Doubull Indemnity

2

Greg, Feeling  ̶u̶n̶Lucky

"You're late."

"Fashionably," said Isla, out of breath, strolling into the office like she owned the fanging place at half passed six. Arms laden with bags, she addressed the empty sofa with a little wave. "Evening, Pheebs."

Cheeks flushed. Pulse raced. My own fading, borrowed pulse jumped in to match her pace; I shuddered from it. Still getting used to that. Even after weeks of abstaining from her veins. Her very presence engulfed the office in the scent of sweet earth and mulled wine and fresh cigarettes. She changed up her shampoo recently, too. No longer mint and oranges. Now it was something more floral. Sweeter.

It was all very annoying.

Isla dropped her shopping bags onto the sofa— sweet hell, why so many bags?—leaving a gap where I presumed my ghostly secretary was perched and spun to greet me. The red smirk fell from her lips.

"I know, I know, shift starts at six sharp, Isla," she huffed, mocking my voice. Poorly, I might add. "Golly gee, boss, I am sorry. You must be up to your frigid butthole in waiting clients," she hovered a hand against her brow and squinted at the door, "ah, yep, I can see the line forming down the block. You're busier than Isgro's Pastries on Christmas Eve."

Covered my mouth to hide the silly grin the dame already pulled from me, against my own will, just like that. See how easy it was for her to get one over on me? You see?

"Oh, glitter tits, speaking of," she continued, rapid fire and completely ignoring my brooding. "You would not believe the day I've had! Busiest of the year!"

Isla shrugged out of her coat.

"We have a rack, you know," My chair creaked as I kicked my feet off the desk. "Fanging hell, woman, you ever get cold?"

She tossed the leopard fur garment atop her pile of bags. I bit my lip to keep for whistling. Dame was going to be the second death of me. Especially if she kept showing up to work in a doozy of a dress like that. The hot pink number tightly hugged her curves down to her knees, but looked thin, and low cut. A pinch of midriff was exposed, just under the flimsy knot securing the material over her breasts. When she shrugged, the tiny cap sleeves slid delicately off her inked shoulders.

"Funny you should ask, Greggy, because—" she reached into one of those bags.

"Hang on. Is that the dress from—"

"Yes."

"Niagara?"

"Yes," Isla beamed. She withdrew her empty hand from the shopping bag and ran it along her backside—fangs, I had to look away. "Course you're a Marilyn fanboy."

I tongued my growing fangs. "How'd you get replica of that?"

"I made it, silly boy," she turned sharply to her right (as I ignored the tingling sensation crawling up my veins), "thank you, Phoebe. Oh, Pheebs, you're going to love this. I had to clam-jam my last client today. She was getting down and dirty in hubby's ectoplasm right on my—Ah, let me make coffee, and I'll tell you all about it," Isla covered the yawn sprawling out from her mouth, "both of you. It's a riot."

"No professionalism when it comes to client confidentiality?"

She snorted, spinning and sashaying to the back of the office, where the coffee pot was nestled between bookshelves and filing cabinets. Her little pink number caressed her hips, hitching up slightly as she walked away, shivering just a tad, like a chill washed over her. Goosebumps erupted on her exposed calves.