Truth be told, I wasn’t worried about Tara at all. She was impulsive, but she had a good head on her shoulders and I wasn’t all that surprised she hadn’t mentioned her new boyfriend the last time we’d talked. We’d grown apart over the years I’d been away at college, but I would always love her like a sister no matter what. And as her sister, she likely knew if she’d told me about a new boyfriend who had bought her a fancy sports car, I would call it like I saw it.
With love of course, but a hussy just the same.
The real reason I agreed to a six hour drive with no argument was because I needed the time to clear my head. Returning to a noisy dorm surrounded by horny co-eds all trying to graduate with Summa-them Cum Loud honors would do me no good in the state I was in.
Which was horny.
Even worse, I was only horny for my new pseudo-boss/target. Nowhere in any of the training they provided me could I recall any mandates specifically stating I could not have sex with a suspect. Surely having a Suspect-With-Benefits situation would be frowned upon.
But it wasn’t like I was going to call my FBI boss and ask either.
It felt so weird to be so physically attracted to someone who in my mind was likely a monster. Anyone who could kill so many people without rhyme or reason was a true psychopath.
So why was I hoping he was just as aggressive in between the sheets?
Because I’d been taken over by body snatchers. Obviously.
Stop picturing Northman snatching you up and doing things to your snatch!
Ugh. A six hour drive just wouldn’t be long enough.
By the time I reached Bon Temps, I was mostly back to normal. At least my girly bits had stopped throbbing every time I pictured the man. And true to his word, Jason was waiting on me at Gran’s when I got there. Pulling countless all-nighters studying at college had helped me stay awake for the drive, but I wasn’t surprised to see he was already asleep on her couch and I didn’t have the heart or the energy to wake him up.
I had two days before I’d have to go back to New Orleans. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about attending graduation – thousands of cheering heads battering against my shield and eardrums were a still a bit much for me – but I had to meet with Mr. Cataliades on Friday afternoon to sign my contract and get the key to my new suite at the Rising Sun.
Should I call my FBI boss to let them know where I was?
I had my cell phone in hand and was already dialing when I stopped myself from hitting send. The other agents had seen me leave the casino unharmed and they had stressed I shouldn’t call them unless it was a life or death situation.
I doubted they’d give a rat’s ass about Tara’s missing ass either.
Decision made I set my phone aside and changed out of my red suit into a pair of sweats and t-shirt from the stash of clothes I’d kept at Gran’s. As I was hanging it up it dawned on me how similar the color was to Superman’s cape.
“Super Sookie to the rescue,” I chuckled to the empty room.
The sun was just coming over the horizon by the time I crawled into my childhood bed, but even in the abyss of sleep I couldn’t escape Eric Northman. I didn’t even think it was odd he was flying with a red cape flapping behind him and a giant letter ‘E’ on his chest.
It was déjà vu all over again when I found myself on the highway headed back to New Orleans two days later. True to form Tara had shown up the day before looking dazzling in her fashion plate outfit huffing she was a grown woman and to back the hell off. Her new beau – ‘Nunya’ I’d been told when I asked about him – had taken her to Jackson for a few nights of dancing at some big deal nightclub and she even laughed that I should have been with her because the DJ had played the song we’d danced to in our high school talent show. I could see from her thoughts that he was older, maybe in his late fifties or early sixties, and figured that was why she didn’t want to introduce us to him. I couldn’t judge her for it. If they were both happy with their arrangement then who was I to say it was wrong. Hell, if anything I was a little jealous.
Not for the money he spent on her, but for the sex.
Whenever she daydreamed about him it had been so great that her thoughts went completely hazy at the big m-O-ment.
I tried to set those feeling aside. I tried to tell myself that I had a lot going for me.
I was Super Sookie. Sort of.
But the fact remained that I lamented over the thought of living the rest of my life alone. I couldn’t be with a man that way without hearing every blasted thing going through their heads and it only made me think about one man and my inability to hear him at all.
I wanted to tie him up with my lasso of truth. Find out he wasn’t the killer and then fuck him to death.
Maybe New Orleans had a Superhero Sex Shop?
Dreaming about Eric Northman’s pipe was a pipe dream in every way. I’d been nervous as hell meeting up with him, but I had no doubt once I got more comfortable in his presence I’d start hearing him like everyone else. He consumed my every thought since I’d walked out of his office and it only made me wonder how the other women he’d been with had been able to go back to their lives instead following him around like a puppy dog nipping at his heels.
Lord knew I wanted to chew on his stick.
It got so bad there were a few times I’d woken up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat from the things he’d done to my body in my dreams and I would’ve sworn I saw him hovering outside of my bedroom window. But I’d only have to rub my eyes and he’d be gone again.
Stupid Sexy Superhero/Serial Killer.
Gran had been excited to hear about my new job. Not my secret job with the FBI, but my job with Eric Northman. I felt bad lying to her, but I couldn’t risk telling her the truth and worry she might slip and tell Jason or worse.
I assuaged my guilt by telling myself she’d understand once she knew the truth and would forgive me.
But I prepared myself for a Gran whoopin’ anyway.
