Once he closed and locked the doors, Micah let a smile spread slowly across his face. It had never occurred to him that he might actually have something in common with Ophilia. It sounded like she had no more affection for Gelt than he did. Listening to her taunt the blonde, his only regret had been that he couldn’t let his amusement show. Well, that and the fact that he wished his hearing weren’t quite so good. He had missed most of the conversation, but listening to an ice queen like Teresa Gelt talk about him like a sweetmeat was enough to shrivel his manhood. With a grimace, he started toward the small apartment adjacent to the garage where he kept his small collection of personal effects.
Gelt reminded him a little of the few female-appearing Golem he’d met, and his experiences with them had been both exploitive and agonizing. After his creator died, Micah was forced to earn his keep however he could. There had been a few brief decadent periods when risqué and even outright pornographic vignette plays had been in vogue. For a Golem crafted to be an aesthetically pleasant counterpart to objects of beauty, the pay for the vignettes had been prodigious.
In most of the vignettes, Micah had been paired with female Golem created specifically for the roles, inhumanly beautiful and as cold as the stone they’d been carved from. Personality wise, that is. Physically, they had to be warm, as few of the watchers even knew Golem existed, and the patrons would often contract with the owners of the theaters for the services of the actors in the plays. Micah had been hired by a female patron once. It ended badly; Micah had a wonderful poker face, but was otherwise a horrible actor.
Micah lost his first fortune on get rich quick schemes. He learned his lesson; he made more seed money appearing in more vignettes and put his pay into diverse, stable, long-term investments. Reliable, conservative investments.
Boring investments.
Damnation. It was the same every night Ophilia worked at the museum. His thoughts, no matter where they started, wound up running back to the same places. Her exotic beauty. His pedestrian persona. His nonexistent sex life, and how much he’d like to reprise his roles in the vignettes for an audience of none, with Ophilia his costar.
Micah reached his apartment, checked his device to be sure the guards were in place, and called into the speaking tube by the door to let the night watch know he was in the garage getting cleaned up and exercising. The staff thought him odd for doing so every night, but it explained how much he could lift when the occasion demanded, so long as he was careful to remain within the limits of human strength.
Work done for the moment, he stripped off his suit, carefully re-hanging each piece on the hanger from the dry cleaners. The old woman who ran the place took no end of amusement from the fact that he returned the items in nearly the same condition she handed them to him. She probably thought him so regimented that he had sex like the German in the old joke, ‘eins, zwei, eins, zwei!’.
He was besotted, he knew, as he realized how his thoughts had slipped back to matters of ardor. Even worse, his shorts were tangled as he reacted to his memory of Ophilia’s scandalous legs. The brief skirt she wore revealed most of Bosch’s famous triptych, a panel on each thigh and a panel across her back, the top disappearing under her halter. The artist had been clever, leaving Ophilia’s perfect skin bare where the art called for skin tone.
The longer he thought about her, the harder his reaction was to ignore, and by the time he had stripped to shorts and undershirt, he wasn’t in any shape to go jogging through the corridors the way he normally did. Instead, he went into the garage and across to his tattered heavy bag. It wasn’t often he was frustrated enough to need it, but tonight was proving a bit too much. Making sure the bag was properly secured and braced, he began slamming punches home, one after another with metronomic regularity. By long habit, he ran through his frustrations like a mantra.
Teresa Gelt. Insufferable bitch: thinks art is frozen money, just waiting to be thawed.
The chains holding the bag in place rattled.
Vandals and other Unseleigh poking about the museum more than ever.
Sand flew out of the bag’s seams, dusting the floor of the garage.
“And Miss Ophilia bloody Morgan coming in every night, stripping to her scandalous undergarments, then wandering off to who knows where, to do who knows what, to who knows whom!”
A link, weakened by the earlier blows, snapped, flying off into the depths of the garage. The bag itself flew back into the wall and slid to the floor with a thump, leaving the room in near silence, the only noise the slight susurration of the grains leaking out onto the floor.
A tiny sound like the buzzing of a bee intruded on the silence, and Micah's shoulders slumped, his eyes closing as he let out a long-suffering sigh. He'd forgotten Xavier was down in the garage at night, fixing the mechanic's tools.
“Hallo Marble-man-of-mine. Why so glum?” Xavier’s voice was deep, not quite a traditional bass, but low and rich enough to make girls notice.
