I Bite She Sucks Read online

  I Bite She Sucks

  Penelope Bloom

  Contents

  1. Sylvie

  2. Riggs

  3. Sylvie

  4. Riggs

  5. Sylvie

  6. Riggs

  7. Sylvie

  8. Sylvie

  9. Sylvie

  10. Riggs

  11. Sylvie

  12. Riggs

  13. Sylvie

  14. Riggs

  15. Sylvie

  16. Sylvie

  17. Sylvie

  18. Riggs

  19. Riggs

  20. Sylvie

  21. Riggs

  22. Sylvie

  23. Sylvie

  24. Riggs

  25. Sylvie

  26. Riggs

  27. Sylvie

  28. Riggs

  29. Sylvie

  30. Riggs

  31. Sylvie

  32. Riggs

  33. Sylvie

  34. Riggs

  35. Riggs

  36. Sylvie

  37. Sylvie

  38. Riggs

  39. Sylvie

  40. Riggs

  41. Sylvie

  42. Sylvie

  43. Sylvie

  44. Riggs

  45. Sylvie

  46. Sylvie

  47. Riggs

  48. Sylvie

  49. Epilogue - Riggs

  50. Epilogue - Sylvie

  51. A Note From Penelope!

  1

  Sylvie

  I was perched by the window in my favorite reading spot. King Gravy Boat III, my hairless cat, was on my lap. As usual, he was grooming his wrinkly, loose skin with alarmingly slow, sexual licks that never failed to disturb me.

  "Cut it out, Gravy," I said, not taking my eyes from the window.

  Any minute now, I thought.

  For good measure, I checked the tracking information of my package on my phone, which I'd checked a perfectly reasonable number of times tonight. And this afternoon. And this morning.

  "Out for delivery." Just like it had been saying since lunch.

  I gave the pile of books on my bed a disparaging look. Instead of spending all day jonesing for my delivery, I could've re-read an old favorite. But this package wasn't just any book. It was the book. It was Moonlight Caravan, the Third Awakening. I'd been waiting two years for Amy Clark to finally release the last installment of the series, and now it was almost here.

  I let out a little squee of excitement and rubbed Gravy Boat's head a bit too vigorously. His body wobbled from side to side with the force, and he punched at my hand to let me know to chill.

  "Relax," I said, still fixated on the city street below where the delivery guy could appear at any moment. "You're too sensitive."

  Gravy Boat meowed indignantly, showed me his asshole, then sauntered to my bed.

  I saw him eying my paperbacks and raised a finger at him in warning. "Don't do it, you little bastard."

  He did it.

  With quickness he saved for naughty behavior, Gravy Boat took the front cover of one of my books in his mouth and dragged it under my bed.

  I was in the middle of getting whacked repeatedly by hairless little paws under the bed when the knock came at my door.

  I got up so fast I banged my head on the underside of the frame, swore, then ungracefully sock-skidded my way to the door. I yanked it open, bent down, and picked up the package.

  I hugged it to my chest and did a couple joyful jumps before I sensed I wasn't alone in the hallway. I promptly squeezed a little glob of hand sanitizer that I kept danging from the belt loop on my jeans and rubbed my hands together. I chased that with a dab of moisturizer because I wasn't a lunatic.

  "Something good?" asked the cute guy who lived across the hall.

  I slowly turned, embarrassment spiking through me like little jets of lava under my skin.

  I was still rubbing my hands together with a wet, moisturizer squelch while I pinned the germ-ridden package under my arm. I even saw his eyes fall to my moisturizer and hand sanitizer I kept holstered at either side like some lame ass old western hero.

  "Just a book," I said.

  He nodded. "Germaphobe?" he asked, nodding to my holstered bottles.

  "Something like that," I said, even though it wasn't quite accurate. But who wanted a sob story from someone they just met? It'd be like explaining that your grandma just passed away when the girl making your coffee asks how your day is going.

  He smiled. It was a good smile—kind but with a little hint of mischief. Maybe even a little danger. The cute guy currently absorbing every single degree of weird I was radiating rode a motorcycle to work. He always came up to his apartment with one of those padded leather jackets on and a helmet hanging at his side. The jacket was a dark maroon color that went wonderfully well with his sandy blond hair and brown eyes.

  He was close to my age, as far as I could tell. Maybe a few years older or even pushing into his early thirties. But a sane, rational woman would've been over the moon to be talking to him. I was unfortunately neither, so I was already scrambling to think of some way to escape the conversation and the potential of catching feelings.

  Thankfully, I didn't need to worry too much about anything happening. I had the social skills of a wet paper bag and had never even asked him what his real name was, so he was just Motorcycle Guy, or Cute Neighbor to me.

  I twinkled my fingers at him and smiled. I thought about bolting in my apartment and closing the door, but even I knew that'd be painfully weird. So I stood my ground and waited for him to make the next move.

  I only remembered what I was wearing when his eyes trailed down from my face to my feet, then back up again.

  "Are those Harry Potter slippers?" he asked.