I noticed during my visit that she was moving around a lot slower. Her joints were stiffer and she had difficulty sitting for too long, standing for too long, or taking more than ten steps without having to stop and ‘let her bones rest.’ I worried knowing she was getting up there in age and convinced her that she didn’t have to come to New Orleans to attend my graduation. A six hour car ride would be awful for her and plane tickets for both her and my brother just weren’t in the budget. I’d just as soon have my diploma mailed to me and she put up a good argument with me over it, wanting to see her grandbaby graduate from college, so I pulled the guilt card and quietly told her how being in that big of a crowd would make me miserable. It was a true statement and while we didn’t talk about my gift often, it was always there in the background, like the scent of baked goods in her kitchen.
A constant presence that didn’t need mentioning.
Finally she agreed, so now I planned on spending the weekend moving into my new suite after I met with Mr. Cataliades that afternoon. I didn’t have much more than shorts, tees, and sundresses at Gran’s and I didn’t want to meet with him dressed in any of those, but I’d gotten a few new outfits from Tara’s shop while she called me a dumbass for driving all the hell the way back home to look for her dumbass.
Like any good sister would.
So I was in a pair of charcoal gray slacks, a black blouse that wrapped the girls up nicely, and a pair of black heels when I met him in Northman’s office at four o’clock on Friday. He was pleasant as always, but stayed on point. It was good to see me and I looked lovely. Read this. Initial here, here, and here. You’ll be paid this. Do you have any questions? Sign here.
It was like speed dating.
Once I’d signed my life away – I very well may have since I didn’t read a word of the contract; the FBI would get me out of it if Northman’s prison sentence didn’t do the job – he handed me a laptop, cell phone, and keys to my new suite and company car, telling me I would find it in the parking garage next to Mr. Northman’s designated parking space.
La di da. Have a nice day. Don’t let the door hit ya where the good lord split ya.
Good to see you too, Mr. Cataliades.
His brain was impossible to read, but what I was able to hear was more like static or white noise. I’d run across it a few times – one of my law professors in college was the same way – and I figured they just had stronger brain power. It made sense to me since they were obviously brilliant in what they did for a living, so I didn’t think anything about it. Once I was shuffled out of the office like a deck of cards at a poker table downstairs, I climbed into the elevator and stared at the key to my new suite to see what floor button to push. I knew Burnham had lived on the tenth floor, halfway in between Northman’s office and the ground floor, so I expected the same. Instead I saw I had suite 2002.
Northman’s penthouse was on the 21st floor, one floor above his office.
On the 20th floor.
I hit the button to open the doors and stepped out again feeling confused. I hadn’t seen anything indicating there would be suites on this floor, so I walked back to the reception area and asked the man sitting behind the desk, “Umm…excuse me, do you know where I can find suite 2002?”
I bet he hired her for her tits. Now it makes sense why he claimed her as his.
What the fuckity fuck?
His thoughts had that same red tinge I recognized from before, but I heard him clear as a bell and before I could go all ‘When Sookie’s attack’ on him, he pointed to his left and said, “Through that door, down the hall,” and went back to his work without any more acknowledgement.
Well, fuck you very much.
I took my booty of electronics and marched my booty through that door and down the hall, coming to a stop at the only door to be found.
There was another elevator located just across from it which would be handy for avoiding fuckity fucks, so I put the key in, waited for the beep, and walked in.
The door was the only thing to resemble a hotel because the inside was decorated like a fancy shmancy high rise condo. High ceilings and floor to ceiling glass windows made up two of the walls, giving me a breathtaking view of the city, with the requisite balcony and sitting area for me to lounge on like I actually belonged in a place like this. Another wall had an honest to god wood burning fireplace already lit and was surrounded on both sides with bookcases filled to the brim.
Like the book whore I was, I dropped the laptop onto the couch – it was leather and smelled like it had been made from cows that spent their lifetime dining exclusively on one hundred dollar bills – and ran towards my crack fix. First editions. All of them. Classics as well as lesser known titles by some of the greatest authors of all time.
If I kept my nose in a book, it could be a very long time before I gathered enough evidence to convict Northman. Long enough for me to get through them all, at least.
No…no…that would be wrong.
Another unwritten rule in the FBI, I was sure.
Tearing myself away from them – I didn’t dare touch them and wouldn’t until I’d sealed my hands inside of food saver packets to keep my greasy mitts from blemishing the pages – I toured the rest of the place and found a galley kitchen just as fancy as the living room. The bedroom was fit for visiting royalty and the bathroom – well…let’s just say heaven can be found on earth.
And it was currently residing in my huge kick ass tub.
I left the laptop and grabbed my purse, shoving my new phone and key card into it, and took off for the elevator so I could grab my shit from my dorm room and move the hell in. With my luck, I’d find Northman killing his next victim tonight and wouldn’t have the chance to enjoy my new temporary digs, so I wanted to move in now now now. I jumped into the elevator – conveniently already waiting for me – and pushed the button for the garage level figuring I’d use my new company car to move my stuff. I expected to be getting something similar to Burnham’s sedan and wanted the extra room so I’d only have to make one trip.
