So, wow! I'm really excited this story has gotten such a good response. (This is me still smiling.) Thanks, everyone!

Special thanks to makesmyheadspin for agreeing to stay on as beta. She didn't know what she was in for when she signed on for an O/S, but I'm so glad she's offered to help me out with the rest of this story.

On with the show…

Chapter 2: The Greatest Show On Earth

It was something I'd never seen before looking out the front window of Merlotte's Diner.

Over the course of all of the years I'd been working for Sam, I'd seen many things looking out that window that spanned the entire front of the diner. In many ways, the stretch of sidewalk in front of Merlotte's was the town common, the center of all North Dormer activity. Sure, we had an official town common, a sprawling grassy area presided over by the town hall, white-washed, simple, but stately in a classical kind of way. The matching bandstand, in the center, was the presumed site of all official functions and town-sponsored entertainment, especially in the summer. But in fact the weekly concerts and colonial re-enactments, complete with period costumes, was more of a show for the tourists, who picnicked on the lawn, actually read the inscriptions on the statues, and snapped pictures of themselves in front of anything they thought was quintessential New England.

What they didn't realize was that here, in front of Merlotte's, was the real spot for a show.

Sometimes people would blunder onto this stage, going about their daily business as though no one were watching from within Merlotte's. In the summer, tourists would wander by, lost on their way to the beach. Others, clutching road food guidebooks would stop by the front door to check out the menu. And then there were the truly unaware folks: the nose pickers, butt scratchers, cell phone talkers, and lipstick appliers, not to mention the lovers, either kissing or quarreling.

But the real performers came with a clear motivation for self-promotion of one kind or another. Maxine Fortenberry, for example, was a master at this game. Anytime the local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution made a charitable donation, however small, she would be out there, under Merlotte's green awning, posing for a photographer from the North Dormer Tribune. And when proposed budget cuts threatened a reduction in the town's police department, Andy Bellefleur had proven his importance to town security by arresting Maudette Pickens during the lunch rush for failing to pay her parking tickets, going so far as to press her body up against the glass when he handcuffed her. Even L.L., generally aloof to the inner workings of North Dormer's social structure, had jogged by countless times, shirtless and in athletic shorts, when he'd gone through that phase when he was supposedly training for the Cape Cod triathlon. (He'd backed out when he'd realized that he wasn't cut out for the saltwater swim.)

So I'd been no stranger to a show, orchestrated or not.

But never—ever- had I seen someone parallel park a red Corvette.

It was a tight squeeze too. For sure, I wouldn't have even tried it in my little compact car, though that's not saying much. It's not that I can't parallel park (so don't blame me for falling into what some might call a stereotypical female behavior). It's just that my car has something called "power assist," which offers little assistance, if you ask me. Nobody, not even the patient drivers (if there are any in Massachusetts), has any tolerance to wait for me to wrangle my car into a parking spot. So no, I wouldn't have wanted any part of the scene I would have created right there in the front of Merlotte's.

Yet this car, the red Corvette, hovered for only the briefest of moments before slipping backward, tucking in its long hood, and filling the space in one smooth pass.

I disliked the driver before I even saw him.

Within seconds, he was getting out of the car, though it was more like he was unfurling himself, really. Standing up straight, he eventually reached his full height, towering over the car's roof as he ran his hands through his slightly wavy blond hair that barely brushed the top of his shoulders. I didn't need to look at him for long to realize he was one of the most handsome men I had ever seen, managing to look both boyishly charming and badass alluring at the same time.

He was the kind of guy who could—I imagined— draw in any female in spite of that dangerous edge to him.

Nope. I wasn't buying it.

No guy with those kinds of good looks and well-developed muscles gets through life without an equally well-developed ego. Can you imagine all the attention and praise this guy must get on a daily basis just for looking good? Eventually, all of that flattery and adoring feedback must sink in deep, right? He must believe with every pumped-up fiber of his body that he's a special gift to the earth.

Sheez.

I'd had my fill of confident men lately. Nothing but trouble. I ran my hands down the front of my apron, smoothing out the wrinkles and wiping sticky molasses goo from my fingers.