  "Uh," I said, laughing a little. "Technically they are Fred and George Weasley twin slippers. My favorite characters. The left one is Fred and..." I trailed off. You're doing the thing Maisey told you not to do. You're letting your weird show. No, you're yanking your weird out and waving it in his face right now. "I got them as a gag gift," I added quickly. Liar. You bought them online and couldn't wait for them to come.

  That seemed to ease the awkwardness hanging in the air. The guy nodded, smiling a little. "I see you around, but I never got the chance to ask your name. You guys moved in a few weeks back. Right?"

  "I'm Sylvie. You're Motorcycle Guy."

  He looked confused, then gave the helmet at his side a little shake and nodded. "Gary. But Motorcycle Guy works, too. Anyway, I used to get coffee with the girl who lived there before you. It was kind of a Saturday morning ritual. Now that she's off in Texas, my Saturdays are wide open, and I've got nobody to complain about the neighbors with. You in?"

  My heart wasn't just beating anymore. It was looking frantically for a way to escape my body, pounding against every rib inside my chest like it might hold the keys to its escape.

  Nope. Nope. Nope.

  I tucked a hair behind my ear, smiled as naturally as I could, then gestured toward the apartment. "That sounds great, but I've actually got a boyfriend. He gets pretty jealous about that kind of stuff, so I don't know if it'd be the best idea."

  Gary took the rejection surprisingly well. He really was a nice guy. "Yeah," he said. "I should've figured you were spoken for. Anyway, it was nice to meet you, and if you change your mind, just let me know. You know where to find me," he added with a grin.

  I retreated inside, pressing my back against the door. I slid down to sit with my knees up and the package set beside me. For good measure, I gave myself one more pre-surgery level bath in hand sanitizer, and I knew I'd go another round once I finished opening the package.

  Gravy Boat was watching imperiously from his cat tower. He lifted a paw
to his mouth and gave it one lick. Somehow, I knew he was thinking I was pathetic.

  But he didn't understand. My phone started buzzing when my alarm went off. The notification on the screen read, "Dolla Dolla Pills, Y'all."

  I groaned at my stupid joke from months ago when I'd set up the alarm and went to the counter. I had several prescription bottles there, and it took me a full glass of water to get through the regimen of pills, vitamins, and supplements.

  Little did Gary the Motorcycle Guy know, but the real jealous boyfriend was right here. Because I knew sure as shit that no guy was going to stick around as long as my condition was in the picture. Sooner or later, it'd chase even the best ones off.

  But I wasn't one to wallow, so I cleared my head of all melodramatic thoughts and temptations to ruminate.

  "Moonlight Caravan," I singsonged, walking over to retrieve the package I'd set by the door. "Momma is about to open you up and devour you."

  Gravy Boat meowed with concern, but I shushed him.

  Right now, I just wanted another nice evening with a book I couldn't wait to read. Because some part of me felt sure that if I read enough happily ever afters, it'd be easier to accept that I was never going to get my own.

  2

  Riggs

  All I wanted was some alone time with my goddamn burrito. That, and the tasteless club soda I was working on at the bar.

  But it was apparently too much to hope for.

  I was only halfway through my meal when Felix and his big ass came through the entrance of The Wet Flea.

  He spotted me and made his way through the crowds of howlers dancing mindlessly to the music. The Wet Flea was always loud, always packed, and always had the best food in Chicago. It was also werewolf only, and if a normie tried to find it they'd only get access to the bowling alley upstairs.

  Felix eased himself into the barstool beside me, which groaned under his weight. Felix was big, even for a werewolf. He looked like he could rip a tree trunk in half with his bare hands.

  Felix signaled for Jasmine to bring him a drink, then elbowed my arm softly. "Figured I'd find you here."

  "Impressive deduction skills, detective."

  He thanked Jasmine and took a swig of his drink, ignoring me. "Got an easy job this morning. You could tag along, unless you're having too much fun here."

  I lifted my eyes from my burrito and focused on him. He was a big bastard, but we went way back. It meant I knew he wasn't nearly as scary as he looked. Not if he took a liking to you, at least.

  "You spend too much time worrying about me. It's going to get you killed."

  He leaned closer, meeting my eyes. "Or maybe the thing that gets me killed will be my partner continuing his love affair with burritos and club soda."

  I laughed through my nose. "How long are you going to keep trying to drag me back in, anyway?"

  "As long as it takes, asshole."

  I polished off the last of my burrito and licked my fingers clean with a shrug. "Better hope you live a long life. I'm done."

  Felix stopped me from leaving with a hand on my arm. It was the first time he'd gone that far, and I briefly considered ripping the thing off me. Instead, I just glared down at it.

  "You did everything you could. And she's still out there, Riggs. It could've been much worse."

  Neither of us had directly talked about what happened, and it took me a moment to process what he was trying to say. Then the rage boiled up out of nowhere. I yanked my arm free of his. "No. It couldn't have been worse. Nothing is worse than becoming one of them. You know that."

  Felix shook his head but didn't argue with me.

