Everything you bite can.., p.1
Everything You Bite Can Be Used Against You, page 1
Everything You Bite Can Be Used Against You
Allyson Snow
Copyright:
German Edition: © Allyson Snow 2019 /
Zeilenfluss Verlag
Editing/Proofreading: 1st Editing/Proofreading: Juno Dean; 2nd Editing/Proofreading: Mathew Snow
ISBN-13 : 978-3750404885
English Edition: @ Allyson Snow 2024
snow_allyson@yahoo.com
Translation: Sandra Linke
Cover: © Sandra Linke
Image materials from canva
Journalists Who Itch Don't Bite
A Stage-Worthy Embarrassment
Nudity Is (Not) an Art
Ingratitude is the Charmer's Reward
Hands Up, I'm Surrounded!
Kisses Are the Better Threats
The Mystery of the Handbag
The Darned Morning After
Bloody Hell and me!
Strippers Make Better Plumbers
The Heaviest Callboys Are the Best
Offspring Is Usually Practical
Personal Protection Not Eligible for Exchange
Old Love Runs Over Well
Operation Successful, Patient Arrested
Vampires Just Want to Talk, Really
Kidnap Victims Are More Like Rentals
Soaked in Paris
Ingratitude is the Father's Reward
Handcuffs Suit Policemen Better
Unexpected Passion
Handsome Black Tomcat
At the Edge of Madness Sits a Tomcat
A lick and a promise
Magic is Unfair
No Plan is the Best Strategy
Burn, Paris, Burn!
The First Time is the Last Time
Epilogue
The End
Afterword
If you don't want to miss out on updates about my books, subscribe to my newsletter and get an exclusive e-book that's not available for purchase anywhere else.
Don't worry, I won't be filling your inbox every week. You'll only hear from me when there's genuinely something new to share.
https://allysonsnow.wixsite.com/allysonsnow/newslettercom
Journalists Who Itch Don't Bite
Robert stood in the entrance hall of the Opéra National de Paris, wishing someone would just shoot him. Too many people stressed him out. The murmur of voices, the clinking of Prosecco glasses and the shrill beeping of the security staff's hand scanners at the main entrance filled the foyer. It was like a beehive. Searching for a blonde here was like looking for a matching pair of socks in his drawer. Without holes! There were simply too many blondes and too few holeless socks in this world.
To top it off, he didn't even know if Helen would show up. Damn it. This was exactly why Robert hated first encounters. Normally, he would catch his targets on the street, at work or outside their houses. But Helen Shepherd was different from everyone else—particularly elusive.
But that wasn't the biggest problem. That was his borrowed tuxedo! It seemed a pack of fleas had declared it their party zone. Robert slid a hand into his sleeve and scratched his wrist. God, how he wished he were a monkey who could scratch himself shamelessly, or a boar who could rub his hide against a tree until it fell over.
This was not his evening, not even his week. In fact, it wasn't even his life. Merde! Now it wasn't just his wrist that itched, but his back. He could swear thousands of fire ants were setting up a nursery on his skin. The itching drove him mad. How was he supposed to keep an eye out for a woman like this? He desperately needed something to scratch against. But all the columns were occupied! Those who hadn’t snagged a bar stool were leaning against every vertical surface. Wait! An old man with white hair was supporting himself with a cane and limping towards the men's room. Robert squeezed into the gap, between two women.
"Bonsoir," Robert greeted politely. But the woman on his right just furrowed her bushy eyebrows. Maybe she was upset because he had shoved his elbow against her bag to make room. But in desperation, as in war, anything was allowed.
The mademoiselle to Robert’s left side eyed him from her semi-decent shoes up to his hair, which was fortunately too short to look messy. He would later thank the Lord on his knees—she didn't find him attractive. Better yet, she seemed disturbed by his forced grin. She moved away and fled with long strides to her husband in the line at the bar. Immediately, Robert slipped into the free space, out of the sight of the older madame.
