Biting Nixie (23 page)

“Really? Tell me more, Mr. Emerson.” All man-trapping systems now fully engaged, Mother took the chair opposite him. “Dietlinde, where is that ham?”

Julian said, “Coffee will be fine, Mrs. Schmeling.”

“You heard the man, Dietlinde. Go get the coffee!”

I gave up. Hopefully, if Julian could hold his own against vampires and mobsters, he could take on one German mother. I went to get coffee.

When I returned my mother was cooing. “The
Boston
Emersons? Then you can trace your family back to England?”

“Yes, Mrs. Schmeling. In fact, one of my relations served in the court of Elizabeth I.”

“How thrilling, Mr. Emerson.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. So far so good. I advanced into the room.

I was setting the coffee down when she hit him with, “So when did your family give up the Episcopal Church?”

Red alert, Mr. Spock. I tried to catch Julian's eye to warn him. When that didn't work I flailed my hands silently like a berserk puppet.

Julian was either criminally insane or stupid, because he ignored me. “The Church of England, actually, and we didn't give it up.”

My mother sat straight in her chair. Her eyebrows snapped together in a frown. Red eyes and fangs would not have been unexpected.

I covered my face with my hands and sank onto the sofa. Couldn't he have lied? Just a little?

My parents are old-school Missouri Synod Lutherans. I could just guess what my mother was thinking. Anglican?! Heathen! Julian was surely toast now. Mother would never stand for a mixed marriage.

Mixed
marriage
? Abruptly I uncovered my face. Where the hell had that thought come from?

I soothed myself. Surely it came from my mother. Mom was thinking marriage so I thought marriage.
I
certainly wasn't dreaming about wedding cakes and happily ever after. Especially not co-starring Julian Emerson, Suitguy Deluxe. Although his wedding tackle was certainly deluxe…no, no, no!

Julian spoke, distracting me. “Tell me more about
your
family, Mrs. Schmeling.”

It was the only thing he could have possibly said to redeem himself with my mother. Family stories and secrets were her lifeblood. She could yak half the night away.

Of course I'd heard all the stories before. So many times, in fact, that the entertainment had been leached out of them. Now on the big screen, Nixie's Family! in tedious technogray.

But Julian asked questions so skillfully I found myself listening to
new
stories. Things I'd never heard before. Things I'd never known before.

For example, I knew I was named after my aunts, my mother's sisters. But…

“Dietlinde is your older sister, Mrs. Schmeling?”

“Yes. And Nixie my younger sister.”

“Three girls and one bathroom? How did you get along?”

My mother laughed, but then got quiet. “The bathroom wasn't a problem.”

“No?” Julian prompted gently.

My mother took a deep breath, like she was gathering strength. “No. Our parents died. When I was fifteen and my sister Nixie was twelve. Dietlinde raised us. She was only eighteen. But she took two jobs and kept us together. Kept a roof over our heads and food on the table. To me, she was a hero. Nixie—my younger sister, that is—never appreciated how hard Dietlinde worked. Nixie thought Dietlinde was dull and stodgy.”

“Aunt Nixie is just a free spirit,” I said. I always liked her best. She gave me dolls and bikes and magic sets. Aunt Dietlinde gave me—socks. Aunt Nixie took me for rides in her motorboat and on her horse at her summer cottage. Aunt Dietlinde took me to knitting classes.

I always felt like a changeling in my own home. A splinter in my own family tree. Aunt Nixie was the only person who seemed to understand.

My mother sniffed. “Aunt Nixie was a troublemaker and a spoiled brat. She spent money like water, and never stopped to think where it came from. I can't count the times, even now, that she borrows money from Dietlinde. Bah.”

Aunt Nixie borrowed money from Aunt Dietlinde? But…Aunt Nixie had all sorts of things, nice things. Aunt Dietlinde had next to nothing. It wasn't fair for Aunt Nixie to take money from Aunt Dietlinde. I felt my brow furrow in a frown. I would have to rethink some more things, apparently.

“And your older daughter, Mrs. Schmeling? Will I get to meet her?”

“My older…where did you hear about Giselle?” My mother's face went stark blank.

