Page 8 of Hell Bent (Portland Devils #5)

SEBASTIAN HAS OPINIONS

Sebastian

I followed her to the lingerie section, which was called “Intimates.” Good name, but not as good as “lingerie.” I enjoyed following her, too.

The dress was one-shouldered, silver, short, and spangly.

Best of all, a good eight inches in the middle was transparent.

No spangles there, and she was shaped fine.

And, yes, her thighs were as good as I’d imagined, too, strong but rounded.

She wasn’t skinny like the model-girlfriend of the asshole had been, and that was all good with me.

“Juicy,” you’d call those thighs, and she had some muscle tone in her bare arms and calves, too.

All of her was tall, toned, and walking like she had somewhere to go and she made no excuses, and you bet I was following her.

She stopped next to a rack of the worst underwear in the place, and I said, “Do I comment, or do I not?”

“Do what you like,” she said. “I don’t have to listen.”

I had to laugh. “True. I can only imagine what you’re wearing now, that these white cotton granny panties look good to you.”

“You’re right,” she said. “I want to be completely unglamorous, very fast. But I’m just going to buy my regular kind.” She headed off and stopped at another rack.

“Marginally better, from my point of view,” I said.

“Microfiber. Seamless. Soft. No line. Hipster.” She eyed me. “Go on and say it. I know you’re waiting to.”

“Are we expecting the word ‘thong’?” I sure wanted to know why she was in the Redding Target in a serious party dress, without Nature’s Best Non-Alpha, but it looked like I was going to have to be patient.

Fortunately, I was good at patience. At times. And she seemed like a woman who needed a chance to slow down and let life … surprise her.

“We are expecting that word,” she said, “so I’ll tell you.

You’re right, I am wearing a thong. A lace thong, and a lace bra.

They both cost ten times what my underwear normally does, and as soon as I pick out some normal ones, they’re going into the garbage.

They itch, the underwire’s digging in, and that’s not all.

I’ve been driving for five hours, and I swear the thong has ridden up an inch per hour.

At this point, it’s practically embedded in my flesh.

So here we go. Microfiber panties, microfiber bra, no underwire, no padding.

I’ll tell you what. You can pick the colors.

Six panties, size Medium. I’m sure all your usual dates are size Small, but this booty’s a Medium. Go.”

That was flirting all the way, according to my body, which had tightened up in all the expected places at the would-be crisp tone combined with the slight flush on her cheeks. I said, “Medium works for me. Here you go,” pulled out six pairs, and handed them to her. “What do you think?”

She looked at the hangers in her hands, then at me. “OK, I’m surprised. No red and no black. Not even hot pink. Why not?”

“You’ve got an old-fashioned face. A soft face and a sharp mind. It’s a killer combo. And I think you’d look …” I broke of f and cleared my throat. “At the risk of being sleazy, I think you’d look good in these.”

“Appealing,” she said, eyeing the mint green and pale blue and light pink things, “because soft and, what? Feminine?”

“Feminine,” I agreed. “But not trying too hard. Like you just can’t help it. Like a picture from … what era am I thinking of? 1850? Something like that. A lady getting into her bath. In … France? Tell me what you’re a princess of.”

“I’m a princess,” she said, “of a country that doesn’t recognize titles anymore. Of a principality and a kingdom that don’t exist anymore.”

“Where?”

“Saxony. My great-grandmother was a princess of Schleswig-Holstein who married the Crown Prince of Saxony—that’s south of Berlin, think East Germany—and eventually became Queen Consort when he became King, although again, those titles were all abolished after World War I.

Which would be why I don’t usually tell people.

First, it’s nothing I accomplished, and second, it’s not even real anymore. ”

“Except,” I said, “for the way you carry yourself. Like you know who you are.”

“Now you’re just trying to flatter me,” she said, and I laughed. She dropped the underwear into the cart, though, and said, “Bras. Over here. Three of them. I am not being embarrassed. Size 36B, and let’s hear how you spin that to make it sound appealing.”

I picked them out in the same colors with no trouble at all. Pale blue, pale pink, pale green. “It’s appealing,” I said, handing them to her. “I could tell you why, but I’m trying to be classy here.”

She was already headed over to the sock section, tossing the bras into the cart along the way. I said, “If I’m giving my opinion again, I like the socks that look a little more fun. The kind that women get to wear, with flowers and hearts and birds.”