“Please, Xavier. Not tonight. I’m not in the mood for banter.”
“This we can see, Micah. Your manhood, he is in the most delicious state!”
Micah turned to see Xavier and his partner Ricardo, hovering just below eye level, just out of reach. Xavier, the masculine one of the pair, wore longshoreman’s denim and not much else, as was his custom. Primitive gold baubles and chains decorated him, and designs inked in white and ivory traced their way across his midnight skin. Ricardo had chosen to dress conservatively tonight, a strangely bright violet skirt over matching heeled shoes topped with a rainbow blouse. He’d finished the entire ensemble with a parasol and purse that matched the blouse. Micah still couldn’t figure out why a twelve-inch flying Fae would need shoes or carry a parasol. The last time he’d asked, Ricardo had given him an hour-long lecture on how hard it was to buy designer shoes when your feet fit in doll clothing. That lecture in Ricardo’s expansive Spanish accent augmented by his affected lisp was more than Micah was willing to tolerate tonight.
“Goodness, Micah. You are excited, are you not? Is all this bounty for your little friends? Or did my Xavier tell me right, that you have a woman for whom you are pining?”
“The latter, Ricardo. It doesn’t matter. I’m not the type she looks for.”
Xavier snorted his disagreement, “Hey there, Marble, you’re rather big, but you’re to everyone’s taste.”
“Oh, no, sweetheart, she could be like us.”
“What, Pixies?”
Ricardo covered his blush with a fan snapped open for the purpose. “No, silly, Homosexual.”
“So perhaps there’s something else Micah is hiding from the world, but his manhood certainly isn’t.”
“You’re impossible, mi amore. I mean she might like girls.”
A look of puzzlement so intense it had to be fake covered Xavier’s face. “What bizarre notions you get, Ricky.”
“More things in Heaven and Earth, mi corazón. Now, are we talking about a, what do they call it? Lesbian! Or are you just deluded; Micah sweet?”
Micah took a moment to consider the question and shrugged his ignorance.
“I really don’t know. I wasn’t talking about that. She’s… I’m...”
“Still reacting to her, I see. Not that we mind the show. Your problem, tell me. Now.”
Micah blushed. “Look, guys. I’m glad you enjoy the show, but I really can’t help it. It takes quite a lot to make me react, and when I do it takes a while to make it go away, even if there isn’t anything… not that there isn’t… Damn it to hell! I can’t get her out of my mind. She’s… God in Heaven. She’s incredible, but I don’t think she would speak to me if we met on the street. I’m too…”
Micah stopped, grasping at the air as he searched for words. As Micah stood in silent frustration, Xavier zipped off to parts unknown. As he opened his mouth to say something, Ricardo flitted up to within inches of his nose.
“Don’t worry, Micah darling. My dashing cad isn’t going to do anything unkind bad. If I know him, he is looking to see if he can find a picture of this mystery woman. Now, tell Ricardo why the dream girl, she is stupid enough to let all this,” Ricardo waved his hand up and down Micah’s body, “go to waste?”
“I’m dull, Ricardo. Sure, I’m reasonably well off, and my body is sculpted. Heh. But I’m just not an interesting person by nature.”
“Micah darling, I’m sure if she thinks you’re boring, you need to raise your sights. If you insist on wasting yourself on some woman, one who appreciates you she should be.”
Xavier returned a look of triumph on his tiny face. “And I return from my mission successful, as always!”
Ricardo flittered into a swoon, spoilt somewhat by his continued hovering. “My gallant! What have you found?”
Xavier pulled a scrolled paper from behind himself, snapping it open as he did. Nearly as large as he was, it showed Ophilia from the torso up. Xavier snapped his fingers, and images began flying across the paper. Ophilia from her first interview, dressed in her finest dress; a twenty dollar ‘Sunday’ dress from Macy’s. Ophilia in short denim pants and a tight denim vest. Ophilia in the leather halter and skirt she wore tonight, caught bending over to clean her brushes. Micah’s palm found his eyes at that one and he groaned.
Ricardo giggled. “Oh, my. I see.”
Micah sighed. Once the Pixies were involved in something, there was nothing to be done save waiting for them to become bored. “So you do. I even know where she's going to be tonight. I think she might have let it slip on purpose, but she might have just been babbling to get Gelt out before I killed the stupid bitch."