“You have pictures.” Julian indicated a shelf full in the next room, just visible through the doorway. Damn, he had good eyesight. He looked at my mother and his expression changed. “I'm sorry. I didn't realize she had passed away.”

I felt my jaw drop. Julian had a good brain, too, if he read
that
from my mother's blank face.

“Oh. Well. It was a long time ago.”

Gently, Julian took my mother's hands in his. “That makes it harder, not easier.”

“You're right.” My mother blinked rapidly, as if against tears.

“Please tell me,” Julian said, his voice warm with compassion.

It was a nice try, but I knew
that
was doomed. My mother
never
talked about my older sister's death. I had asked, many, many times over the years. Mom never said a word, other than Giselle was a wild girl who had died of a drug overdose—and if I
ever
touched even a cigarette I would be grounded for the rest of my life.

My mother was just a tad overprotective of me.

“Giselle was sixteen.”

I stared at my mother in shock. But that really was her mouth moving. Really was my mother, talking…about my older sister.

“Only sixteen. And such a hellion.” Mother paused. Added, almost reluctantly, “So independent. Such an original.”

“How did she die?” Julian asked. It was less a question and more a breath; a whisper of acceptance and encouragement.

“She had an accident.” My mother's reply was just as soft. “Giselle used to go joyriding, though I told her not to. Such an adventure, she would say. So exciting.”

“A car crash?”

“No. A boy took her up on his motorcycle. They were going too fast down a country lane and…and Giselle was not wearing a helmet. Neither of them were. But only my Giselle died.”

My jaw dropped. “Mom! You said she died of a drug overdose!”

My mother turned on me, her expression angry but her eyes suspiciously shiny. “I did not want you idolizing your sister! I did not want you taking off higgledy-piggledy with some man and dying…too…” My mother covered her mouth, realizing what she'd revealed.

All my life, my mother had swept Giselle under the rug. I thought it was because she hated Giselle's independence.

Now I saw it hurt Mom too much. That she didn't want me to end up the same way.

Wow. I would have to rethink more than a few things.

A small sob came from my mother's chair. Any thinking or rethinking stuttered to a halt.

Oh, fizzle-shizzle! Mothers weren't supposed to cry. Especially not
my
mother, stalwart, stifling, and never, ever sloppy. I tried frantically to think of something to keep her from going off the deep end.

I just didn't know how to deal with Mom being vulnerable.

Julian came to the rescue. “Would you pour me some coffee, Mrs. Schmeling?” He picked up cup and saucer and held them out, matter-of-fact. So nice and normal.

It was the only thing that could have pulled Mom back from that scary emotional brink. “Why…yes. Yes, of course, Mr. Emerson.” My mother picked up the coffeepot, which clinked once against the tray. Then she had it under control and smoothly poured him coffee. Julian took a small, appreciative sip.

“Excellent coffee, Mrs. Schmeling.”

“Do you like it?” She set down the pot and wiped discreetly under her eyes. “It's some of the fancy roast from the grocers,” she continued in a more normal tone. “Usually I don't go in for those Vee-and-ease fancy-schmancy coffees, but…” And my mother was off and running again.

Chapter Eighteen

And that was how Julian Emerson bumped St. Bart out of first place in the Mother Race. He clinched it by taking the coffee cups and service to the kitchen and suggesting that mother and I relax and visit while he washed up.

Even I appreciated that.

When Julian came back, we chatted a bit more. Finally I asked about Bruno's little delivery.

“I put it in your room, Dietlinde,” my mother said. “It looks pretty big. Probably heavy. Maybe you should ask Mr. Emerson to help you with it.”

My mother was sending me to my room—with a
man
? Well, with a vampire, but my mother thought he was a man. According to my mother, men only had one thing on their minds. From my experience, vampires did too, but that wasn't the point. The point was…oh. I remembered my mother saying a man wouldn't stay with the cow if she didn't give him milk.

I didn't tell her the cow had already been milked. And that the man probably wouldn't stay with her anyway.

But Julian seemed to want to stay with me at least for now, so I led him to the small room upstairs that was my childhood sanctuary. I found the bazooka almost immediately and headed back.

