“Yeah,” he answered with an arrogant smirk. “You’re waving your hands around and yelling letters at the moon in front of a crowd. You’re the bloody definition of acting mental. How about this, plum? Why don’t you put on some trainers like a normal human being, take a walk, and cool off?” he offered, but he should have known better than to go full-on cocky boxing bastard beefcake.
Like an out-of-her-mind nut fairy glittering in a gold bra, Libby cackled like a bloody witch, grabbed her bag, then reached inside. “Oh, I’ll show you mental. This is what happens when a beefcake rocks a person’s chi, then rips the O right out of her. You end up with sixteen of these. Sixteen of these, and none of them can get the job done!” she shouted, and God help him, she whipped a giant vibrator out of the bag and held it above her head like she was the dirty version of the Statue of Liberty—Libby, the Statue of Trying to Get Off.
“Jesus, have you lost the plot completely?” he cried, taking a step back.
“No, you stupidly sexy heap of beefcake. I’ve made this abundantly clear. It’s your fault that I’ve lost my O.” Libby wound up, then chucked the vibrator at him. It cartwheeled through the air, headed straight between his eyes. He ducked as another vibrating sex toy zoomed past his shoulder.
How was he supposed to stop this X-rated version of Mary Poppins with her carpetbag full of dildos? The woman was relentless. He barely had time to react as a rainbow-colored hunk of vibrating plastic rocketed right for his crotch.
“Not my dangly bits, plum,” he called, turning away as the vibrator got him right in the hip. “Ouch!” he cried like a lad bawling in the street.
“Oh, your dangly bits will pay,” she growled, chucking another.
He fended off the sex toy as it joined the others, littered about the sidewalk. “How many of those are you going to throw at me?”
Like a crazed beast, she pawed through her bag, then looked up, and pinned him with her wild eyes. “Sixteen! And I plan on throwing every single one of them at you, beefcake. You’ve ruined everything! My teaching gigs, my apartment, my sanity! Thanks to you, my karma is crap, and I’ve lost it all,” she exclaimed, hurling another vibrator.
The woman might be half out of her mind, but she had one hell of an arm.
One after another after another, she launched vibrator after vibrator into the air. The hum of the vibration added a mechanical twist to the scuffle as if she were propelling cock-sized bombs at him, left and right.
“What’s she throwing at the Lion?” came a voice.
Bollocks!
He couldn’t let the press photograph him dodging flying vibrators.
He sprinted back and forth, collecting the pulsating tubes from the ground, cradling them in his arms. It was a damned strenuous workout, bobbing and weaving and sprinting and dashing to scoop them up as Libby maintained her rapid-fire pace. Something small came at him. A rock? He juggled the vibrators in his arms, snatched the stone out of the air, and shoved it in his pocket.
“Plum, you’ve got to stop,” he panted, glancing up at Libby as the golden glow from the streetlights gave way to a red and blue flashing hue. He blinked, and before he knew it, the screech of tires and the smell of burnt rubber hijacked his senses.
“Drop the weapons. Step away from the bag,” a stern voice commanded.
He glanced to his left and had to do a double take.
This vibrator tossing frenzy had escalated to the next level: police involvement.
He stared at the vehicle as two officers exited the squad car, guns drawn.
Bloody guns.
He could not get shot dead with his arms filled to the gills with sixteen sex toys.
“You, the big guy in the hoodie. Drop your weapons. Hands in the air,” the taller of the two male officers called, shining a torch in his face. Blasted light! He couldn’t shield his eyes. That would mean dropping the bloody vibrators.
“They’re not weapons, officer,” he called.
“We’ve got a bag. This is a possible bomb situation,” the shorter officer cried, pointing his torch at Libby’s yoga tote.
“Bomb!” Libby screeched as the onlookers inhaled an audible, collective gasp.
“Are you confirming the existence of an explosive device, miss?” the cop barked, turning the torch on Libby.
“A what?” she stammered, looking around. Shock and utter confusion were written on her face as if aliens had returned her to her body and thrown her into a dire situation.
Honestly, he probably had the same expression. Things bloody well had become dire.
He needed to defuse the situation. “There are no bombs or weapons, officers. This is a misunderstanding,” he said, keeping Libby in his sights.
Wide-eyed, with her hand pressed to her chest, she nodded.
“Plum, tell the nice officers that you aren’t carrying any weapons and that you wish no one any harm.”
She continued to nod, her head wobbling rapidly like one of those bobblehead dolls. “Erasmus is correct. There are no—”
“Wait a second,” the taller officer called, lowering his weapon. “I recognize one of those. We don’t have a bomb threat on our hands, Joey. Not if the big guy is holding what I think he is.” The officer holstered his weapon. “I’m going to approach you, sir.”
“Approach away. Like I said, I haven’t got any weapons on me,” he replied, and never in his life had he been so happy to have an armful of sexual stimulation devices.
The officer advanced slowly, then studied the cadre of vibrators pulsing and convulsing like a den of rabid dildos. “That’s the Rainbow Screamer,” the cop said, his tone losing the whole I’m-about-to-shoot-you quality.
Raz glanced at the buffet of plastic cocks cradled against his abdomen. “The, what?”
The officer pointed to the colorful vibrator. “The rainbow one. My girlfriend has this.” The cop leaned in like they’d become best mates. “She loves it. We both do. She takes it everywhere—even on vacation.”
Raz gave the officer a weak grin. “Cheers, mate. Here’s to good times on holiday.”
The shorter officer checked Libby’s bag. “All clear, George. We’ve got a yoga mat, a little Buddha statue, a tiny gong, and a pair of sneakers.”
“Bring the bag here, Joey,” the cop directed.
Raz breathed a sigh of relief as the shorter cop handed Libby’s yoga tote to the taller one.
“Dump the items inside, sir,” the officer directed.
Happy to comply, he followed the officer’s command and breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, this looked insane, but no one was any worse for wear. The best-case scenario? They bid goodbye to the men in blue and pretended like this never happened.
“Miss, would you join us?” the shorter officer called to Libby. “Stand right next to the big guy and tell us your name.”
She hurried over and saddled in by his side. “I’m Libby Lamb.”
“Lamb? Are you related to a Connolly Lamb?” the officer asked, eyeing her.
Libby swallowed hard. “I don’t know who that is.”
“And you?” the cop asked, turning to him.
“Erasmus Cress.”
“The Lion? The British Beast?” the taller cop asked, cocking his head to the side, as the shorter one repeated their names into the walkie-talkie strapped to his vest.