"I hate these beans!" I griped at Lafayette.

Lafayette, eyes glazed over, had noticed Corvette Man, now striding toward Merlotte's.

"Seriously, Lafayette?"

The driver had approached Merlotte's, paused suddenly, and seemed to be looking from the entrance to the exit, apparently not knowing how to enter the restaurant. I snickered. Good looks didn't always partner up with intelligence.

Lafayette shot back, "I told you Quinn was a mistake. No reason to take it out on every other man."

"Quinn's got nothing to do with this."

I was unwilling to admit it out loud, but Quinn, for sure, had been a mistake. And if I was really honest with myself, I'd known it from the start. Quinn made a living DJ-ing, mostly for weddings, bar mitzvahs, and sweet sixteens. Once, (and only once), he'd gotten a "big break" and appeared as a guest DJ at a popular dance club in Boston, where he'd called himself "Q Ball," on account of his bald head (wince). After that one appearance, he seemed to believe he was an urban music expert and dragged me around to a bunch of really loud performances, which he'd always describe as either "hot" or "wicked hot." I got tired of it really fast. I'm not the kind of girl who likes to kiss and tell, but truthfully, his over-confidence in the bedroom had been darn annoying too. He'd nicknamed his manhood "Moby," which I thought was hackneyed and uncreative and brought to mind all kinds of unfortunate literary allusions anytime we had sex. (Sperm whale, there she blows, and…well, you get the picture).

I noticed that Laf had had the good sense not to bring L.L. into this conversation, though in fact, it had been L.L.'s major blunder with my nest egg, not to mention all of his uptight formalities and hang-ups, that had driven me to Quinn's devilish, carefree, immature attitude in the first place.

Lafayette leaned in to kiss my cheek, easing any hurt feelings stirred up by his blunt words. "It's time to get back in the game." Yesterday he had threatened to send me one of my cousin's strippers.

I looked to the front of the diner. Driver Boy had apparently figured out how to work the door, though he'd entered through the exit. Arlene and Holly were hovering, supposedly checking in on their tables at the front of the restaurant. Holly was a single mom who could sorely use a night out on the town. Arlene, though, was probably just doing some sightseeing that would serve a side purpose of making her husband René jealous while he was there on lunch break.

Amelia, another waitress, joined us. "You two enjoying the view?"

I grumbled.

"How about working some of your magic charm, Amelia?" Lafayette prompted. Amelia had been known for her success setting up long-lasting relationships, my friends Tara and JB being a prime example.

"I don't know what you two were talking about, but someone marked the entrance with a 'Please use other door' sign, and the exit with an 'Exit only' sign."

I rolled my eyes. That would explain Pretty Boy's confusion. Did I mention that it was April Fools' Day?

It was going to be a long day.

I'd offered Sam to come in for the late breakfast shift and then stay until past the dinner rush to help him clean up, knowing that there would be a few extra messes resulting from the pranks that were sure to happen today. It would be a crappy shift, but I needed the money, and Sam was a good friend who'd bailed me out of more than one mess.

"Sookie!" Lafayette prompted. "Looks like table 4 needs his bread and beans." He shoved a steaming crock and basket toward me. "Go get him."

The "Boston Beans," slowly baked in a sweet molasses sauce, along with the brown bread side, were one of the draws of Sam's diner. Tourists came in specifically for them. Locals, on the other hand, barely touched them, but since they came free with every meal, if they didn't show up, they were sure to complain. After years of serving them, I'd had it up to here with their sweet, cloying smell and sticky sauce that stained all of my clothes.

I loaded my tray and, bracing myself, turned to face the unusually friendly and boisterous crowd. Merlotte's was the place to go on April Fools' Day. Ever since Sam had advertised left-handed lobster roll specials on April 1 one year, people flocked here for a bargain and a good time, asking inane questions such as, "Can I get that lobstah roll special even if I'm right-handed?" I'm telling you, people around here are desperate for any kind of human contact as they start their spring thaw. Today was no exception. Although the morning had been rainy and chilly, an unexpected afternoon warm-up had cranked up everyone's spirits and put them in a giddy, near drunken mood. These were New Englanders come unwrapped. And for today, I was their designated driver.