  3

  Sylvie

  The sound of cars humming along the street below me was comforting. I'd always found something particularly pleasant about the sound of tires on wet asphalt—the crinkle and crunch of rubber trying to grip its way around a turn.

  My forehead was resting against the window as I watched the scene below through a condensed haze of moisture on the glass. It had been a hot day, so the cool touch of glass on my skin was pleasant.

  Rainy days made me feel like I had company in my bubble, I guessed. For normal people, the clouds and gloom meant a lazy day inside. No frisbee in the park or brisk dog walks. For me, they were business as usual.

  Rain, snow, or shine, I mostly stayed inside with my books and my big sister. But it could've been worse. I wasn't in pain. I wasn't technically sick. I had all my arms and legs, and I had the world's most iron-clad excuse to sit around and read all day.

  Because healthy people had immune systems that were like personal security for their insides. The better the security, the less likely they were to get sick. I always imagined most people had Liam Neeson phoning up the flu virus the moment somebody within ten miles sneezed.

  I will find you. And I will kill you.

  I actually couldn't remember if those were the lines. I wasn't much of an action movie kind of girl. Romance was my jam.

  But my body didn't have Liam Neeson keeping the germs at bay. It was more like having Paul Blart—the mall cop, for the uninitiated. And honestly, that was probably giving it way too much credit.

  If I was being honest, my immune system wasn't even on the same level as an old lady on a scooter with a heavy cane. My body basically had an open-door policy. Bad germs? Come on in! I could thank my mom for that genetic lotto win.

  The smell of spaghetti sauce mingling with ground beef drifted from the kitchen towards me. I sniffed deeper, picking up the garlic and basil, too.

  My big sister, Maisey, was a halfway good cook. She could season food and follow recipes with the best of them. The problem was she almost always managed to forget to pull things out of the oven or out of the pan soon enough. It meant everything was well-seasoned and then baked, broiled, or fried into oblivion.

  Thankfully, tonight she’d whipped everything up and asked me to heat it up around the time she’d be coming back from teaching her yoga class. No burned food tonight. Unless I got too wrapped up in my book.

  The rain had finally let up, which meant Chicago's night life was back on schedule. Below me, people were already starting to thicken the crowds on the street below.

  Beside me, Gravy Boat purred contentedly. I tried to scratch his ear, but he did his best impersonation of a naked alligator roll—biting my palm while hugging and kicking me.

  Once the barrage of kicks and bites was over, he let me go, composed himself, and gave his paw a dignified lick.

  I rubbed at the place where his claw had got me while I studied the people below. I focused on a young couple holding hands. The girl was wearing the sort of bright sun dress that made me imagine they hadn't been dating long. The guy looked a little like a former skater guy with the thick black gauge earrings and tattoos, but he had a button-up shirt on. It was cute, and I smiled while I watched him lead her by the hand through the puddles on the sidewalk.

  I imagined they were going out for their date. Maybe dinner and then a night spent ice skating. Or maybe they'd just grab takeout and go back to his place to stream a movie.

  Once they were gone, I noticed a man by himself. He looked straight out of one of the romance books I liked to read. Square jaw, muscular, and devastatingly handsome. He was waiting at the street corner with his phone out. Maybe he'd called an Uber, I thought. Either way, it gave me plenty of time to creep on him from my perch at the window.

  As if he knew what was going through my head, Gravy Boat let out a judgy meow and then started aggressively licking his asshole.

  I tossed a balled-up napkin at him, but it only made him get more intense.

  Disgusted, I looked back to the guy and tried to tune out Gravy Boat's noise and my sister's clanging from the kitchen. She usually had no idea how loud she was being because she wore noise canceling headphones and blasted music to herself. I’d joked several times that she wouldn’t hear if someone broke in and decided to murder me, then I’d violently knocked on wood.

  I pu
lled out a sheet of paper and started writing a letter to the guy. Yes, I knew it was incredibly dorky and also technically littering. But I figured the universe could cut me a little karmic slack considering the hand I'd been dealt. Sometimes I liked to write notes to people I saw on the street, fold them into paper airplanes, and then chuck them out the window. Just about every single time I did this, the airplane got sucked back against the building where it fell uselessly to the street, or it got pulled along with cars on the road and pulverized into oblivion by the tires.

  So when I wrote the note, there wasn't any real part of me that expected Mr. Romance Hero on the street corner to ever see it.

  Dear Stranger,

  Your eyes are like fire and your lips are soft pillows I wish I could sink into. We'll never meet, but I'll dream of the day I could've got your name. Your smile. Your hand.

  I'll keep wishing you were mine,

  From the girl in the 3rd floor window, Apartment 12b.

  I rolled my eyes at my own words as I folded up the paper airplane. A poet, I was not. Unfortunately, being a ravenous reader hadn't even given me access to any of the ability the writers I devoured had. But I still folded the little airplane, knowing it would never reach the hunk on the street.

  I had to yank and grunt a little to get our paint-chipped, ancient apartment window open. When I did, the sounds of the street came rushing in more clearly, along with the musty wet smell of the fallen rain.