Page 13 of Love Bank
With that final warning, the door slammed behind her.
I sank down into the chair she’d climbed up on, wondering what the hell had just happened. That Amish schoolmarm with nary an inch of skin showing had tried to put me in my place. I felt like there were bugs crawling under my skin.
Put me in my place? I don’t think so, Laura Ingalls Wilder.
Men like me told other people what to do. It was what I excelled at. Giving orders, not taking them. I mean, she could out my trip to the fertility clinic, which would hurt my chances of ever scoring some time with the single ladies of Auburn Hill, but would she actually follow through with that threat? I needed more intel on this Eureka chick. Loose cannon or no substance.
Whatever I found out, I’d have to fight back subtly to make sure she didn’t spill my secret.
And fight back I would.
Nobody came in my house and threatened me.
Nobody.
5
Lucille
“Yoo-hoo!” Poppy called from the front door.
I came out to the front of the clinic, seeing her leaning over the front desk, conversing with Keva. Poppy could hit all the mailboxes on her route within four hours, but instead, she took the time to talk with each and every resident of Auburn Hill, extending her route to eight hours. The United States Postal Service never called her out on her time-wasting ways. Guess they figured her equal distribution of mail and gossip kept the town well pollenated. Or at least well informed. Nothing got past Poppy.
“Oh, Lucille. Glad you’re here.” Her face brightened into a smile as I moved toward the desk and she actually saw me past the brim of her wide visor. “The welcome sign was graffitied again at some point last night. Damn hooligans are up to no good. I bet it’s them high schoolers. I tried to tell Principal Ratchet that all that safe-sex education was going to be a problem. You can’t take teens’ primary means of releasing tension away from them and expect not to have these things crop up around town.”
Keva sputtered, not quite used to Poppy the way I was after almost twenty years of having my mail delivered by this robust lady.
“I thought their primary means of stress reduction was sports, not sex,” I added dryly.
She swiped her big paw through the air. “Pssh. That’s just what those safe-sexers try to tell you. If everyone got a little more sexy times, I bet that sign would never feel the wrath of a can of spray paint. Mark my word. More sex, less vandalism.”
I restrained myself from rolling my eyes. “Why don’t you run for office and that can be your tagline?”
Her jaw dropped open, showing off her many silver fillings. “Damn, Lucille, you might be on to something.”
Oh dear Lord, I should take my own lesson and keep my damn mouth closed. Only way to shut her down was to move the conversation along to a meatier piece of gossip. Double bonus that it could rally some townspeople to my side. Just in case I needed rallying.
“Guess what happened here yesterday after you dropped the mail off?”
Poppy leaned forward, her uniform shirt straining at the buttons across her bosom. For all the walking she did, she kept up an impressive weight. Not that I was judging. A woman shouldn’t be judged by the number on the scale. Ever. It just went to show that all the exercise in the world doesn’t wipe out genetics. Which was why inmates handing over their genetics for future children wasn’t providing the best pedigree.
I leaned forward too, watching her eyes widen with glee as I kept my voice low.
“A man came by wanting to make a deposit. Any guesses on who he may have been?”
Poppy’s mouth flopped several times before she sputtered out a guess. “The mayor? No, no. The police chief?”
I almost giggled. I knew she’d love this game. “No. An inmate.”
She gasped and then her head reared back, displaying her double chin. “Noooooo.”
I nodded. “Yes. As he was released, he stopped by here in his dingy clothes asking for money in exchange for dropping off a deposit. The guy wasn’t even wearing a shirt.”
Poppy’s head started to shake back and forth. “Oh no. No, no, no, no. That won’t do, Lucille. No woman is gonna come in here and choose sperm of a guy with a record. They want the Stanford graduate with a genius IQ. Tall, dark, and handsome with muscles popping everywhere. That’s what women want.”
My mind instantly went to a picture of Sample #264’s owner, his legs spread out and his fist not even covering a third of the length of his love stick. That was the sperm women would pay top dollar for. Well, as long as I didn’t tell them about his surly disposition.
“Lucille?”