“You have set your sights high indeed, friend. Why aren’t you making the beast of two backs even now?” Xavier pantomimed the act with Ricardo, and both Fae burst into laughter. They pretended at civilization but wore its shackles ever so lightly.
“One, I don’t know where she lives. Two, I’m not sure she’s interested, and three, if I show up in my suit, or any of my other six identical suits, the partygoers are likely to scream ‘Police!’ and scatter.”
“My marble friend, have we ever steered you wrong?”
Micah looked up, concerned.
“Trust us, Micah darling. You do as we say, and you’ll be ready to go to the ball in no time. We’re your fairy godfathers!”
Micah eyed the two grinning pixies with a mixture of hope and foreboding. Why do I have a bad feeling about this?
***
The walk home seemed longer than usual. Phil sighed, watching the cars go by. Friday night, and here she was, steeped in black depression because of some Seleigh bitch. She could almost see Theresa Gelt wrapped around Micah. She had to admit, the two would be stunning together, her fairness complementing Micah’s darkness perfectly. When she tried to picture herself wrapped around Micah….mmm….
She took a deep breath and shook off the vision of her and Micah in a naked, sweaty embrace. Hell, she knew what they’d look like together. They’d look like they belonged in one of those cheap dime store novels: Cheap Women and the Men Who Like To Bed Them. But she couldn’t get Teresa’s sneer out of her mind. The woman would definitely make a play for Micah, if only to get to Phil. And man, would that get to Phil, to see the two of them together. Her aura pulsed with dark energy, and she reined it in, double-checking around her to make sure no one else noticed her lapse of control.
Phil’s brows drew together in a frown. Boot heels pounded the pavement as she grew angrier and angrier at what Gelt had probably planned for Micah. Bitch will break his heart. Micah’s too good for her!
She was pretty sure Micah was single. She’d seen women looking at him and seen him looking back on occasion. The few times she’d caught men looking at him, he hadn’t even noticed, so she knew he was straight.
If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
That small smile as he let them out of the restoration room tonight had been the first emotion she’d ever seen in his face. The first day they met he’d been, as usual, all dressed in conservative brown, those chiseled features stoic. She’d been introduced to him and watched his eyes go wide for a brief moment before his face leached of all expression. He’d led her to the restoration room and left her, only to return each night just before she was done, watching over her as she worked, letting her out of the building with a quiet “Good night, Miss Morgan.”
Wait. Watching over me?
She opened the front door to her brownstone, not surprised to hear wild Celtic music playing loudly in the back of the house. Her roommate was a huge fan of traditional music, and she’d picked up a phonograph for just that reason. The contraption didn’t play the music, of course, but it looked like it might.
“Darling, I’m home!”
“Clichéd much?” Desdemona yelled back as the volume on the magically produced music dropped significantly. When the two of them first met and heard each other’s first names, they’d collapsed into laughter and agreed to move in together on the spot. They’d been best friends ever since.
She dropped her bag onto the scarlet red sofa and headed towards the kitchen where Des sat, chopping merrily away at her hair, making the already uneven falls of dark purple more uneven. When she finished, she would pomade it into a concrete mass of spikes and swirls. It was an intensive daily process.
“Hey, Des.”
“Hey, Phil. Dancing at Sammy’s tonight?”
Phil sighed and flopped into one of the cheap red painted wooden kitchen chairs. “Yah.”
“Gee, don’t act excited or anything. Rumor has it Sammy himself will be there tonight.”
“Really?” Phil was still stuck on the picture of Gelt wrapped around her man.
“Sammy wants a piece of you.”
Phil snorted. “Well, he won’t be getting a slice of this pie.”
Des laughed, spewing tea onto the floor. “That is so bad!”
Phil grinned. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“What do you think of mortal-Sidhe pairings?”
Des dropped the scissors onto the red painted tabletop. “Oh, honey, you know those things just don’t work out.”
Phil shrugged and avoided Des’s concerned gaze. “It could. If I wanted it bad enough.”
“Yeah, right. You, giving up immortality for a human? I don’t think so.”
Phil watched Des slick pomade through her hair. “What makes you think I wouldn’t give it up?”
“Sidhe, Seleigh and Unseleigh, have been after your favors for centuries and you’ve given it up, what? Six times?”
“So? I’m selective.”