"Hi, Sookie!" Hoyt called from across the room. He, Jason, and their supervisor, Codfish Hennessey, apparently were on their lunch break. I waved.

By the time I got to Table 4 near the front of the restaurant, Arlene had already ushered her new friend to one of her tables on the other side of the room.

I passed the beans and bread off to a table still waiting for entrees, then took the opportunity to have a seat with Millie DaSilva, one of my guests who was there as part of the meal program I ran. I leaned across the table to give her a hug.

"Millie, did anyone from Elder Services call you?" I had helped her submit some paperwork to get some transportation arranged so she wouldn't have to spend money on expensive cabs to get to the grocery store and doctor's appointments. Public transportation was either not available or entirely impractical.

"No, dear."

"I'll give them a call and see if I can speed things up for you." I reached into my apron pocket to pull out a card from my Big Book of Everything, a calendar with a zippered cover bursting with scraps of paper, business cards, informational pamphlets, and the like. I always carried this book, along with some pens and my waitressing notepad, in the front pocket of my apron just for these occasions. Usually I managed this bulky jumble fairly well. But today, as I was pulling out a card, my Big Book of Everything dropped underneath the table, spilling, well, everything. I bent to pick up the mess.

And that's when I felt him.

I sensed the sheer bulk of him before anything else. Though I hadn't yet seen his black leather boots, muddy and scuffed, or hadn't yet noticed the way he smelled clean and dark, like a moss-lined path deep in the forest, or hadn't yet heard his quiet, but firm voice that would rumble in my chest, I knew he was there. Simply the mass of his large body, holding firmly against the din and motion of the other bodies around us, created a still and quiet space, a protected cove in the middle of a white-capped sea.

Startled, I bolted upright and froze, abruptly facing his belt buckle. And it was here that my eyes rested.

Slung low on his hips, the soft black belt looked like an old friend. The ridges and worn dents and bumps showed its regular habit, the notch he'd probably used day after day. I had the strange compulsion to feel its smooth sheen where his hands had been, where his hands had worn in that patina touch by touch.

Eventually, though who knows how much time passed, some distracting noise from the diner, or maybe even a throat clear from this man himself, made me tear my eyes away from their comfortable position to travel up his chest. He was wearing a vintage Johnny Cupcakes t-shirt with its signature crossbones-topped-by-a-cupcake design. Looking up, finally, toward his face, I met a pair of eyes looking down at me curiously with a hint of amusement in them.

Oh. Right. I shook my head back to reality. Corvette Man. Trouble with a capital T.

"Sookie! Sookie!" My attention was drawn away to René, who was passing by. "You got something on your cheek!" He winked at me.

I grimaced, an expression that did not go unnoticed. René needed new material.

"He seems like a scary guy." He spoke.

"Oh, he's scary all right." I wasn't exaggerating. "He threatens me like an April Fools' terrorist every year. Excuse me one moment." I turned back to my lunch guest. "Mrs. DaSilva, here's my card. Please call me if you haven't heard anything by Thursday. I'll follow up again if I need to."

Standing up now, I faced the chest of this soaring man. I still needed to crane my neck up to look into his eyes.

"You must be Sookie Stackhouse," he said.

"Yes," I answered warily.

"I was told to come here and ask for you."

Startled for the second time now, I gave him another once over. These were the words people knew to say if they were in need of assistance. Could it be that he had come here for a free meal? Though his clothes were dirty, caked with mud and wet in places, slightly torn at one knee, it was clear that these were no yesterday's hand-me-downs. No, they looked like they had come right out of one of Tara's fashion magazines. That Rough Guy image didn't come easily or cheaply.

But what annoyed me even more was realizing that he probably had worn these expensive clothes knowing he'd get dirty, but not really caring whether he'd need to replace them with another equally expensive set. In fact, the more that I thought about it, his Corvette included, the more I realized that this man, this cocky, arrogant, and—well, yes—very handsome man, was no more indigent than a lottery winner at a feast. Could he be trying to take advantage of me? Quickly, the anger inside me built up and spilled out.