I stopped when I realized Julian wasn't behind me. Returning to the doorway, I saw him, face thoughtful, wandering around the room. Touching things, looking at them, sniffing at a few. He considered my Neon Genesis Evangelion poster and my TMNT action figures. My first Fender propped up in the corner, and my dartboard Justin Timberlake. He stopped the longest in front of my bookcase, sitting on his haunches to read the titles on the lowest shelf. Every once in a while he'd smile, like he'd caught the name of an old friend.

Then Julian saw my special oil on the top. He rose, picked up the slender bottle. Turning, he looked at me for the first time since we'd entered the room. “What's this?”

My cheeks heated. “Isn't it obvious?”

Julian pumped a little bit into his hand, tested the consistency. Thick, but not too thick. He brought it under his nose, took a small sniff. “Mmm. Nice. What's it for?”

My blush deepened. While I lived at home it was only for masturbation. But seeing Julian rub it, smell it…I swallowed hard. “It's for fapping.”

Julian blinked. His eyes tracked in that way I was coming to know; searching for a translation.

Suddenly his eyebrows winged high. His eyes met mine. “
Fap
. The sound of intercourse on Internet porn sites.”

“Um, yeah. Or in manga.”

“Japanese comics?” His eyes tracked again. “Of course.
Baka
. Japanese for stupid. Could it be so simple? What about pwn?” I opened my mouth to reply when he said, “Internet, no…cultural reference…yes, it's computer gaming, isn't it? Pwn translates to
own
. To own or rule!”

And then, like Helen Keller breaking the sign language barrier, unlocking the door to understanding with the key word
water
, Julian got it.

“Fapping.” He advanced on me, backing me into a wall. Abruptly, he thrust the hand with the oil down my pants. His fingers slid slickly over my pubes, began caressing back and forth. “I've been buckets of stupid, haven't I?”

“Well…not exactly.” My hips rocked against his oiled hand. “What do you mean?”

His mouth hovered over mine. “Shizzle, Nixie. I've been a faphead.” He kissed me, lips feather-light. “Feening over not understanding you. You must have thought my brain was rolled, as
baka
as I've been.” His tongue flicked delicately over my lips. All the while his hand kept pumping, fingers caressing.

“Uh…not totally.
Baka
, that is.” I was trembling, my body starting to perspire. “You're not Betamax about this hXc stuff. You're wicked on that.”

“Betamax.” Julian kissed down my cheek, nipped my neck. I could feel his breath heat my skin. “Betamax cassette tapes? Ah. Old, obsolete. And hXc…hardcore?” He nudged aside my hoodie, wet the tee over my breast with his tongue. “Well, I can't help thinking hXc with you, Nixie. You're hawt.” He clamped onto my breast and began to suckle. “Leet.”

“Julian.” I was starting to pant. “We're in my
parents'
house.”

“So?” He pushed me harder into the wall, letting me know how really hawt he found me.

“So my door doesn't have a lock.” The pressure was delicious. I arched against the wall.

“So?” I heard his zipper go. He removed his hand from my pants, but only to use both to push them down to my knees. Taking my bared hips in his hands, he raised me against the wall. While I was still trying to figure out how we were going to do this with my legs clamped together by my pants, he sliced his erection between my thighs and into my pussy.

With anyone else, that would have gotten them about one inch inside. With Julian's prodigious length, he stuffed me full. “Oh,” I gasped, the heat searing me. “Wouldn't this be easier if you turned me around?”

“I want to kiss you as you come.” He lowered his head.

His kiss was no longer delicate or light. His mouth opened on mine, his tongue driving, stabbing, dominating. His hips thrust in time to his tongue, hard and sure. Between his hands, hips, and my jeans, I found myself pinned securely against the wall. I could only hang in his grip and enjoy.

My fingers tangled in his hair. I gasped his name, and he growled mine. His deep, rumbling purr started, and I swear it vibrated clear through my chest and into the wall. And all throughout he thrust, thrust, thrust.

“Julian. Bite me.” I offered my neck. “I'm so close…bite me.”

“I can't.” It seemed like he was speaking through an ocean of pain. “I would take too much. I want—oh, how I want. But your blood pressure's too low.” His words were lisped around his immense canines, as long as I'd ever seen.