“Exactly!” Des pointed one pomade coated finger at her and grinned. “So, if you won’t put out for a catch like Sammy, who, by the way, is the hottest thing to hit Philly since you-know-who moved to Hollywood, and you didn’t put out for him either, what is wrong with you girl?” Des took a deep breath. Des spoke like a runaway train sometimes. “What makes you think you’d put out for a human?”
“This one’s different.”
“Sure.”
“It’s Micah Slate.”
Des froze for a moment, got up, washed her hands, grabbed two beers out of the icebox and handed one to Phil. She sat back down, popped the top, took a long, healthy swig, and carefully placed the can on the dinette table. “Did you say Micah Slate?”
“Yes,” Phil drawled. What the hell is wrong with Des tonight?
“Security Chief at the museum where you work.”
“Yah.”
“Mr. I Starch My Boxers.”
“Hey!”
“The same guy who walks like he’s got a steel curtain rod shoved up his...”
“Des.”
“You want him. You don’t want Sammy.”
Phil’s cheeks heated up. Des stared at her like she was insane. Maybe she was. “Yes.” She looked down at her hands, smiling gently. “He’s like this living work of art.”
“You sure, Philly Girl?”
Phil nodded. Des lifted the can and drained the rest of the beer. “Can I be Sammy’s consolation prize?”
“Go for it.”
***
Micah stood, naked and still hard, in the middle of the garage. Tarps spread beneath his feet. The Pixies proceeded to flit about him and sketch on pads they clutched to themselves, not even allowing him a peek. After five minutes of sketching and murmured conversation, they looked up at him with twin looks of eagerness.
“And now, we begin! Ricardo will be going to acquire new garments, and he has some thoughts on modifying your appearance to be more acceptable to your lady love despite your Words. While he prepares those, I shall begin on you with some simple body art.”
“I hate to break this to you, Xavier, but there’s no way you’re going to puncture me with a tattooing needle.”
“Did I say anything about needles? Where are those brushes?”
Micah blinked. His muscles twitched as his instincts screamed, Run! Only the thought of finally winning Ophilia held him in place. "Body paint."
“Exactly, Marble-man. It is coming back into fashion for the first time since the Louis held sway in France. Now, most humans would do this with water-based paints or special cosmetics, but we are pressed for time and you need not worry about being poisoned, so I’ll be using the paint we ordered for the trim in the museum. Hold still.”
Minutes later, standing in the circle of heat lamps normally used to dry new paint, Micah tried to squint down his nose to see Xavier putting the finishing touches on the mural centered on his chest. He couldn't be sure, but it appeared to be Father’s anatomy study. It was a little hard to tell, because the light was reflecting from every inch of his body, as Xavier had used a bright metallic gold for the base coat before following up with several line drawings done with a tiny airbrush.
Micah’s nose itched fiercely, but he held still. "Will you be done soon?"
“You do not rush a work of art, Micah. Ricky will be back soon, and we will have you ready to chase down your woman.”
Xavier finished and left with an admonition for Micah to remain still until Ricky returned. Micah stood for a minute, then two, then ten. At fifteen minutes, the paint now reasonably dry in the intense heat from the lamps, he decided to move. Before he could, a dull throbbing in his head stopped him, and he swore.
Protect the Art, Assist the Artist.
The secondary Words didn't come up much. They only applied when an artist asked him to help with a work in progress. Unfortunately, the Words didn't care what kind of Art they were talking about. He knew that, but always forgot about it until the time came.
He resigned himself to his fate and waited.
His nose still itched, too, damn it.
Fifteen minutes later, Ricardo flew back into the room, a load of cloth dangling from his arms. When Micah reached for the clothes, the combination of the Words and Ricky's slapping hands stopped him cold. Again, he stood still, this time as Ricardo flitted around him, fastening things in place. After only a few minutes, all the cloth was in place, what little there was of it.
The cloth a twelve-inch Fae can carry does not cover much of a six foot four inch Golem.
The moment Ricardo finished with the clothes, Xavier moved in again, this time carrying a rivet gun as big as he was. Micah wanted to run, but the Words held him in place. He tried not to wince at each of the tiny pops as the rivets went into the minimal cloth covering him. Whatever Xavier tacked on to the cloth, it weighed quite a lot, and Micah thanked his creator for the supernatural strength the Words gave him.
At least his nose had stopped itching. No, wait… Damn. He wrinkled his nose, hoping it would help, knowing it wouldn’t.
