Gentlemen Prefer Succubi

CHAPTER FOUR

Somewhere between 3:00 and 4:00 a.m., I decided that having no dreams was worse than having dreams about Noah. I hadn’t slept a wink in hours of tossing and turning. I chalked it up to the weird day I’d had, and dragged myself out of bed and into the shower for a third time. Showering always helped me think.

The hot water did a lot to rejuvenate me, and I decided to head to work early and catch up on some paperwork. Maybe one of the higher-ups would notice that I was putting my nose to the grindstone and I’d get considered for the next promotion.

Fat chance, but I didn’t have anything better to do with myself.

I did, however, encounter a bit of a problem when I dressed. As I was putting on my bra, I noticed something awful. I had gained weight again. My boobs were spilling over the top of my bra in a rather distressing way. You know, when you put on a bra that’s way too tight and you end up with the quadra-boob? I glared at my four breasts in the mirror, vowed to eat more salad, and tried on another bra. And another. And another. But even my “fat and bloated” bra felt like a tourniquet. Mind you, this wasn’t a bad thing for a B-cup like me, just depressing. I put on my elastic-waist “fat” pants, struggled into a formerly loose-fitting shirt, threw a jacket over the ensemble, then took a quick look in the mirror. No wonder I only attracted the psychos. I yanked my wet hair into a ponytail and headed for the bus stop, determined not to dwell on that depressing thought.

The busses of New City are nice and clean, nothing like New York. Then again, New City was way Midwest, and I think that had a lot to do with it. At any rate, I got to work early and began to sort through my in-box, overflowing thanks to my unexpected absence.

My boss came in a shade after 7:00 a.m. and stopped by my desk immediately.

“Hi,” I said, looking up from the folder on my desk and pasting a fake smile on my lips.

Julianna took one look at me and gave a haughty sniff. “Did you dye your hair?”

That was an odd conversation starter. I touched my hair curiously. “Er, no. Does it look darker?”

She shook her head at me and took a sip of her latte. “It’s a perfectly garish shade of red, if you ask me. But I suppose you didn’t, did you?” Julianna gave me a tight-lipped smile and turned away. “Do remember that this is a museum and not a brothel.”

Insulted, I made a quick run to the restroom to check it out. Huh. It did look a little brighter than usual, and shiny as could be. I was rather pleased. Maybe the new shampoo I’d bought was working wonders on my lackluster mane.

At nine, the morning crowds began filing in, and I went to stand at the museum entrance and greet the school groups. The museum was the biggest in the state, and always busy at the beginning of the school year. I think the teachers were trying to break the kids into class with ease and started the year out with a lot of field trips. Then, when the kids were good and trapped, throw the monotonous crap on them.

We had a good showing, so I put on my best docent smile and straightened my glasses. My eyes watered and a massive headache pounded between my eyebrows. I was tempted to fling the glasses off-I could do the Pre-Raphaelite spiel by heart now and wouldn’t need sight to lead the tour.

I wimped out and left the glasses on. Nudging them up the bridge of my nose, I headed for the first adult I saw, who had a strained look on his face. The middle-aged man had to be a teacher, judging by the sweater vest. “Good morning. I’m Jackie Brighton, the tour docent. Are you read-”

I had to break off because the man was staring at me with the most unnerving look on his face.

“Hi,” he whispered after a rather long, uncomfortable moment.

“Um, hi.” There’s always one weirdo, I thought with irritation. “I’ll be the docent for your trip through our museum. Think you could gather your students around so we can get started, Mr. …?” I waited patiently for a name.

He put his left hand in his pocket as I spoke, and when it emerged it was ringless, with a nice white tan line where a wedding band should go.

Real cute.

“I’m Jackson. Jack Jackson.” Instead of shaking my hand, he kissed the back of it, reverence in his eyes. “You must be beautiful-I mean, Ms. Brighton.”

I pried my hand out of his, ignoring the way it made my hormones flutter. “Yep, that’s what I said just thirty seconds ago. Shall we get started?”

“Do you want to go to dinner sometime?”

“Not really.”

“No?” He looked absolutely crushed. “Are you sure?”

Positive, I thought but forced a fake smile to my face. “It’s sweet of you to ask, but perhaps you should take your wife out instead.” It was amusing to think that a guy had a crush on me. That didn’t happen often. Like, ever.

Yet now this teacher was staring at my breasts (all four of them) with disconcerting fascination. I waved a hand in his face. “Remember me?”

“Boy, do I.” He sounded awed.

How can you not love that? Creepy or not, I was warming up to him. “Shall we move on to the tour? Please?”

“Of course.” He followed me reverently to my docent stand, where I passed out brochures.

The museum had three wings, and my tour went through two of them in detail. The adoring teacher was pleasant and well behaved for the rest of the tour, to my relief. He was actually the most attentive guest I’d ever had. When I pointed to a Waterhouse painting that was a particular favorite of mine, he made the appropriate awed noises, and I was touched. I could forgive a little boob staring, I suppose. My breasts did look rather odd, even to me, and I saw them every morning.

The disturbing thing was that by the end of the tour, most of the students had wandered away and I had a tour group full of male teachers, all as reverent and adoring as the first.

Was there some sort of joke I wasn’t in on? If so, it wasn’t funny.

It wasn’t funny to my boss, either. Julianna was glaring at me from a distance, so I excused myself from my group and hurried over.

“What is going on, Jackie?” Julianna crossed her arms over her chest and peered down at me.

“I swear that I don’t know, Ms. Cliver.” I tried my best to look contrite and apologetic, when what I really wanted to do was cram a pencil up her beaky nose. “I think someone’s playing a prank on me. Look at how they’re acting.”

She gave a sniff of distaste and looked down her long nose at me. “They do seem to be rather adoring. You’re right. It must be a prank of some sort.” She fixed her sharp gaze on me. “Fix it.”

Fix it? How do you fix having a mob of men following you around?

I “fixed” it by hiding in the women’s restroom for the next two hours. Just call me courageous.