This was his chance. Robert rubbed his back left and right. Brief moments when the itching stopped and heavenly relief set in, only for it to return even stronger, on his back, his arms and now his stomach. Good grief. If this kept up, he'd be done for before the first curtain rose.
Never again would he borrow a suit. All this thanks to the police department's relentless budget cuts. His request to purchase a tuxedo had been denied by the accountant with a thin, sadistic smile.
He slid his hands under his jacket and scratched the afflicted areas with all his fingernails. Oh, that was glorious. Now he understood why dogs twitched their hind legs when they did this. He barely restrained himself from doing the same.
On days like these, he really didn't understand why people said he was a good cop. He needed to focus, and he couldn't do that with the temptation, er, the pillar at his back. So Robert took a large step away from the column.
That was one of his better ideas. For a moment, the itching even stopped.
He climbed a few steps of the broad marble staircase and let his gaze sweep over the crowd. There must have been around seven or eight hundred guests. They chatted, drank Prosecco, and enjoyed the ambiance. Some simply stood there, heads tilted back, staring up at the ceiling. The Opéra was indeed a sight one never forgot in a lifetime.
The wide staircase led visitors up and branched off to the entrances of the various tiers. Here, massive stone had been tirelessly piled up into a composition of impressive beauty, adorned with delicate designs. Chandeliers were mounted everywhere, on the stairs and the walls. They gave off such warm light that it seemed like real candles rather than electric bulbs. Their glow reflected in the ceiling mural, while the light at the bar appeared cold and artificial. Yet, even that couldn't disrupt the grandeur of the building.
Robert only spared a fleeting glance at the grandeur. He scrutinized every blonde mane, and finally, he spotted a woman who resembled Helen. Though he only saw her back (which was truly delightful), she had the same slim, tall figure as his target and the same way of lightly swinging her hand when she walked. Her dress was simple, made of black, shimmering fabric, with the only embellishment being the wide neckline that bared her shoulders. A small train fluttered with each step. Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she held a handbag the size of a paperback book. When she turned around, he finally saw her face, and her aristocratic nose left no doubt. This was Helen Shepherd, the assistant to the devil—pardon, to Jason Harris. This man was the most feared mafioso in town, and yet the police could never pin anything on him.
There were officers who would sell their souls to the devil if it meant finally catching him. Robert was one of them, but every time they got close, that damned bastard would buy off or bribe colleagues and prosecutors. Evidence disappeared, if it was ever solid in the first place. Those who resisted the lure of a bonus payment were found dead in the woods or the Seine after a few days. Some officers were corrupt and sabotaged anything that could bring down Jason Harris and his organization. But even Al Capone was eventually caught, thanks to tenacious tax auditors. Unfortunately, Jason Harris wasn't foolish enough to bask in the limelight. There wasn't a single usable photo of him; they were all blurry. Anyone who knew him denied it. Harris was an immaculate clearing in the jungle of journalism, where Robert was now also operating—disguised as a reporter for Les Actualités. As a cop, you sometimes had to take any cover you could get. He'd even pose as a garbage man or janitor if it meant cleaning Harris' office. But his boss had decided he should pose as a hack for a moderately known newspaper. Many criminals sought the spotlight and gloried in their reputations. Why should Harris be an exception? That's what Robert's superior Louis had hoped, and Robert had agreed. However, this charade had so far been a complete failure. Harris was like a phantom, fending off even the most persistent press inquiries, and Robert hadn't written a single word. Not for an article the police IT department had faked for him, nor for a damn police report. This complicated Robert's plan. But it was doable. One thing he could check off his list: Helen was here, he was here, and finally, he could turn her head. He just had to speak to her first. But how? "Bonsoir, I'd like to hear some dirty secrets about your boss. And if possible, give me some evidence, and you might as well take the arrest warrant for him with you."
