Aye, I am a Fairy

by Dani Haviland

  “You know, it may seem like I’m a bit hyper,” she said suddenly. “I mean, look at me; I’ve got at least five different projects going on here. But it’s okay. When I get bored or stumped with one, I just move on to the next one. Mom told me it was because I was ‘highly intelligent.’ She didn’t believe in all that attention deficit disorder stuff. She had the same thing going on when she was in school. She’d finish her work early, get bored and start doodling or daydreaming, and then miss what the teacher had just said. Her mother told those teachers that they weren’t going fast enough for her daughter, and if they wanted to really help her, they would give her something else to do when she was finished with the assignments. So, they let her go to the music room and play the piano. The music teacher showed her the basics. Mom took off from there with just a stack of music books to guide her. Man, she was motivated. She’d rip right through her schoolwork just so she could go do her thing in the music room. Her grades went up and, even though she never did anything with it, she learned how to play piano pretty well. Me, I just drew and doodled until high school. Then, once I started being home-schooled, I dropped the doodling and blasted through everything so I could go to college early, get my degree, and make enough money that I didn’t have to worry about bills.”

  James had moved over to sit on the bed when she started her little dissertation on the ways the women of her family handled their high intelligence. “It must be a dominant gene in your family,” he said out loud before he could bite his tongue. “I mean, you and your mother both are, well, from what little I have seen of both of you, very smart women.” Phew, compliment them both, and maybe she won’t know that you were thinking about the succeeding generation and your chance of having a bright daughter with her.

  Leah turned around in her chair to answer him. “Yeah, the dominant traits in our line includes hazel eyes, thick, dark hair, above average intelligence and,” she got up from her chair and put her head down, as if she were a lioness, stalking her next meal, “we’re all a bunch of alpha females… So watch out!” She suddenly jumped onto the bed next to him, grabbed a pillow, and rose up on her knees as if to attack him with it.

  James lay back dramatically, playing the part of the petrified prey, but also kept a sharp eye on her, waiting to see if she was going to launch her pillow projectile or not.

  Someone walked past the door, and she changed focus at the noise. He took advantage of her distraction and rushed in for a mid-belly tackle, bringing her down beside him. Her shirt had come up a couple inches, showing her smooth, latte-colored belly. He rolled his head over her perfect ‘innie’ belly button and blew a raspberry into it, sending her into cataclysms of giggles, laughs, and snorts. He pulled back to do it again, ignoring her half-hearted pleas to stop. He approached to within two inches of her belly, and her laughs and snorts started anew—and he hadn’t even touched her. He pulled back as if to stop their little game, let her compose herself, and then leaned toward her with nothing but 'the look’ of intent to start again.

  Her roars and snorts of laughter began again—just the thought of more belly-blowing had sent her into giddy hysterics.

  “Okay, okay, I give up, you win. Oh, please,” she begged, the words tumbling out between panted breaths from her full-blown laugh overload, “don’t even look at my tummy. I’m about ready to pee my pants as it is.”

  “So who’s the alpha now?” he asked with a self-confident grin. He leaned backed, rested on one elbow, looked her hard in the eye, and then glanced down to her belly in defiance of her instructions, proving his dominance over her emotions and giggle reflexes with a mere squint at her midriff.

  “You are!” she proclaimed, and tossed the pillow at his head. She jumped off the bed and ran into the bathroom, turning to peek out at him before she shut the door completely. “But you’re only the alpha ‘cause I said so!”

  James rolled all the way over onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. Yup, she’s mine because she said so. I wouldn’t want it any other way. She’s mine.

  *28 One on the Books

  August 8, 2013, 5:30 AM

  “What are you doing?” Leah asked when she came out of the bathroom and saw James lying on the floor.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he asked. Ah-ha! He had inadvertently pulled one over on her, hidden a part of himself without trying. “Um, I’m checking the carpet for fleas.”

  “What?” she asked, then realized he was joking. “No…really? Oh, I get it,” she said, as she realized what he was doing. “You’re getting buff, doing pushups to impress the ladies.”

  “Well, yes and no,” he drawled, trying to mimic the local accent. “I’m keepin’ in shape for my health. And if it just so happens to impress my lady, all the better.”

  Leah walked over to him. He was crouched on the floor, legs tucked underneath him, ready to stand up. She smacked him on the back of the head with her opened hand and turned away.

