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To Fat and Back

Carrie jolted out of her dream as very real pain shot up from her throbbing shin and into her knee. Confused and disoriented, she looked around and tried to understand what had happened. As her gaze landed on Billy, she watched as he lowered his sight and raised it again. Had he known what she’d been doing? But how? Stop kicking me!

He understood her silent command and replied with an arched brow. “Then stop zoning out.”

Irritated at how well Billy knew her, she shifted and focused on Michael again, knowing he’d never notice her overtly daydreaming about him. Although she knew she’d never have a chance with Michael—especially since her roommate, Shiloh, had latched onto him the first day she’d seen him—Carrie couldn’t let her hope die. Even though the guilt of lusting after her friend’s boyfriend made her keep her feelings hidden, she couldn’t give up her dreams. How could she when she spent half her work day following him, playing assistant to him as he strutted around the office and wishing she could be the one he’d stop and chat up. How could she give up hope when she lived for the day when he’d casually stroll by her desk, stop and tell her how much he liked her new hairstyle? How could she let her fairy tale fade when she dreamed of him every night and fantasized about him every day? Her dreams of Michael kept her spirit alive. She imagined him seeing her for the terrific woman she was and, after professing his undying devotion, he’d carry—okay, insert a little reality here—he’d lead her into his bedroom and make wild passionate, set-the-bed-on-fire love.

She sighed, letting her mind wander into the fantasy again.

The dream version of Carrie raised her head, turning toward the opening bedroom door with a coy smile of greeting. “Oh, Michael, it’s you. I’m glad you’re home.”

“Where else would I be?” He strode to her side, touching his palm to her cheek in the familiar gesture of tenderness. “I can’t stay away from you. Every moment, every second, all I want is to hold you, kiss you and take you as my own.”

She leaned into him as he slid his hands over the curves of her body, skirting over her rounded hips to cup her ample bottom. How many times had he said he loved her full-figured form? Sighing into her ear, he nibbled her earlobe and sent tingles racing through her body. “Make me the happiest man alive. Please, my love, marry me.”

“But, Michael, what about the others?” She began unbuttoning his shirt, letting her fingertips brush over the golden hairs of his strong, toned chest. “What about the women who believe you love them? What about poor Shiloh?”

“Ah, sweet Shiloh. She’s a great girl and a wonderful friend which is how she and I came to an agreement. She realizes I never had any real feelings for her and she doesn’t want to stand in the way of our happiness. As for the others? Well, I’m sorry for them, but I told them to leave me alone. I told them I’m yours. Please, Carrie, make me yours.” Removing her shirt and bra, he bent his mouth to suck on her taut bud. She arched her spine, pushing her breasts to him and dropping her panties to the floor. He groaned with delight, going down on his knees to rub his face in her curls. “Carrie, my Carrie. Let me make love to you. I want to give you pleasure.”

“Then make love to me, Michael. Pleasure me.”

She sighed again, allowing her fantasy to wrap her in warmth—wet, steamy heat. Granted, sometimes the dialogue was a bit corny, but she varied the setting often, at times imagining Michael to be a hero from one of her mother’s older romance novels. At other times, she’d update the story and Michael’s personality, warping her dream into the raunchier novels of today.

Either way, she held onto the hope that one day he would notice her and realize how wonderfully sexy she was. Surely Shiloh wouldn’t stand in their way once she saw how true their love was. She’d see their happiness and bow out gracefully—just like in her daydream—and move on to find her own soul mate. Until that day, however, Carrie would keep quiet, wait and dream.

One day she knew she and Michael would make love and live happily ever after. Whew! Just thinking about Michael in bed, sleeping in the buff, made her squirm in the leather chair. She wiggled again, unable to stop herself.

Squart.

Carrie gasped as the obnoxious sound echoed around the room. She tucked her chin to her chest and stayed absolutely motionless. Please, God, don’t let anyone notice. Or, if they did, let them ignore it. Silently, she wished that every ounce of her being—over three thousand ounces of “being”—would drop through the floor and fall all the way to the nearest weight loss center on the other side of the world. Did they have Weight Watchers in China?

A snicker, however, confirmed her worst fear. Why do these things always happen to me? Open sesame, floor!

Wailing for Love

Banshee Initiation Committee Headquarters—Oct. 21, 1493

Terror gripped Colleen O’Grady as she lifted her head to see eleven figures sitting at a long stone table in front of her. As she scanned their faces—some smiling, others not—a shudder ripped through her, reminding her of her naked state. Self-consciously, she wrapped one arm over her small breasts and placed her hand over her curly patch of hair.

“W-where am I?” Colleen bit her lip, hoping the pain would keep her from crying.

“Colleen, calm down. Everything’s all right.”

Her gaze swept to the kind face of an elderly lady sitting at the end of the table. Colleen locked onto her with as much mental energy as she could dredge from her shaking frame. Surely this kind woman will help me. Yet, even as she sent the woman a silent plea, she doubted her own belief.

“Colleen O’Grady, do you understand what has happened to you?” A wise-looking man with white hair and a white beard peered at her and waited. “Well, girl, speak up. You’re wasting our time.”

“No, sir.” Sir? When had she ever used that word before?

“Think, honey. Do you recall seeing me? Only a short while earlier?” The kindly woman nodded at her, encouraging her to follow her thoughts. “Remember? I was at your bedside when you were ill.”

Colleen frowned, wanting to evoke the image growing from a vague shadow in her mind’s eye. She did think she’d seen the woman. “Did you care for me when I was with fever?”

The woman rewarded her with a brilliant smile. “Not exactly. Although I was there to help you. I sang to you.”