I was jumping on the spot anxious to get a move on when I realized I was the only one moving. The elevator wasn’t. I looked around, not wanting to go ask Mr. Fuckity Fuck how to work the damn elevator when I saw a slot for a key card with the instructions written above it.
Insert card here.
So I did.
And then the elevator began moving.
And I danced in celebration.
I wasn’t sure where Northman’s parking spot was actually located in the garage, but I was sure I could find it.
Because I was sure it would be lifted up on its own throne so it could glare down at all of the other lesser cars with mocking disdain.
I knew from the Bureau he had a shit ton of cars – each worth more than my lifetime’s wages combined – so I wasn’t sure which one would be in the garage, but I didn’t have to look far. As soon as the elevator doors opened I saw it.
Not his car, but I’m sure it would be there if I could tear my eyes away from what was parked next to it.
A red Aston Martin V12 Zagato.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
My feet were glued to the spot they stood on – no longer bouncing and happy – and remained that way long enough for the elevator doors to close again.
I closed my eyes.
Took a deep breath.
And hit the button to open the doors once more.
Yep. It was still there.
Pissed. That was the only word to describe what I felt in that moment. He’d ruined my dream by giving me my dream car to drive. Not only had I not earned it, but looking at it now all I saw was a two hundred thousand dollar lie covered by a shiny red paint job. Even if my name wasn’t on the title and I did ever manage to buy one on my own, I wouldn’t now because all I would be able to see was the lie.
His. Mine. Ours.
It was all one and the same.
I wasn’t officially on his payroll until Monday, so I didn’t have to drive it right now. Besides that, I’d be able to fit more shit into my own car than the one mocking me from its parking spot with its come hither chrome and promises of new car smell.
I ignored it all and went back to my dorm taking my own car and stayed there until Monday. I didn’t have as much stuff to move once I sold all of my used textbooks back to the campus store, so it was easy to bring everything with me when I returned to the Rising Sun around noon. I hadn’t even bothered to turn on my Northman bat phone until then either and saw I had a message waiting from the man himself.
‘Meet me in my office at 7:00pm Monday.’
Yes sir. Thank you Sir. Care to destroy any more of my dreams, Sir?
At least my anger had tamed my horniness for the man and the only dreams I had of him had me running him over in my former dream car. I don’t know why I was so pissed about it, but the only thing I could come up with was the fact it was the only ridiculous dream item I’d ever wanted. I hadn’t been kidding when I’d said I had blue collar preferences, but that car was my one little fantasy ticket item. One that I wanted. One that I wanted to earn on my own. To drive it now – or worse; to enjoy driving it now – would make me feel, well…like Tara.
With no love.
Northman wasn’t my sugar daddy. He was my target, suspected of god-awful crimes against his fellow man, so how could I let myself enjoy something I’d wanted for so long when he was the one providing it to me?
So I ignored the stunning view and book crack when I brought my things into my temporary home, taking more time than necessary to put my things away. When I was done, I avoided the heavenly tub as well and took a shower to remove the grime and sweat from my skin, so I could change and meet Mr. Serial Dream Killer promptly at seven.
It wasn’t like I had far to go to meet him considering I was just down the hall and through that door from Mr. Fuckity Fuck’s desk and his office, so when the clock struck 6:59 I finally left the suite. Even then I was early so like a stubborn bitch I waited until it was precisely 7:00pm before I knocked on his door.
So I did.
And my irrational inner tantrum took a major hit.
Instead of being dressed in his usual business attire, Northman was leaning against the front of his desk wearing a black button up shirt with the top three buttons undone.
Seeing it, I nearly came undone.
I also nearly came.
Not that the chest porn showing through his shirt wasn’t enough to make my ovaries buckle, but he’d paired the shirt with a pair of black leather pants and motorcycle boots.
Tight leather pants.
So tight, if I stared hard enough, I could probably make out the faces of his future great-grandchildren.
They were that tight.
Tight like my now clenching hoohah.
Me. Him. Us.
There we were. A clenching hoohah plus baby face pants.
I refused to continue solving that particular equation because I already had a sneaking suspicion what that would equal.
“Those clothes have to come off.”
What? Hoohah, is that you?
My thighs automatically cinched together to shut her the hell up, with my startled eyes stopping their count of the future little Northmans within his pants, and back up to his face. It was then I realized it wasn’t hoohah speaking at all. I only knew because I watched his lips move and the same voice formerly recognized as hoohah added, “Tonight we’ll be taking a tour of the casino, bars, and my nightclub. You should be dressed appropriately.”
He gestured to a garment bag draped over the couch in his office – the couch which was no doubt made up of the siblings of the couch in my suite – but he remained standing where he was as I asked, “What? Is that for me?” At his nod, I added, “How do you know what size I wear?”
He pushed off from the desk and slowly stalked forward until there was hardly any space in between us. Leaning down he inhaled deeply before breathing out over my face, “I too am very detail oriented, Miss Stackhouse. I am sure it will fit.”
Fuuuck me…I had a feeling we weren’t talking about clothes anymore.
And fuck me for no longer being able to decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.