While Xavier worked his rivet gun, Ricardo flitted around Micah's face with a variety of cosmetics. Micah held still as the tiny Fae unleashed an arsenal of powders, paints, and pencils. Finally, with an injunction for him to stay still, the two turned off the heat lamps and flew out.
From the corner of his eye, he saw that an hour had passed since the pair started their crusade to ready him to win Ophilia. He wasn't sure if their efforts would help, but it certainly would get her attention. He could just see the final color of the body paint, and it had cured into a shiny metallic gold. A few minutes later, the two Fae dragged something into the room behind him, setting it on the bench next to his folded shirt.
“Ricardo! You have outdone yourself, love! No way will Micah’s little miss fail to notice our marble man. Let’s explain it to him.”
"Guys, I'm right here."
"Micah, come over to the mirror."
Micah turned, walked to the mirror, and stopped as soon as he got a good look at himself. He had to stifle a sudden urge to cover his crotch with his hands. The gold paint was startling, enough to catch anyone's eye, but they hadn't stopped there. The outfit covered quite a bit more than the undershirt and boxers he had worn before, but unlike his pedestrian underwear, the metallic crimson tights he wore now hugged every inch of his frame. Slippers of the same color covered his feet, and a skimpy vest made of the same crimson metallic stuff as the tights completed the ensemble. Ochre line drawings wrapped themselves around every inch of exposed skin. Even as he reached to touch them, Ricky slapped his hand away.
"Micah, now listen, and we'll tell you what's what."
“Ricky is correct. Listen well, Marble-man. We’ve painted your entire skin. It’s not fully set, but it will hold unless you expose it to heat, moisture and pressure all at once. If that occurs, you’ll have more on your mind than body paint. Ricky?”
"Now Micah, I picked out the best of Leo's anatomical drawings, and sweet X put them all over you. I got the idea from the signature on the inside of your shoulder blades. They're temporary, but temporary in a good way. Tell him, sweetie."
“Ricky got a brilliant idea on that. We hit the warehouses across the river for some raw cocoa and mixed up a batch of faux henna. It won’t melt away unless it gets moist. Which is rather the idea, is it not?”
"I'm wearing edible clothing?"
"Oh, no, Micah-sweetie, that would just be cliché. Your clothing is a beautiful silk I found. A boutique down on South got a shipment in and I just had to have some."
“You stole this?”
A theatric roll of the eyes told him how irrelevant the Pixie found his question, and Xavier took over once more.
“Only two more things to know, Marble-man. The bits riveted about you are an invention by a young man from Brussels. It was all I could come up with on short notice, and it needs a supply of power, but once they’re powered, they’ll make the whole vest and everything ripple like you’re in a dramatic headwind. To power them, and to get the paint out of your hair, I hand you to my own Ricardo, who has an idea about that.”
“Oh, yes I do, sweet Xavier. Okay, Micah, brace yourself."
Micah didn't have time to ask why he was bracing himself. The tiny fairy flitted up to stand before him, staring for a moment at Micah's forehead. For a moment he pulled in on himself, almost reaching a fetal curl before throwing his arms and legs out, his head arching back. A bright light flared behind Micah's eyes as Ricky yelled out, “Bang!” A spike drove itself through Micah's temples, the Words alone holding him upright.
“Fabulous, Ricardo! Fabulous!”
The pain of the Words had almost, but not quite, faded. The Words themselves remained a constant low murmur. As his eyes opened, the last of the pain became immaterial. The gold paint was gone from his hair, and it had grown out another half inch, exposing the black of the roots. The cloth of his vest, his shorts, and even his slippers rippled with visions of the far side of the garage, occasionally seeming to turn sheer for a moment. Ricardo bowed to an imaginary audience, and Xavier flitted around Micah's head, brushing his hands over the hair, which stood straight and rigid. As he did, tiny sparks flickered from the brown tips.
“However did you get his hair to change color, Ricky?”
"Oh, sweetie. Have you ever looked at his Words? All I did was push them a little."
Micah stared at Ricardo with horrified fascination. “You tried to change the Words in my head? That could kill me!”
"No Micah-sweet. That's beyond me, probably beyond anyone living. Leo set those up but good. You're going to be around longer than anyone but a high court Fae, and you'll probably outlast some of them. No, I just nudged the part of them that tells them to help with art, and they cleaned out your hair. Why do you dye your hair brown? It's so lovely black. I'll bet it even has a dreamy wave when it's grown out! Lemme touch!"
