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ChapterOne
“I wantto sniff The Russian’s tights.” I set my mimosa on the table with a stern finality. “Now, will you help me with the break-in?”
The confused expressions on my sisters’ faces are almost worth the humiliation. “Almost” being the operative word. The three of them are about to have a lot of fun at my expense.
“You mean that ballet dancer you’re crushing on?” Blue, one of my five littermates, asks. Her green eyes, the same ones I see in the mirror every day, sparkle as she adds, “He’s not a spy, by the way. I checked. Nor is he Russian for that matter. He was born in Latvia.”
Of course. Blue is the family spook, so she assumes every foreigner is part of the intelligence community.
“I didn’t ask you to snoop on him, but yes, I’m talking about the ballet dancer,” I say. “Why else would a man wear tights?”
I ignore the part about his birthplace. According to his online bio, he grew up in Moscow. More importantly, “The Russian” is from Sex and The City, while “The Latvian” isn’t.
Blue shrugs. “Because he’s a hipster? To keep his legs warm during cold Latvian winters? Because his pet bear doesn’t like the sight of hairy legs?”
Gia, my older sister who has one littermate of her own, waves one pale hand to shut Blue up. Leaning on her forearms, she peers at me intently. “What does your weird fetish for men’s undergarments have to do with us?”
My left eye twitches. “I don’t have a fetish.”
Gia’s grin is devious, as always. “Hey, I’m not kink-shaming.”
I resist the urge to argue further, as it will only encourage her. Instead, I take solace in the fact that Gia is stumped by my request. As an older sister and a magician, she’s used to being the one who mystifies, so the reversal must chafe.
Honey, another littermate of mine, takes out a flask from her leather jacket’s inner pocket and pours some more champagne into her mimosa. Like Blue, she has my face, albeit a thinner version of it. I’m by far the curviest of the sextuplets. “Can everyone shut the fuck up and let Lemon explain what she wants?” she snaps.
I give the prickliest of my sisters a grateful nod. “To achieve my goal—”
“And by goal, she means those fragrant tights.” Gia looks so happy I half expect her to pull a rabid rabbit out of a hat—and she’s not even wearing a hat.
I blow out a frustrated breath. “Yes. To get to the tights, I’d like to sneak into his dressing room during a ballet performance.” I look at each sister in turn. “The three of you have the skills I need to avoid ending up on the evening news.”
Actually, Blue alone probably has all the skills I need, but I’ve been dying to have a Sex and the City-style brunch for a long time and thus needed three accomplices. Too bad my sisters don’t map neatly onto Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda. It’s more like James Bond for Blue, Lisbeth Salander from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo for Honey, and G.O.B. from Arrested Development for Gia—except Gia also looks like Morticia Addams, if said character were to turn into a vampire.
Blue thrusts her glass at Honey, who pours her some champagne from the flask. “I think I speak for all three of us when I ask: Why?”
I scan our surroundings.
Good. We’re the only ones sitting outside here at Brunchicka, so I can speak freely… or as freely as is possible given the minefield that is this subject. “As you know,” I begin, “I have a bit of an obsession when it comes to The Russian.”
Gia snorts. “Sure, if by that you mean you’re on the verge of going Fatal Attraction on his tights-clad ass.”
I roll my eyes, a Hyman family default when dealing with Gia. “Only some of you”—I glance at Honey—“know this, but most of my encounters with men, such as they were, ended as soon as I smelled them.”
I fully expect snarky remarks along the lines of, “Did you try sniffing their butts? It works for dogs with a sense of smell as keen as yours.” But the mocking doesn’t come. All three of my sisters are looking at me with pity—which might actually be worse—and they don’t even know the full extent of my problem. The main reason I insisted we sit outside is because smells are more concentrated indoors, often to an unbearable extent for me—and that’s with my special nose filters that dampen my olfactory acuity. The list of smells that drive me crazy is longer than Gia’s list of germs to avoid. I even hate the scent of lemon—which must be some sort of self-hate, with my name being Lemon and all. On the bright side, if there’s ever a fire, I will always sniff it out and survive. Who knows, I might even become the first human to detect carbon monoxide—an allegedly odorless gas that defeats even dogs.
I clear my throat and pick up my mimosa. Orange scent is thankfully different from lemon, not having been overused in cleaning products. “Long story short: I don’t like being obsessed,” I say. “I want this guy out of my head, so I can focus on more realistic prospects.”
Like my ex, who has a case of germaphobia that would put Gia’s to shame. When we were together, he showered so often that he never had any body odor, only extremely dry skin. To tolerate him, all I had to do was convince him to use only unscented products. Too bad his lack of scent didn’t help our lack of chemistry. Maybe I’ll find another germaphobe who’ll suit me better. I keep silent about that plan, though, so as not to offend Gia. She’s showing herculean restraint by not mocking me at the moment.
Honey fondles a stud in her ear, one of her million piercings. “So, if I understand it right, you want to conduct an exorcism of sorts. Sniff his tights, get grossed out, and thus end the obsession?”
I bob my head. “Exactly.”
“In that case, I’m in,” she says.
“Me too, but on one condition,” Blue says with a grin. “The codename of this operation is Big Sniff.”
Fucking skunks. How long before they realize it makes a nice acronym?