The worst part was, it wouldn't be the dumbest pickup line he'd ever used. "How's it going?" narrowly topped it. He'd never forget the look of disdain from the woman he had tried that on.
But back to Helen. She stepped up to the bar and squinted at the drink menu. Then she shook her head, turned around and promptly collided with a kissing couple. Helen grimaced and ran her hand over her chest. The gallant held a drink behind his lover's back, and Helen's décolletage was now glistening wet. Not that it wasn't a fascinating sight, but there were few things more annoying than getting drenched in a sticky cocktail before the performance even started. Neither of the lovebirds had the decency to apologize to Helen. T
Helen frowned and—Robert could hardly believe his eyes—grabbed the man's wrist. She tipped the rest of the drink, ice cubes and all, down the back of the woman's dress. The coldly surprised lovebird shrieked and slapped her boyfriend across the face. To top it off, Helen pinched the woman’s rear, prompting her to slap him again.
Wow. So this was why they said revenge was best served cold. But Robert had to admit, the mischievous grin on Helen's lips didn't seem malicious; it made her more likable.
And hallelujah, Helen's backside was indeed pinch-worthy. It was surely just a coincidence that his own rear and the associated front side started itching at the same time.
But he still hadn't spoken to her. The sooner he got it over with, the better for both of them. Robert pushed through the crowd, accidentally shoving aside a teenager who had likely been dragged there by his mother, and... walked right past Helen.
He'd love to claim they exchanged a brief glance. One that intrigued her and tempted her to approach him. The truth was far more pathetic. She hadn't spared him a single look, and he had no idea what to say to her.
He should have approached Helen the old-fashioned way. A slight bump on the street, an apology with a contrite look, followed by a smile. A smile that was nothing more and nothing less than a compliment to the woman he had accidentally run into. And then, a few days later, another "coincidental" encounter of a similar nature. But no, he thought he was so clever when he found the ticket for tonight's performance of Les Huguenots in her mail. Robert knew how awkward he was when it came to approaching a woman on the street. It had always been his biggest flaw that he could stalk but not flirt, and this damn suit wasn’t making thinking any easier!
Robert positioned himself next to the pedestal of a two-meter-tall bronze statue of a man contorted in a bizarre pose. He looked like a discus thrower who had stumbled mid-throw and was about to fall on his face. But most importantly, the pedestal was at the perfect height for rubbing his itchy backside. Merde, how was he going to endure the entire opera? And where the hell had Helen gone? She was no longer at the bar, not on the stairs, nor at the other columns. Had she gone to the restroom? He had to catch her before the performance began.
But first, he needed to crush this persistent fire ant on his leg. If only it were that simple… Ah, damn it. Robert pressed his thigh against the edge of the pedestal and moved on to the next itchy spot.
"I've seen some strange forms of art appreciation, but I've never seen anyone rub themselves against a statue like a dog in heat."
Robert froze at the voice. Turning slowly, he found himself face to face with Helen Shepherd, her aristocratic nose turned up slightly in amused disdain.
Robert whirled around. Standing before him was none other than Helen. Her dress looked far more elegant than his tuxedo. There were no loose threads hanging from her long sleeves. She even wore a rose over her right breast. He hadn't even thought about a pocket square.
Helen tilted her head and made no effort to hide her grin. "Is it borrowed?"
"What... Who?" Robert stammered, taken aback. Why the hell had she snuck up on him from behind?
"The tuxedo," Helen clarified emphatically, pointing first to his pants and then to his jacket. "Let me see." Before Robert could stop her, she grabbed his sleeve and felt the fabric. "Cheap material, it's practically falling apart. Yes, definitely borrowed."
Robert gave a crooked smile. "If I didn't have to pay for it, I'd burn it."
"Are you planning to spend the rest of the evening molesting the sculpture?" Helen let go of his sleeve. For a brief moment, her fingers brushed against his hand. A casual touch, probably not even intentional, and he fervently hoped it felt as good to Helen as it did to him.