"Whatever. My hair bleaches in the sun just like anyone else’s, I just don't grow any more unless the Words are fixing me."
"Ooh. So soft and spiky and tingly! Well, you're all set to go to the ball. Get out to Sammy’s and woo your lady love!"
"I can't leave the museum uncovered. If something goes wrong, I have to be in touch."
Xavier flitted off to the bundle the pair had carried in, returning with a tiny bauble. On feeling it fit into his ear, Micah could tell by the weight that the casing was at least gold plated, if not actual gold.
“This is the world’s smallest crystal device, Marble-man. It won’t range out of the city, but it will let your associates alert you should something require your attention.”
"I can't go out dressed in this! I'll get arrested walking down the street! I'll wind up in jail, not at Samuel’s."
Ricardo chided, "No, that would never do."
“Ah, yes. You must hide your light under a bushel until you arrive. As such, we have brought you a present.”
The two Fae flitted back to the office briefly, coming back towing a long crimson cloak inscribed with black and gold sigils. When they flared the cloak out so he could see, he confirmed that they were actually very fine copies of the art adorning him. With a longsuffering sigh, he pulled the cloak around him.
He took one last look at himself in the mirror and tried not to wince. He twinkled, for God’s sake. "I'm never going to live this down."
"Oh, sweetie, you've been living down too long. Now it's time to live it up!"
“Ricky is right, Marble. Go, enjoy yourself. Woo your lady love. Return with tales of victory!”
Ricky and X watched as Micah walked out of the garage. He walked like a man with shiny gold paint between his buttocks. “Should we call and warn our little chica?” Ricky watched as Micah snuck out of the back of the museum looking like he was trying to avoid his own execution.
Xavier snorted. “Hardly. They’ll figure it out. Once they each realize that the other is not what they seem, nothing will keep them apart. The only possible problem is if they cannot figure it out. The abundantly sized do so like to be blind. Perhaps they’re too large, and don’t get enough blood to the brain?”
Ricky tapped one finger against his glossy upper lip thoughtfully. “Yes, amado, that’s what I’m afraid of.” His deep brown eyes widened in delight as another thought came to him. It was dangerous, and Xavier would probably be upset when he found out what he’d done, but if it worked it would be so worth it. “Uncle Ricky has an idea!”
Xavier grinned, pulling his lover close. His hand wandered under Ricky’s skirt, ignoring the other Fae’s laughing pushes to get away. “Yeah, me too, Ricky.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Now, how on earth was Ricky supposed to resist that?
***
Phil stared at herself in the full-length mirror and grimaced. She’d never felt so… so… dowdy in her entire. Long. Life.
She’d pulled on a floor length black skirt from the back of the closet; a pale green pullover sweater with long sleeves, a conservative neckline, and no weird symbols knitted in; and delicate little heeled sandals. There wasn’t much she could do to her hair to make it look more conservative in the time she had, but she’d dampened the look of her tattoos with a judicious use of makeup. Her eyes and lips barely sparkled at all. She’d gone with neutral shades on both.
In short, other than her hair colors, she looked like a librarian. A freak librarian, but still.
She took most of the studs out, even the one in her nose, despite the dangers involved. She pulled the bells from her ears and replaced them with a single pair of hoops through her lobe holes. Finally, she pulled a jade green ribbon out of her drawer and tied her hair down snug. Whispering to concentrate the power, she bound the ribbon and hair in place with Power.
There. If that didn’t whimper conservative, she didn’t know what did.
“Damn, girl. You look like a vagrant.”
Phil rolled her eyes and put on the single silver bracelet she allowed herself.
“Are you sure about this, Mistress Ophilia?”
Phil winced at her reflection. The look was so not her, but for Micah she’d dye her hair blonde and move to the country. She’d even learn to cook and clean if she really had to. “He’s worth it.”
“You won’t pull any more studs out, will you?”
“No. We all know what happens if the studs all get pulled.” She left the bedroom, jogging easily in short heels. She’d run full-out in four-inch spikes. These dinky little things wouldn’t slow her down a bit.
“Excellent! Hey!”
Phil turned on her way out the door. Her huge black purse was slung over one shoulder. “Yeah?”
Des grinned. “Good luck bagging your stone-man.”
Phil blew her a raspberry and breezed out the door with a laugh.