Hosed (Happy Cat #1)

by Pippa Grant

“Back. Up. Please.” The Don’t Mess With The Big Serious Firefighter Voice usually works like a charm, but not with this one. She’s bouncing like a bird, trying to get around me. She’d probably dive between my legs if I gave her half an opening. And not dive between my legs in the good way.

“The mango-lime-liberation flavor Savannah wanted us to sweeten up a bit. One minute, I’m mixing everything just fine, and the next, poof! Lube fire.”

“She did not have a mental breakdown,” Brown Eyes hisses. Ruthie May’s weathered forehead wrinkles sympathetically. “Honey, she had an entire truck of dicks-in-a-box delivered to Steve’s parents’ house, then posted a video on InstaChat of her playing Whack-a-Husband with a dildo. If that ain’t a mental breakdown—” “He was cheating on her with a sheep,” someone else in the crowd offers. “He earned that dildo beating.”

“She cleaned out half her bedroom and had me grab her a wide variety of vibrators to take along on her soul journey. Variety is important when you’re healing a heart chakra wound.” Cassie opens her mouth, then closes it. Her cheeks are turning the right shade of pink to highlight the freckles on her nose, and for a split second, I wonder how many of Savannah’s products she’s tried.

Olivia didn’t take me seriously when I said we were going to light people’s sheets on fire, did she? I was sure she understood that was a metaphor.

You are going to grieve, get back on your feet, and reclaim the helm of this wonderful company you’ve built. Savannah: You hate the company. Cassie: I do not, I’m just…shy around dildos. Savannah: You shouldn’t be. Dildos just want to make you feel good, Cass. Dildos are our friends, unlike dicks attached to actual real life men.

I mean, I know some folks think it’s scandalous to have a sex toy company at the edge of town, but… Cassie: It’s in the middle of town. Right by the post office. Savannah: Well, yes, but the sign is very tasteful. Cassie: The sign is a sun having an orgasm. Savannah: She is not. She’s just happy! Cassie: Too happy.

Maybe I would’ve finally lost this pesky V-card—seriously, it’s a minus five charisma penalty—if I’d gone to SuperHero*Con like I was supposed to last week. I had my Captainess America costume all ready, and I’d been chatting in an online gamer group with Flash185, a fellow coder from Detroit with a quirky sense of humor and a decently cute profile pic, about having butter beer at the hotel bar one night.

She’s truly passionate about helping women lead sex- and pleasure-positive lives. She was outraged when she learned that eleven percent of women in the U.S. have never had an orgasm and vowed to right that heinous wrong or die trying. Van’s the Joan of Arc of sex toys. It’s a calling for her, one she’s going to come back to—I hope.

“Being hot as a fire truck doesn’t make him worth wasting one second of your time,” I whisper to myself. “You’ve got better things to do than mess with Ryan O’Dell.” Liar, my inner voice replies. I need a new inner voice.

Parking is the worst and if I have to watch one more naked dude cruising the Tenderloin on his bicycle, I’m going to take to wearing a blindfold full time.” Ryan grins. “Seriously? They ride their bikes naked?” “They do,” I confirm. “But most of them wear a helmet so at least one head is protected.”

“You really should know better than to insult a person’s size. We short people are notoriously crazy when we’re angry. Just look at Napoleon. Genghis Khan. Tom Cruise.”

Because I’m falling in love with her, and love takes pleasure and makes it magic. Makes it sacred.