The Deadliest Bite

“Hey, Tracy. Grizelda back?”

Grizelda was Tracy’s girlfriend, and they’d caused quite a stir when they first appeared in Rockabil together. Not only were they lesbians, but they were as fabulously lesbionic as the inhabitants of a tiny vil age in Maine could ever imagine. Tracy carried herself like a rugby player, and dressed like one, too. But she had an easygoing charisma that got her through the initial gender panic triggered by her reentry into Rockabil society.

And if Tracy made heads turn, Grizelda practical y made them spin Exorcist style. Grizelda was not Grizelda’s real name. Nor was Dusty Nethers, the name she’d used when was a porn star. As Dusty Nethers, Grizelda had been fiery haired and as boobilicious as a Baywatch beauty. But in her current incarnation, as Grizelda Montague, she sported a sort of Gothic-hipster look—albeit one that was stil very boobilicious. A few times a year Grizelda disappeared for weeks or a month, and upon her return home she and Tracy would complete some big project they’d been discussing, like redecorating the store or adding a sunroom onto their little house. Lord knows what she got up to on her profit-venture vacations. But whatever it was, it didn’t affect her relationship with Tracy. The pair were as close as any husband and wife in Rockabil , if not closer, and seeing how much they loved each other drove home to me my own loneliness.

“Yeah, Grizzie’s back. She’l be here soon. She has something for you… something scandalous, knowing my lady love.”

I grinned. “Awesome. I love her gifts.”

Because of Grizzie, I had a drawer ful of naughty underwear, sex toys, and dirty books. Grizzie gave such presents for every occasion; it didn’t matter if it was your high school graduation, your fiftieth wedding anniversary, or your baby’s baptism. This particular predilection meant she was a prominent figure on wedding shower guest lists from Rockabil to Eastport, but made her dangerous for children’s parties. Most parents didn’t appreciate an “every day of the week” pack of thongs for their eleven-year-old daughter. Once she’d given me a gift certificate for a “Hol ywood” bikini wax and I had to Google the term. What I discovered made me way too scared to use it, so it sat in my

“dirty drawer,” as I cal ed it, as a talking point. Not that anyone ever went into my dirty drawer with me, but I talked to myself a lot, and it certainly provided amusing fodder for my own conversations.

It was also rather handy—no pun intended—to have access to one’s own personal sex shop during long periods of enforced abstinence… such as the last eight years of my life.

“And,” Tracy responded with a rueful shake of her head, “her gifts love you. Often quite literal y.”

“That’s al right, somebody has to,” I answered back, horrified at the bitter inflection that had crept into my voice.

But Tracy, bless her, just stroked a gentle hand over my hair that turned into a tiny one-armed hug, saying nothing.

“Hands off my woman!” crowed a hard-edged voice from the front door. Grizelda!

“Oh, sorry,” I apologized, backing away from Tracy.

“I meant for Tracy to get off you,” Grizzie said, swooping toward me to pick me up in a bodily hug, my own wel -endowed chest clashing with her enormous fake bosoms. I hated being short at times like these. Even though I loved al five feet and eleven inches of Grizzie, and had more than my fair share of affection for her ta-ta-riddled hugs, I loathed being manhandled.

She set me down and grasped my hands in hers, backing away to look me over appreciatively while holding my fingers at arm’s length. “Mmm, mmm,” she said, shaking her head. “Girl, I could sop you up with a biscuit.”

I laughed, as Tracy rol ed her eyes.

“Quit sexual y harassing the staff, Grizzly Bear,” was her only comment.

“I’l get back to sexual y harassing you in a minute, passion flower, but right now I want to appreciate our Jane.” Grizelda winked at me with her florid violet eyes—she wore colored lenses—

and I couldn’t help but giggle like a schoolgirl.

“I’ve brought you a little something,” she said, her voice sly.

I clapped my hands in excitement and hopped up and down in a little happy dance.

I real y did love Grizzie’s gifts, even if they chal enged the tenuous grasp of human anatomy imparted to me by Mrs. Renault in her high school biology class.

“Happy belated birthday!” she cried as she handed me a beautiful y wrapped package she pul ed from her enormous handbag. I admired the shiny black paper and the sumptuous red velvet ribbon tied up into a decadent bow—Grizzie did everything with style—before tearing into it with glee. After slitting open the tape holding the box closed with my thumbnail, I was soon holding in my hands the most beautiful red satin nightgown I’d ever seen. It was a deep, bloody, blue-based red, the perfect red for my skin tone. And it was, of course, the perfect length, with a slit up the side that would rise almost to my hip. Grizzie had this magic ability to always buy people clothes that fit. The top was generously cut for its smal dress size, the bodice gathered into a sort of clamshel -like tailoring that I knew would cup my boobs like those hands in that famous Janet Jackson picture. The straps were slightly thicker, to give support, and crossed over the very low- cut back. It was absolutely gorgeous—very adult and sophisticated—and I couldn’t stop stroking the deliciously watery satin.

“Grizzie,” I breathed. “It’s gorgeous… but too much! This must have cost a fortune.”

“You are worth a fortune, little Jane. Besides, I figured you might need something nice… since Mark’s ‘special deliveries’ should have culminated in a date by now.” Grizzie’s words trailed off as my face fel and Tracy, behind her, made a noise like Xena, Warrior Princess, charging into battle.

Before Tracy could launch into just how many ways she wanted to eviscerate our new letter carrier, I said, very calmly, “I won’t be going on any dates with Mark.”

“What happened?” Grizzie asked, as Tracy made another grunting declaration of war behind us.

“Wel …” I started, but where should I begin? Mark was new to Rockabil , a widowed employee of the U.S. Postal Service, who had recently moved to our little corner of Maine with his two young daughters. He’d