.
CHAPTER TEN
Pounding on the door awakened me. It sounded like someone kicking.
Wrapping up in the sheet—Johnny lay on his stomach sleeping—I hurried into the front room. The kicking continued in trios, with pauses between. The clock on the stove read eleven-twenty.
As I reached the door, during one of the intervals, I heard an exasperated voice shout, “Just open the fucking door already.” At least I thought that’s what the muffled voice said.
“Who’s there?” I asked through the intercom.
The female voice answered, “Risqué.” She didn’t use the intercom but shouted through the door. I barely heard her.
Not sure I wanted to open the door for someone who wouldn’t use the techy device let alone someone named for being daringly close to impropriety, I asked, “And why are you kicking the door?”
“Because I’m holding your heavy-ass breakfast tray.”
Oh. Good reason. I worked at the strange locks and opened the door.
“Finally.” Risqué barged in, blazing past me like a five-foot inferno. She marched toward the kitchen. Mounds of blond ringlets hung down her back and bounced as she walked, hitting the top of frilly orange boy shorts that left her shapely, tan legs bare—legs that seemed long despite her lack of height. “Thank Hell your groceries are going to arrive today,” she said belligerently. “Boss said there’s no food in your kitchen, and to be sure you and the wolf-man have enough to eat.” She shoved the tray onto the counter. “So there you fucking go.” She turned, showing me a disparaging frown and big eyes—the color of which matched her fire-engine-red lipstick. It stunned me silent.
Offerlings and Beholders are the humans accepted into the vampire’s court. The former for their beauty and the latter for their muscle. Risqué might not be entirely human, or she might just have a thing for albino rabbit contacts, but either way, she was scary and beautiful. If pressed, I’d have pegged her as an Offerling.
Offerlings get two marks at the outset, so even new Offerlings outranked longtime Beholders in a vampire’s court. An Erus Veneficus outranked any Offerling. Status: reason for her irritation with me. She might have benefits above every Beholder in the building, but my newly arrived self represented a dose of comeuppance—hence, she was carrying my tray. Menessos had mentioned there would be jealousy and her behavior fit. And he also mentioned he was not sex starved.
Risqué gave me the once-over and evidently disapproved of my sheet. “Do not tell me you’re going for the Greek goddess morning-after look. Ugh.”
I decided her hair reminded me of powdered eighteenth-century hairstyles, but with less height and even more ringlets. She had ringlets in front, too. They—and nothing else—covered her breasts. More or less.
“Boss put clothes in the closet for you, you know.” Those startling eyes squinted up angrily when she spoke. “I’m sure there’s a nice Vera Wang robe in there.”
Letting her get to me would be a mistake. I walked to the kitchen bar. “Mind your tone, Risk.”
“It’s Risqué. Ris-kay. And he told me to tell you about the clothes.”
I lifted the silver lid on the tray. Eggs, sausage, bacon, pancakes, oatmeal. Mmmm, oatmeal. In a tone that could’ve been used to inquire about salt, I asked, “Did he tell you to be a bitch, too?”
“No. That’s just part of the delivery service.” Her scowl was fantastic, but lowered brows were an intrinsic part of such an expression. Her brows didn’t lower. Instead of curving down on the outside to frame her eyes, they rose above her temples and seemed to join with her hairline. The not-quite-human theory was gaining.
“Do I smell bacon?” Beside the now-dark hearth, the curtain parted and Johnny emerged, wearing only jeans. He hadn’t bothered to zip them all the way or button them, so the patch of dark hair under his belly button showed.
“Ooooo. Yes, darlin’, you do,” Risqué said, tone shifting to a Texas drawl as sweet as pecan pie. “But I will personally take your order if what’s on the tray ain’t enough to satisfy you.”
He reevaluated the scene in a glance that was well aware of her short-shorts, shapely legs, and, uh, ringlets. “Yeah, I’ve got an order,” he said, hungrily.
“Tell me.” Risqué shimmied her shoulders a little, resettling the blond curls so the tips of her pert breasts peeked through. Her nipples were too red, and I wasn’t sure if that was a sign of abuse or a trait related to her eye color. She moved away from the counter and toward him as if to greet him. “What’s your order?”
“Get out.” At the last moment, Johnny angled and graced her with that rude shoulder bump that punks do to people on sidewalks. With their varied heights, it was more of his elbow bumping her shoulder.
With a loud “hmpf” of protest, she spun on her heel and left.
As the door shut, Johnny zeroed in on the bacon.
Thankful she was gone, I said, “I’m glad you’re up.”
Lifting three slices, he stopped to check his jeans front, then shot me a grin. “Huh. It was there when I woke up. Guess she scared it away. Just let me refuel . . .” He bit into the bacon.
“I meant awake.”
“But that’s not what you said. You’re refueling, too, right?”
“Oh, yes.”
While he searched for a plate, I tied the sheet ends and sat at the bar with my oatmeal. The sausage smelled so good. “Menessos insinuated that I had bonded to you, and that because of it I’d probably want meat.”
He snickered. “I suppose you want two innuendo points now?”
“Of course. I can’t hope to win this little contest, but I don’t want to give the impression that I’ve given up, either.” I lifted my spoon. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”
“Nope.”
“Do you know the lore of the Domn Lup or any mystical bonding-type stories with waeres?”
“Oh, I’ve heard some stories about waere bondage but I don’t think that’s the same thing.” He served himself a hearty helping of everything but the oatmeal. “And I don’t know how you survive without meat.” On his fork, he held a curiously shaped sausage link. “Wanna bite?”
After studying it and seeing how much grease was on it, I said, “Not really.”
“One bite.” He held the fork at me insistently. “You get an innuendo point for it.”
“For biting it, not sucking it, right?”
“Right. Oh, and nice one, now I’ll give you two points.” He watched me with more interest than he should have, but after I’d “mmmmed” appropriately, he didn’t push for more. “So what’s on the agenda today?”
I shrugged. “Eat. Shower. Wait for Nana’s announcement, I guess. I’m hoping that sometime soon we’ll hear from Xerxadrea—if not, we may have to make a conference call on the protrepticus—and get our plans for dealing with the fairies in order.”
“Sam will coordinate that, right?”
“I intend to insist.”
“Well, all that sounds like stuff to do later. I’ve got a plan of my own in mind, and this one will keep you from pacing the floor here.”
I thought the “not pacing” idea was going to convert into a suggestion of shower sex followed by more sleep. Actually, I was hoping for that. But Johnny, oddly, had something else entirely on his mind, though it did involve wrapping my legs around him.
We rode around Cleveland astride his Harley. Before we took off, he explained it was a Night Train and that my seat was called a badlander and bragged on the motor in terms I couldn’t understand. He also proudly showed me the custom paint job—black and silver wolves—which he’d done himself. Guitars, he said, were painted with automotive paint.