Chapter 7
“Mmmm, just like that, right there . . . that’s what I like. Don’t stop now, sugar, you keep that up.”
She grimaced from her place beneath the breeding bench, glancing down to the digital clock on the table. She’d worked on this bull before and heard stories from the other collection techs—he wasn’t quite one of the Good Little Cows, didn’t need the fantasy of being milked like an actual dairy heifer, but it was clear he was there for the hand job. Violet was half convinced he’d not notice if his bottle was never scanned in, no payment routing to his account. He came for the sexual release, and didn’t let the associate under the bench forget it.
She nearly lost her grip as the minotaur above shifted, repositioning himself to be able to thrust harder against the hole in the bench. She had no doubt that he was likely a terrible lover, if the sharp, erratic bobs of his cock were any indication.Being on the receiving end of that would be like getting a root canal for your vagina.
“Squeeze my balls with your other hand, but keep that up now . . . mmm, perfect. You’re gonna have me cumming so hard.”
The timer on the table rolled over to the fifteen-minute mark, which was good enough for her. Reaching back, she flipped on the machine one-handed and took up the nozzle. If he wanted to talk about ejaculating, there was no time like the present. The minotaur jerked when she applied the nozzle, his protest turning to a groan as the sucking silicone worked down his shaft, and she peeled off the oil-coated gloves, readying the label. She’d been working at the farm for several months at that point, and while clients like this might have fazed her in the beginning, they did so no longer.
“There we go,” she agreed as the green light clicked on. She’d not be earning a tip from this particular bull now, but then again, she likely wouldn’t have anyway.Get them in and out and on with their day.There was a Good Little Cow in her rotation that afternoon bookended with Earners, and she only hoped the afternoon would pass quickly. A purple sticker loomed on the bottom of her stack of files, and thus every hour before the one that signified her last appointment of the day was merely to be endured.
* * *
He visited the farm on Fridays and had confided that he liked to do so because he often traveled for work on the weekends. She had no idea what line of work he was in nor what his travel entailed, and if she were being completely honest with herself, his confidence had been more of a matter-of-fact declaration and she’d needed to suppress the urge to snap to attention with a notebook, taking dictation as he towered above her. That hadn’t stopped her from using the small bits of information she gleaned to pad her daydreams with solidity, each tiny nugget adding to the shape of him in her mind.
The information on his chart was minimal. He weighed almost as much as her compact car and was more than a decade her senior. Violet pondered if he would find her too young to be a viable romantic partner; if their disparate social positions would be a turn-off.After all, he’s obviously successful. Three months ago you had to buy gas station coffee and generic orange juice.She’d been sipping her juice before her laptop when the thought had occurred to her, scowling at the voice in her head. Shestillbought the generic orange juice, but now she did it because she found she preferred the taste, she rationalized.
She wasn’t out of the woods yet, not by a long shot, but for the first time since she’d been out on her own, her bank account had a four-digit balance. She’d been able to set her credit card bills to auto-pay, a luxury reserved for only those who always knew where their next dollar was coming from and didn’t need to stress over having money for basic necessities. She was still in debt and drinking generic juice, nowhere on his lofty level, but she was holding her own. And besides, she reminded herself peevishly, she was well educated and highly motivated, and she only needed the right opportunity to come along before her own career would be underway.
She wondered if he worked in one of the nearby industrial parks, as he’d mentioned coming to his appointments with her from work, and she’d deduced from their previous conversations that he obviously lived in Cambric Creek. He’d once lived in Bridgeton, but he’d clearly stated that heusedto live in the city. She wondered where he’d called home then, if he’d lived in one of the expensive high rises around the downtown area or something more akin to her own dilapidated little building, full of pensioners and cash-strapped students. She’d looked up Starling Heights next, discovering it was another town, separated from Cambric Creek by Greenbridge Glen, a tiny resort community nestled in rolling, green hills. He didn’t live in the resort town, of that she was certain, and he’d complained about the distance to Starling Heights, which made Cambric Creek the most likely option.
She’d detoured off the main road on her way home one afternoon, turning down streets until she found herself in the residential section of town, housing development after housing development of tidy properties. The architecture had enough variation to keep the streets from looking identical, but there was clearly a city planning commission and she wondered what the homeowners association fees must be.
The second time she’d eschewed her direct route home, Violet noticed a theme. There wasn’t simply a difference in the generic architecture of the homes. There were distinctly different builds that boasted the same features, repeated over and over: the houses with extra-wide, paved driveways also had outsized doorways, while other houses had no drive to speak of, just a wide expanse of green lawn and visible water features. Single-level dwellings that boasted no front steps sat beside more traditional-looking houses with extremely small doors; some yards boasted thick, lush grass, and others were partially covered with sand. The coffee shop wasn’t the only aspect of the town that catered to its varied residents, clearly. She tried to imagine what sort of house he lived in; if the residents moved into homes based on their species or had things custom-tailored after the fact. Beyond the endless streets of developments was a gated road bearing elvish lettering she was unable to read, the homes contained within sitting beyond an artificial slope, protecting them from looky-loos like her.