I stepped up to him and poked at his chest, pushing him away from Mrs. DaSilva to avoid causing a scene near her. In my loudest stage whisper, I sputtered, "Look, I don't know who you are, but the gravy train has left the station."

"Gravy train?" he smirked.

"Yeah. No free meal ticket for you, buster."

"Buster?" he smirked again.

It was the smirk that infuriated me most, that smug little smile whose sole purpose seemed to be to taunt me. Who did he think he was? I wish I could say that in the heat of the moment, I was one of those people who could really hold it together and stay calm and rational. No, that wasn't me, especially when I thought someone was trying to take advantage of me. And he was pushing all of my buttons at once. I was dangerously close to a meltdown. (Gravy train? Buster?) I winced at my own words. Yeah. Dangerously close.

"Who are you?" I demanded.

"Eric Northman."

"And what do you want?"

"If we could go somewhere a little more private, I'd be happy to tell you." He glanced around the restaurant, seeming to notice that the volume had notched down as diners in our immediate vicinity had caught wind of our heated discussion.

"This is a joke, right?"

If he thought I'd have any kind of private chat with him, he had seriously underestimated me. I'd seen enough of this arrogant creep. What kind of a fool did he think I was? Fool! And that's when it hit me. April Fools' Day. Sweet Jesus! Who had sent him here? Jason? Lafayette? Lafayette! He'd teased me about sending me one of Claude's strippers. That might explain the long blond hair. And the red Corvette.

And that bulge in his pants.

A curious kind of expectant quiet had settled over the diner. The volume had been turned down yet another notch. I felt like I was being watched. Someone was expecting a show. I didn't know exactly who, though I suspected Lafayette. But if not him, someone in this diner was waiting for this prank to unfold. I would give it to them. All of them.

"I'm sorry? A joke?" he asked.

Oh, he was good at keeping a straight face. His features were so placid they couldn't possibly be real. They had to be composed. Yep. Definitely a put-on. And that's when I knew exactly what I would do.

"Yeah. Like this kind of joke."

My voice louder now, so that the whole diner would witness, I decided to take control of the situation, to let everyone in the diner know I'd taken enough crap and wouldn't take any more. On this April Fools' Day, this woman was no joke.

"Let me show you."

I stood behind him, pressing my breasts against his back and bringing my arms up to his shoulders to slip the black leather jacket off his shoulders.

"I figured maybe you'd do something like this first—you know, tease me with a little disrobing, undo a buckle maybe. This GQ look you've got going on is a little unfortunate, frankly. I think I would have preferred a police officer, or a cowboy, or even a Viking. Oh, yeah! With your blond hair and blue eyes! There's a good one! Definitely a Viking!"

My hands, curiously enough, were now touching that very belt that I had admired only moments ago. By now, the entire diner was watching. Catcalls from around the room simultaneously broke the silence and deepened it. No one was talking.

"Miss Stackhouse..."

"Naughty, naughty, Mr. Northman! Let's just get to the final act, okay, so these people can go on and enjoy their lunches. And let's not forget this is a family restaurant." I pulled a bill out of my tip money to stuff it in his jeans. That's what they do at strip clubs, right? In a grand finale-like way, I reached around to grab at his crotch, searching for some kind of gag object shoved down there, like a stuffed banana or something.

I groped...and found...something...that felt...like...

a penis.

A large, but very real penis.

A/N Is Johnny Cupcakes well known outside of the Boston area? shop (dot) johnnycupcakes (dot) com/story/

Thanks again, everybody! I anticipate this story will go somewhere around 20-25 chapters, depending on how I divide them up. All but two chapters are written in at least rough form, and I'm planning on posting every 1-2 weeks. Reviews are much appreciated!

Disclaimer: All SVM characters belong to Charlaine Harris, and I am not receiving any monetary compensation through their use. I'm just taking them on a tour of New England.