Page 7 of Don't Bite the Boy Next Door
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I can’t do it, Pru,” I groan, “not tonight, not tomorrow night, maybe not ever.”
“You can and you will,” she says, pushing Orson away from her as he tries to snuffle under her armpit, and rising from the couch. “But there is no hurry, tomorrow night will do just fine.”
“There is a hurry,” I frown, “you have to get back to Aspen.”
‘And I probably have to kill myself.’
“I’m not going until my plan has worked and you are safe,” she says firmly.
“Your ridiculous cookie plan,” I groan.
“Well, at least if he really is gay, as you say, then all we have to concentrate on is you and he becoming friends,” she shrugs. “You won’t ever need to be super close to him.”
“I hope so,” I murmur.
“You must be the only woman on Earth to hope that a super-hot, single neighbour – the only eligible and available sex for miles - is gay,” she laughs. “Now get to work. And this time, don’t forget my wine or the neighbour will be the least of your worries.”
I smile and shrug on my jacket.
“And you get to work too,” I turn and smirk, “you know what you need to do.”
“For Christ’s sake. This snow,” she shakes her head, “is bullshit.”
I laugh. “If you are strong enough to lift a car, you are strong enough to clear the drive. I told you, it snows like crazy here some years. The old-timers say sometimes it’s so deep no one can reach town for months.”
“Just a heads-up then,” she raises one eyebrow, “but you could get mighty thirsty if your blood bag supply is held up for that long.”
“This is only my first real, full winter here,” I nod slowly, “but you’re right. I might need to think up a contingency plan. Although people die every day around here, the funeral home is always hosting at least one body, so as long as I can get to work, I can drink.”
“You might have to run in the snow,throughthe snow,” she shudders, “if the roads become inaccessible. Right past your neighbour’s house….”
“Obviously,” I shake my head at her as I pick up Orson and give him a squeeze. “I’ll be back with your wine. Be nice to him,” I hand the pig to her, “and keep an eye on the rabbits; any sign of babies, call me.”
“They might come in handy, in a dry spell,” she muses.
“Don’t you even think of it,” I roll my eyes, “draining baby bunnies! What next?”
“Well,” she sniggers, “Iama monster…”
“Pru!”
“All jokes aside,” she laughs, “you work tonight, have fun making bodies beautiful or whatever you do, but tomorrow night we are making nice with your neighbour.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I groan.
I’m still thinking about her ultimation on the snowy drive to work, determined to think of a way to weasel out of it. But as I walk into the funeral parlour and see him standing, his back to me as he talks quietly to Shelly, all thoughts of her plan, or an alternative, fly out the window.
In an instant, I take in his tall frame leaning against the counter. He is wearing jeans and a red and black checked work jacket, the shoulders are wet, presumably from snow, as is the back of his hair.
Shelly is standing up behind the desk, a rarity for her, giving him her total and very full-breasted, attention.
Spinning on a dime, I turn to walk right back out, but she calls my name. There is no time to take a deep breath of outside air, his scent is already filling my nostrils, and my throat is burning with thirst.
Like Marie Antoinette, I step, one foot at a time, towards my doom, my thoughts ricocheting in crazy directions.
‘Let them eat cake. Oh God, I’m going to eat him. I’m going to eat him. No. No. Don’t eat him, don’t eat him. Don’t bite the boy next door, don’t bite the boy next door.’