Her return drive took her through a neighborhood called Oldetowne, as evidenced by the ornate placards on either side of the intersection, and true to its name, the streets were lined with stately Victorians and palatial edifices that looked like something out of a movie set in the roaring twenties, and she’d been breathless with excitement over such a find, feeling her pulse race for reasons that had nothing to do with the corresponding beat between her thighs, for the first time in weeks.
Her art history degree had funneled into a specific discipline—western architecture of the previous two centuries and the ornamental hallmarks of the different styles. Her master’s degree in non-profit management had meant to be the finishing block on a staircase to her dream job, and to be surrounded by such a bounty . . . she would have gladly given her left foot to get a look inside one of the pristine houses lining the street.
She’d pulled to the curb in wonder, trying and failing to imagine what sort of residents lived there, unable to picture her minotaur calling one of these Queen Annes home; he seemed a touch too rugged for that, even with his well-pressed shirts. She’d not run into him wandering the streets of Cambric Creek, but the different neighborhoods fueled her fantasies all the same.
According to his chart at the farm, he’d been born in the dead of winter, mid-January, when the temperatures were coldest and the snow piled high. She’d never put much stock into horoscopes before, but now found herself curled up in bed at night with her tablet, reading about the responsible, serious natures possessed by Capricorns. Distant and driven, with a healthy respect for material security and a tremendous libido . . . Violet didn’t pretend to know the first thing about astrology, but she was forced to admit the description seemed accurate, at least from what she could tell with her limited knowledge base. She’d never given much thought to her own sun sign, but the fact that her spring birthday was represented by a bull thrilled her, and she poured over new age websites reading about their sexual and emotional compatibility and chances for relationship success. She wondered if other species read horoscopes, or if it was a uniquely human distraction, deciding she’d ask Geillis. She had no doubt that his sober, stern nature meant he would scoff at her ditherings, but it warmed her knowing that their compatibility was written in the stars.
She had it bad.
She’d tried her hardest to avoid it, to prevent it from happening, had even considered that sheshouldgo home for a weekend and have coffee with Carson Tinsley from up the street, but there was no way around it. She had a ridiculous crush on the messy-haired minotaur, and every week spent in his gruff company pulled her further down, unable to think of anything but him, going over every conversation they’d had over the past few months in an effort to root out the most innocuous details she might have overlooked.
* * *
“Violet, I have good news and bad news,” called Donnaxa, the cheerful beetle-woman who handled the files with Magda, appearing at the top of the hallway as she exited the collection room. In an instant, her heart seemed to climb to her throat, thoughts of her ridiculous crush replaced with the very real fear of being fired.Violet, we know about your inappropriate fantasies. The janitorial staff has notified us of the snail trail left behind on your workbench. Please collect your things.
“What do you want to hear first?”
“Um, the bad, I guess?” she squeaked out, hoping her knees would continue to hold her.This is it, this is the end. No more delicious coffee and being friends with vampires. You’re gonna need to move home. You’ll have to marry Carson Tinsely and move into his mom’s basement and take vacations in the loft above the garage.
“Well, the bad news is your next appointment canceled, he called about an hour ago.”
She had curled in on herself—anticipating the blow of being told to collect her things, to leave immediately—and her eyes had scrunched tight, her hands gripping the stack of files with white knuckles. At Donnaxa’s words, her eyes creaked open. Canceled. A canceled client.That’s it, you’re not fired, it’s just a cancellation. What’s wrong with you, how would they even know?!
“O-oh! Okay, well . . . that’s not terrible. What’s the good news?”
“The good news is that the client after that canceled as well, and he was the one who requested the milkmaid scrubs.”
The beetle-woman beamed and Violet sagged in relief, letting out a shaky laugh. It didn’t matter that the Good Little Cows were usually excellent tippers,nothaving to deal with one was a boon for which she was grateful. “Oh, I’m just crushed. Guess that means a long lunch then? Should I go clock out?”
“Yes, please! Go enjoy yourself, you’ve earned it!”
Geillis started her shifts at La Vie Rouge in the mid-afternoons, draining the day’s menu donors early enough that their blood had time to congeal and be turned into dramatic culinary offerings: decorative aspics and foams, artfully plated on spotless white dinnerware. She’d poured over the restaurant’s website and menu, marveling over the fanciness and ingenuity of the dishes, despite each only consisting of a single ingredient, desperately wanting to try it and not brave enough to go on her own. The gift of a free afternoon was not one she’d likely get again anytime soon, and if she texted Geillis now, they might at least have time to meet for coffee.
Perfect, I’m just up the street at the bank. I’ll get us a table
The time to get coffee with her friend, get a bit of fresh air, and she’d still come back to the farm to see him for her final slot of the afternoon. It was, Violet thought, waving to the cheerful goblin at reception, a perfect day.