Robert shrugged. "Women torture themselves in uncomfortable shoes and rub their heels raw. I do it in an itchy evening suit."
Helen rested her arm on the sculpture's thigh. "But women can go barefoot when it becomes unbearable. You look tormented. I think you should take off that dreadful thing."
He should do what? "You just want to see me thrown out naked. Just like you enjoyed it when that guy got slapped."
"Oh, you have a good eye," Helen praised, her smile widening. "If you claim that your nudity is part of presenting this artistic monstrosity here, no one will throw you out. They’ll applaud you. No matter how poorly you’re equipped."
Robert snorted. "How incredibly motivating." And insulting! "I hope you don't always try to undress a man this way."
"For the prudes, I have a few other strategies." Helen smiled sweetly at him. Great. She thought he was a prude. Maybe he really should sign up for one of those flirting courses. He could serve as a bad example for the other participants. 'How to be labeled a prude in two minutes.'
Damn it, his itchy suit wasn't helping. Helen watched him slip his hand into his pocket to scratch his hip with a mocking smile.
"Would it help if I took off my shoes? Then you can ditch your suit too," Helen suggested.
"No!"
"Really not? I don't mind going barefoot."
"You're wearing ballet flats," Robert exclaimed. "That's no sacrifice. You won't even get shorter."
"They're actually pumps. They do have a hee—"
"I don't give a damn what you call them. Even if they were the highest high heels ever, it's hardly comparable."
Helen stroked the bronze muscles of the statue. "I hate high heels. Though they are very useful when you want to step on someone's toes."
"You don't need shoes for that."
„Oh, am I getting on your nerves?” Helen now leaned one hand on the bronze rear end of the statue and put the other on her hip. „I thought a man who rubs his butt against statues and fiddles with his crotch in his pocket couldn't be shaken by anything.”
Her blonde hair and slender figure might give her the appearance of an angel, but her mocking grin completely undermined that impression. But what did he expect from a mafioso’s assistant? She had to be sadistic.
„Is that why you’re here alone at the opera? So you can pick someone to torment?” Robert snapped.
„No.” Helen shrugged. „But I don't pass up victims who practically offer themselves up.”
„I’m neither a victim nor offering myself up,” Robert growled.
Helen’s smile widened. „You were craning your neck to look at me.”
„I mistook you for my grandmother.” Oh, brilliant. What a hero he was. He skipped right over the small talk and getting-to-know-you phase, straight to the phase where people snapped at each other. He couldn't help it. Something about Helen provoked him. Only, there was a problem with this phase: no woman gave up information in such a situation. They did that only with light, pleasant feelings. But he had managed one thing: he had rendered Helen speechless. But only for a moment, because then a gleam appeared in her eyes. She fixed him with an aggressive stare, and everyone knew there was a reason why this woman was never picked up from her boss’s office. She scared off every man and even bared her teeth a little.
Robert took a step back. „You’re not going to bite me, are you?”
„No, don’t worry,” Helen waved off. „I just had a dental cleaning yesterday and want to admire the results in the mirror for a few more days. Besides, men who know how to defend themselves are too rare to castrate.”
With that, she turned her back on him and started walking toward the bar. Wait a minute, she couldn’t just leave now!
"Wait," Robert called out.
Helen stopped and turned around, and he saw something in her expression that might have been surprise. However, unlike others, she raised only her left eyebrow, which made her nose elongate slightly. He couldn't help but think it looked cute.
With a few quick steps, he closed the distance between them and stood in front of her. "What do you get if everyone passes the test? Is the only reward not being castrated?"
"Isn't that enough?"
Robert leaned forward, close to her ear, to drown out the noise of the countless voices. "I've always been greedy."
He heard Helen inhale sharply, and her voice sounded slightly less authoritative as she said, "Would you like something to drink?"
Robert waved it off. "The prices here are hardly justifiable. I hate contributing to someone else's wealth."
