“Shut. Up. Aideen.”
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
Snapped out of my stupor by a worried, and very confused by the tone of her voice, female Tiger Shifter, I got as far as, “Yeah, I’m…”
Before my imagination, fueled by the plethora of mixed-up hormones and chaotic emotions that introduce the beginning of the most horrible M word ever spoken–Menopause– and Little Martha, the wild and crazy part of my psyche, who along with Aideen almost always got me in trouble, kidnapped my brain and the ability to speak. There, in the forefront of my mind, was the most gorgeous, mouthwatering Alpha White Tiger Shifter to ever be conjured. He was seven-foot tall if he was an inch. His muscles had muscles, and the bulge in crotchal region of his very tight blue pants said everything about him was big and beautiful.
As if that wasn’t enough to cause a five-alarm fire in my crotchal region, the Catman–who could only be described as sex-on-two-legs–had a pair of padded cuffs hanging from the index finger of his right hand and a feathered flogger in the grasp of his left.
The possibilities of a good time were endless, and maybe just what I needed. Focusing on his face, I had to wonder if I knew him. Was he more than a very hot figment of my imagination?
Well, it was possible…
You see, for some reason, all the cops in the three-female-Dragon town I called home were White Tigers. Heavily muscled, with permanently and perfectly scruffy jawlines, deep-voices, and dark, sexy eyes that made me think of sex with a capital S. It defied all logic. Not even Momma June or Dad know how or why it happened. They just chalked it up to yet another way the Great Goddess and the Universe were taking care of Dragoon Bootay and went on with their lives.
Of course, I had no answers either, but one thing I knew for sure was that those fine specimens of Feline masculinity damned sure made a girl think about committing a crime or two— something little like jaywalking or forgetting to pay for a bag of tomatoes at the store. Let’s be serious, I didn't want to go to the big house or anything permanent. I mean, a life sentence for me could be forever and ever amen, and yeah, that shit just wasn't going to happen. This Dragoness needed her sunshine, coffee, chocolate, and bougie and bedazzled shoes and we all know the Big House could and would not keep me in the lifestyle to which I’d become accustomed.
But an hour or two in the back of a police car with a Tantalizing Tiger might just scratch that persistent itch in the southern region of my curvy person. Ya’ know what I mean?
No, no, no! Do not answer that.
I had to focus. Had to get help for my immediate issue. Horniness was not an emergency, at least not in the truest sense of the word. And not in any law book I’d ever seen. Sex would have to wait. Wasn’t it always the way? Like kids get nap breaks, shouldn't adults get sex breaks? I think I'll write my local Congressman just as soon as I can find a pen, or my laptop.
Anyway, what was I doing? Oh, yeah…
And just like that, my train of thought was back in the present at the precise moment that the operator’s tone got louder and higher with every syllable she stressed. “Ma’am, are you able to speak? Can you breathe? Do you need medical assistance? Ma’am? Ma’am, please give me a sign that you’re still conscious.”
Holy crap! Was I daydreaming for that long? It seemed like a second, two at the most. See what happens when I miss my fourth cup of coffee. The world, and my brain, go straight to La La Land in a beautifully bedazzled handcart.
“I’m… Well, it’s just that… Umm…” Huffing out an exasperated breath, I groaned, “My shop’s on fire. I mean, not the whole building, just the back of it. To be more precise, it’s some of the kitchen and the…” Leaning forward as far as I could and craning my neck around the corner of the bright, blue, freshly emptied dumpster, I kept right on going. “Umm, yeah, just the kitchen… Well, no, it’s kinda just part of it. The storeroom really which is actually part of the original kitchen. It's hard to explain… You see, I converted… Oh crap! That's not important, is it? Or is it?"
“Let’s start here,” the operator coaxed, working really hard to hide the giggle in her voice.
This shit was embarrassing enough without acknowledging that I was slowly losing my mind. Dr. Weathersbee (No, I most assuredly did not go to one of my sisters. Nope. No way. Couldn’t do it.).
Anyway, Doc Weathersbee told me memory loss was all part and parcel of menopause, that damn M-word again, but since I hadn’t been able to remember shit for a couple of centuries, I chalked it up to being me and kept right on rolling. OH! I also refused to acknowledge that I might – maybe, just perchance, and let me assure you it was a longshot no matter what the blasted passage of time, every calendar and clock and both my younger sisters said– be anywhere even remotely old enough to be approaching the nasty beast known as menopause. If forced, I might admit to being middle-aged, but that was a stretch, and I would need considerable and copious amounts of Diet Mountain Dew, freshly baked tortilla chips, queso made from Momma June’s recipe, salsa, and guacamole.
(FYI: There are some situations in which coffee does not fit the flavor profile, and my Tex-Mex comfort food pig out was one of them. However, caffeine was always on theme menu, hence, the Diet Mountain Dew.)
Along with needing to have a good, old fashioned Tex-Mex food pig out, I must make one thing crystal clear– if anyone describes me as a ‘woman of a certain age’ I will let Aideen come forth, breathe massive amounts of Dragon Fire directly at the person who dared utter those offensive words, and ask her not to stop until that person are a pile ash. Got it? Good.
Okay, where was I? Oh, yeah, I was almost admitting to being middle aged-but just almost and here’s why. Let's do the math.
I, Martha Mary Margaret Dellencourt…
No, I have no clue why I have so many names. All three of us-aka the Dellencourt Dragon Queens-were all named with an extra middle name-and nobody has ever been able to explain why– even our parents. They just knew they were supposed to name in such a way, and that is exactly what they did.
Ahem… I repeat, I, Martha Mary Margaret Dellencourt am a wonderfully vibrant, extremely playful, and exceedingly youthful five-hundred-and-sixty-seven years old Dragon Queen Shifter. The average age of the women in the Dellencourt Clan is three-thousand-three-hundred-and-thirty-three. So, I ask you, doesn't it stand to reason that middle age and that other horrendous M-word should occur somewhere in my fifteen hundreds? Yep! That's what I thought, too. I am so glad that we agree. Being on the same page will make our time together so much more enjoyable. (By the way, I'm smiling and winking as I pull your leg over here.)
Meanwhile, back to my story… and the Female White Tiger on the other end of the phone who was alternating between laughter and worry.
"What's your name, ma'am?"
And just like, the giggle was gone. In its place was heartfelt, genuine concern that made the woman really good at her job. She was putting me at ease, which was a testament to her talent because my business was going up in smoke…literally right before my very eyes.
“Martha.”
“Are you in a safe place, Martha? Out of danger? Are you still close to the building? If so, I suggest moving as far away as possible.”