A harsh scraping sound like the screech of a thousand black birds filled Colleen’s memory and she whimpered in pain. “Oh my, yes. I remember now. The sound was so horrendous. Not like singing. More like, like…”

“Oh, for Light’s sake, girl. More like wailing.” A younger man’s irritated declaration started a cacophony of laughter from the remaining people. But not from the older woman.

The woman’s glorious smile faded as the laughter surrounded Colleen. “I’ll have you know many people say my wailing is the most beautiful sound they’ve ever heard.”

The young man chuckled. “Ah, Mrs. Walsh, I think I understand what they meant. In fact, I’ve heard your wailing called breathtaking.”

Mrs. Walsh tipped her head in thanks. “Thank you, Richard.”

Yet Richard wasn’t finished. “It takes their breath away and they die from the pain of hearing your wail.” Laughter broke out again as Richard stood and took a bow. Mrs. Walsh scowled at first, then slapped him playfully on the arm.

Wail? Colleen gasped as the cobwebs fell away from her memory. She’d been lying on her bed, choking in every precious gasp of air she could, when the vision of a ghostly creature floated up to her bedside and started wailing. “Oh, no. You’re a banshee.”

The laughter quieted as yet another man, hardly taller than a child, slipped from his seat, passed under the table and walked over to Colleen. He took her hand and squeezed it even as he bent around her, his lecherous gaze falling on her bare buttocks. “That’s it, sweetheart. You’re getting your memory back. Do you know what it means when someone hears the wail of a banshee?”

As the little man scoured her body with his hot perusal, Colleen realized what could have happened. “Doesn’t it mean someone is going to their grave? Has someone died?”

“Humph!” The older man pounded on the table. “About time. Young people are getting increasingly more stupid every hundred years, I tell you.” He pounded again, tucked his chin down and stared at Colleen. “So who do you think died? Come on, girl. We haven’t got the next century for you to figure this out. Other initiates are coming.”

Colleen glanced around the room, taking in the mix of angry, frustrated and supportive expressions. Could this be true? She shuddered again, this time not from the chill in the air, but from the harsh realization sweeping through her. “Am I the one who died?”

“Bingo!” The diminutive man next to her let go of her hand to clap his hands together. “But that’s not all, Colleen. There’s more.” Dancing around in delight, he twirled three times and whipped out a piece of odd-looking parchment from his pocket.

“More?” She didn’t want more. In fact, all she wanted was to go home. To Ireland. To her family.

“That’s right. You’re one of the lucky ones. One of the chosen.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her and she tried to manage the smile he seemed to expect from her.

“I don’t understand.”

“Aw, hell.” Another bang on the table emphasized the old man’s aggravation with her. “There she goes again with the not-understanding bit.”

Fortunately for Colleen, Mrs. Walsh was back on friendly terms with her. Twisting in her seat, she raised her finger and a small stick appeared over the old man’s head. “Hush up, Cicero. Quit acting like an old fart and give the girl a break.” With a blink, she commanded the stick to thump the old man on the head.

“Hey!” He slunk down in his seat and covered his head with both hands. “Stop beating on me, old woman!”

Whisking the stick away with a wave of her hand, Mrs. Walsh addressed the little man. “Go on, Bumpee, explain everything to her.”

With a curt nod in agreement, Bumpee took both of Colleen’s hands in his to spread her arms wide. “There, there. It’s all right.”

Bumpee scrutinized her exposed breasts as if he wanted to devour each one. “Yes, indeed. Very all right.” Spittle snaked down the side of his chin as he literally drooled over her.

She yanked at his hold, but couldn’t get him to let go of her hands.

“Here’s what happened. You’re correct. Mrs. Walsh wailed for you and you died.”

Mrs. Walsh coughed, gaining everyone’s attention. “Excuse me, Bumpee. You make it sound as though I caused her death.” She addressed Colleen to clarify her statement. “Although we have the ability to kill a mortal by wailing, banshees aren’t supposed to cause a person’s death. In fact, to do so would break one of our most sacred laws. Instead, our purpose is to herald their imminent and preordained passing and help them along their way into the Hereafter. You were dying and I simply wailed you from one existence into the next.”

The little man put his back to the older woman and rolled his eyes at Colleen. “Can I continue, please? As I was saying, you’re dead, but you’re not going to Heaven.”

Why not? Had she done something terrible to keep her from obtaining her Heavenly reward? And why did her voice sound so weird? It sounded like her voice, except using unusual words with a strange accent.

Bumpee licked his lips. “No. No Heaven for you. Instead, you were chosen to perform a duty for mankind. You’re going to join the ranks of the banshee. You’re now a banshee with long, beautiful reddish blonde hair and a great ass.”

“Behave, Bumpee,” warned Mrs. Walsh.

Yet Colleen no longer thought about being nude or even being dead. Instead, she had to concentrate all her will power on simply staying on her feet. Either that or fall over in a dead faint—emphasis on the dead part. “I’m a banshee?”

When Cicero started to complain again, Mrs. Walsh raised her hand in a threatening manner. He shut his mouth and glared at her.

Turning her attention back to Bumpee—what sort of name was that for a grown man?—Colleen shook her head and tried to pull away again. “But I don’t want to be a banshee. I want to go home. Or to Heaven.”

Bumpee covered his mouth, barely hiding his own chuckles as the others broke into mirth. “Silly girl, you don’t have a choice. Come with me and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Oh, no you don’t, you miniature pervert.” Mrs. Walsh hopped up from the table and rushed to Colleen’s side. “I’ll take care of this new initiate. Back off, little toad.”

As Mrs. Walsh wrapped her arms around her shoulders, Colleen started praying.