by Aleah Barley
“You got a good look, Gilly?” The old man’s motions were stiff, slipping the cigarettes into his back pocket. “Seen all the crazies? The freaks?” He took a wheezy breath and nodded towards the road. “Go on then, back to your friends, tell ‘em all about it. Tell ‘em the show starts the day after tomorrow. Friday evening. Six o’clock sharp.”
Graham felt like he’d suddenly been dropped into the middle of a conversation without all the relevant information. “We weren’t properly introduced,” He held out a hand. “My name’s Graham. Graham Tyler.”
“Gilly, rube, louse.” The man gave a halfhearted wave. “Take your pick. Just be glad that you ran into me first. The others aren’t so friendly.”
He let out a groan as he doubled at the waist, bending down to remove the animal from Graham’s shoe. The thing let out an angry growl—surprisingly large coming from such a little body—and the guy flinched.
“Hell,” he muttered, straightening up. “Looks like you’re going to be here awhile.”
Graham had pacified Fallujah—twice—and he had the scars to prove it. Now, he’d been taken captive by a poodle. He bit his lip to keep from laughing at the absurdity. “I’ve got plenty of time.”
“Lucky you,” He snorted angrily. “I’m supposed to be lifting the king pole any minute now. Jonah’s luck plaguing us the way it has. I’ll probably be up all night anyway.”
Hands started patting his coveralls searching for something, probably the cigarettes he’d put away a few minutes earlier.
“I’d better get you over to the boss—“ Bleary eyes narrowed, his gaze focusing on something just behind Graham. “Ah, hell. These clowns.”
Graham turned slightly, opening up his stance to see what the old man was talking about. Two men looking like extras from some absurdist dark comedy; one couldn’t be more than five foot, the other was impossibly tall.
The short man had delicate features and a slim build. Wiry muscles stood out underneath his burnt orange vest and electric blue cargo pants.
The larger man didn’t share his friend’s outrageous dress sense, but then he didn’t need bright clothes to draw attention to himself.
Not when he was roughly the size of a mountain.
The shorter man raised his hands to rest solidly on his hips. “What do you have here, Frank?”
An angry snort from the old man at Graham’s side, “None of your business, Aldridge.”
“Looks like someone who doesn’t belong,” Aldridge clucked his tongue. The man’s voice was surprisingly deep, given his size, “a stranger here on jump night? What are people going to think?”
“They’ll mind their own business. Just like you should.” Frank moved forward, hands balling into fists at his side. “You’re supposed to be setting up the living quarters, preparing for the show tomorrow. You and Mikhail. Belle said—“
“’Belle said.’ ‘Belle said.’” The little man hopped up and down, his shaved head bobbing like something out of a fractured fairytale. Rumpelstiltskin if he’d fallen into a bucket of neon paint. “I’m sick and tired of hearing what, ‘Belle said.’ Why don’t you speak for yourself, Frank?”
“I think you should walk away,” Frank said, raising his voice so that everyone in the gathering crowd could hear him.
The crowd was rough; none of the women, no children, just hard faced men, with sweat in their eyes and dirt on their pants. Graham recognized the thin-lipped expression on their faces. He’d seen it enough times at the local bars around closing time; back in the city where everything was just a little harder, a little meaner.
They were looking for a fight.
An angry snort from Aldridge, the self-appointed leader of the pack, “That a fact? There was a time you would have taken on any jumped-up Gilly that disturbed unloading. You used to be something, back when the old man was alive—“
“The old man’s dead.” Frank slumped forward slightly, suddenly frail. “That’s the point, isn’t it? This is Belle’s show now, so you’d better start paying attention to what she has to say.”
“This is Belle’s show,” There was a nod of acknowledgment, “for now. Who knows how long that’s going to be the case? You should be nicer to me, Frank. Someday I might just be gaffer.”
“Over my dead body.”
Their words had the bitter edge of a familiar argument like the two men were retreading familiar ground. Graham didn’t need to hear it. He cleared his throat, “I should be going.”
“You’re wrong about that, Gilly-Boy,” There was a dark glint in Aldridge’s eyes. His lips curled up into a wild hyena smile, the look of a predator who’d caught the scent of fresh game. “You never should have come.”
It was unsettling. Graham was six foot four in bare feet with broad shoulders. In the SEALS, his nickname had been Wild Dog, and he’d earned it the hard way. These days he kept in shape lifting weights at his cousin’s gym and swimming in the lake behind his house.
Most of the people who thought they could fight him were stupid, drunk, or both, but the petite man in front of him looked completely sober.
Graham shifted forward onto the balls of his feet, suddenly all too aware of the gun resting on his hip. Over a pound of glistening, deadly, steel. A needless precaution according to the previous chief of police—a man who’d made do with a shotgun locked in the trunk of his patrol car for his entire career—but Graham had gotten used to carrying a gun when he was working overseas.
The weapon could stop the situation any time. Nine-millimeter rounds meant it could stop a charging bear.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t pull his gun on a crowd of unarmed civilians. Not without risking innocent bystanders.
The men had completely surrounded him, forming a wall of strong bodies. There was no place to go, nowhere to run. Cool snickers and hard smiles filled the air. Any minute fists would start flying. Graham had learned how to fight in college bars and learned how to fight dirty with the SEALS. But there were too many of them, and he had no one to watch his back. His heavy jacket would afford some protection, but nothing short of a miracle would save him from a broken rib.
The only question was whether dancing at the Winter Social would be merely painful or completely impossible.
The first punch was a solid right to the jaw that came too fast for Graham to see who had hit him. The second shot broke his nose. Graham threw out a wild punch, his lips tipping up into a wild grin as he felt his hands connect with someone’s body.
Someone grunted. Another man groaned. Graham wasn’t aiming—there wasn’t time—all he could do was swing his fists and hope to connect with one of the men surrounding him; the circle growing narrower as they all joined in.
Another minute and he’d be done for, a minute after that and he’d be pulling out his gun to shoot wildly into the crowd.
He tumbled backward, slamming down onto his knees. Years spent sparring in practice rings and fighting men one or two at time in bars hadn’t prepared him for this.
Nothing could prepare him for this.
“Enough,” The crack of a woman’s voice rang above the crowd. Silence. A petite woman in a shapeless brown coat pushed her way through the circle. “Don’t you people have jobs to do?”
The question didn’t even need to be asked. The men were already melting away, disappearing into the autumn afternoon as quietly as they’d arrived.
The fading light flickered in front of Graham’s face. Everything was spinning. A fairy appeared. Wide forest green eyes, mahogany hair curling down across porcelain cheeks, lips red and juicy like ripe strawberries waiting to be drawn into his mouth, suckled, and devoured. Her outfit was dark, shapeless, a drab brown shroud, but he didn’t need to see underneath her clothes to know that her body would be perfect, just like her heart shaped face.
All fairies were perfect.
For a moment, he wondered what she’d taste like… Sweetness and light.
The world went dark.
About the Author
Aleah Barley writes smart, sexy, funny (she hopes) books while living in Detroit, Michigan. She’ll do anything for a piece of chocolate or a good review… really, try her. Her fondest hope is that her cat and her dog start getting along. Barring that, she’d like world peace and an end to global warming.
You can find out more about her (or just say hi) on Facebook or Twitter!
@aleahbarley
www.facebook.com/aleahrbarley
Or, drop her a line at [email protected].