“You have many opinions,” she said, picking out a blue pair with little yellow flowers, to my quiet satisfaction.

“You can’t do anything too metrosexual for a living, because you had on a plaid flannel shirt before, and anyway, I refuse to believe it, but that’s a serious level of interest in women’s clothes. ”

I had no desire to discuss my occupation. It never ended the way I wanted. I said, “Women are more fun to think about than men, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Why?”

I pulled out a pair of black socks with big pink flowers on them, and a purple pair with butterflies.

Merino wool and made for walking, or maybe hiking, but if she was wearing that underwear and bra set and a pair of pale-blue socks with tiny flowers, maybe stepping into her jeans … “Besides the obvious reason?”

“Obviously,” she said. “Come on. You’re clearly a dazzling conversationalist. Dazzle me.”

She made me smile like crazy. “Besides the clothes and the bodies? Can’t discount those, but women also see more than men, and they give you those knowing little looks that let you know they see it.

Those little sidelong glances, like you’re giving me now?

They kill me. Women are softer, but in some ways, they’re tougher.

They’re funnier, too, and more mysterious. At least the ones I like are.”

“They wear sequined dresses and laugh like maniacs in the dog-food aisle?” she asked. “That what you mean by ‘mysterious’?”

“Probably,” I said, “and I want to hear why. The dog in my car is hungry, too, I’ll bet. Let’s go buy this stuff and get out of here. ”

“Jacket,” she said. “Shoes. And then I’m done. After that, I will no longer be sequined, and hooray for that. Sorry, but I’m not mysterious, soft, or glamorous. The only qualification I might meet is the ‘tough’ one, and I suspect that’s low on your list.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “You have your points. Do me one favor.”

“What’s that?” I was getting another sidelong look.

“Don’t throw away the dress and the shoes,” I said. “That’s one knockout look.”

“With my ponytail,” she said, like a woman who somehow didn’t know she was hot. Had she had braces and acne until the age of eighteen, or what? I couldn’t figure it out.

“With anything,” I said. “It’s the contrast between the clothes and the attitude that’s doing it. It’s unusual, maybe, but it works.”

Alix

The dog just about broke your heart.

I met her in the In ’n’ Out parking lot, when Sebastian’s car pulled up next to my truck. He was saying, “What—” But I was already talking, because he was holding the leash and letting the dog hop out, and she was a heartbreaker.

Old, maybe, or just hungry and tired. She had long hair that looked rough and a little matted, and the biggest, saddest, roundest brown eyes. I said, “Oh, hey,” in a helpless kind of way, and sank to my knees.

Sebastian handed me the leash and said, “Let’s get her something to eat and drink,” then set out to do it. Dog food in one metal bowl, water from his water bottle in the other.

The dog drank like she needed to, then more or less inhaled the food, and I asked, “Is she a stray?” My hand on her round head now, and her whole side leaning into me like she wanted a hug. Which I gave her, of course. How could I not?

“No,” Sebastian said, sounding grim. “Guy dumped her right in front of me. Told her to stay and drove off. Rest stop.”

“That’s horrible. Did you get his license plate?”

“No. It was dark, and besides—would the cops do anything? I doubt it.”

“How can people be so awful?” I asked. “How? How could you take this sweet girl and just dump her? How sad must she have been? How confused?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You’re the one who’s German.

” I froze, my hand still on the dog, and he said, “Not a good joke. Sorry. My great-grandparents didn’t emigrate to the States like yours probably did, though, complete with their royal titles.

They died in a gas chamber along with most of their families. French Jews.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Still a lousy joke, but more understandable. As it happens, my great-grandparents died in the war, too, but I can’t be nearly as mad about it as you can.

My grandmother’s never said, but who knows, they may have been Nazis themselves.

Most Germans were sympathizers at least. That’s just a fact.

But I didn’t ask to be an ersatz princess.

” I got to my feet. “Should we walk the dog over in that grassy area before we do the burger thing?”

“Probably,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

“Bring the poop bags,” I said. “I know enough about dogs for that.” He smiled, and he was the one who used the poop bag, too.

I offered, but he said, “I’ve got it,” which was nice.

He wasn’t my type in any way—too take-charge, not to mention the whole ancestors-on-opposite-sides thing, but I’d still rather be eating a burger with him than dancing with my new husband at my enormous glittering reception, so what the heck. I’d go for it.