  “What was that for?” he asked, automatically bringing his hand up to the now stinging spot.

  “That’s one on the books. I’m sure you’ll deserve it one day, when I won’t be able to reach you,” she said with a grin, then added a shoulder wiggle of sassiness. She didn’t want to tell him that he was just so darned cute that she couldn’t keep her hands off him.

  “Okay, fair’s fair.” He straightened up, pulled his white and blue op-art Beatles tee-shirt back down over his hips, took the two steps forward to stand directly in front of her, swiftly grabbed her by the shoulders, and pulled her to him fast and hard, not giving her a chance to resist. He gave her a long, passionate kiss, complete with tongue and shoulder caress. When he felt her relax in his arms and lean into him, wanting more, he stopped. He stood up straight again, watched her until she came out of her reverie enough to open her eyes, then said, “That’s one on the books for me. Come on; let’s go to breakfast and then the library. We’ve got lots to do.”

  *29 Brothers MacLeod

  Even though he was the youngest of the three MacLeod brothers, Clark was once again assuming the role of father and guidance counselor to Eight. “Remember. If you're going to stay here, you can't get in trouble. This is the only job that we have between the three of us. Niner’s off somewhere—says he thinks he’s found something and promised to stay outta trouble—so that leaves you. I'll see if I can get a little side work for you. Maybe the boss'll let you clean the carpets or something. We have money to pay back."

  "I don't want to clean no stinkin' carpets. Just set me up with a TV and a suitcase of brewskies, and I'll be fine," Eight said, and kicked back in the boss's black vinyl office chair, planting his filthy, loose-laced sneakers on the pile of file folders.

  "And get your 'effin’ shoes off that desk! What—are you trying to get me fired? Don't you realize, asshole, that if I don't have a job, then I can't be your guardian? And if I’m not you’re guardian, you’re back in jail? That bail bondsman will snap back his money from the court in a heartbeat and you’ll be back in the slammer. Those guys have their own rules, and I signed papers saying that I would—and you would, too—follow them.”

  Eight didn't say anything, just glared at his younger brother, then started picking boogers out of his nose, examining them one by one before popping them into his mouth.

  Clark ignored the scowl and the disgusting manners. He turned away, intending to go back to the front counter to distract himself with his job, something he actually had some control over. But he couldn’t stand it. Whether he was a vicious criminal or simply a moronic creep, the man was still his brother, his family. He turned back to the slovenly array of dirty clothes and stinky hair that was his own flesh and blood. He shook his head and snorted at the sorry excuse for a man. He was ashamed that anyone—especially his own brother—could be so ignorant, and not care that in just a short time, he would be behind bars.

  He couldn’t hold back the compulsion to talk to him like their long absent father should have years ago. The words rushed up from his c
hurning gut and burst forth in a sinister growl, as if he was possessed by an angry paternal spirit. "What, do you want to eat gray meat and mush for the rest of your life? Do you like wearing bright orange jammies everywhere? Does it trip your trigger to have nothing but men in the shower with you? Huh? Don't they make you work in there, too? Get up at the butt crack of dawn to slave away in the laundry, trying to get shit stains out of the other inmate's underwear for twenty cents an hour, getting white bread and peanut butter sandwiches for lunch and a plop of grape jelly for dessert. Damn, dude, why don't you just do what you’re told to do on the outside, so you don't have to go back to the slammer?"

  Eight kept his glower, but decided he’d go ahead and answer him. This wasn’t the first time he had to explain it to his baby brother, but hopefully, it would be the last. "Because I told Grandpa I'd do it,” he said bluntly, as if that answer should be enough. But, he knew it wouldn’t be, so he continued. “I told him I'd get rid of every last one of them, including the girl. Niner almost got her, too. Shit, we didn't think she'd go out to the swimmin’ pool with that effin’ Limey. Niner sure took care of her place, though. Hey, that reminds me, have you seen him? He was supposed to catch up with me at the Fish Shack, but I got a little distracted. You know how it is; the chick offered me a trick I couldn't refuse. Hey, isn't that called encampment or something if you pay for a blow job and she won't put out?"

  "It's call entrapment, asshole, and she was an undercover cop. And no, you're not supposed to be out soliciting when you're out on bail."

  "Hey, I ain't no effin’ solicitor. That reminds me, that effin’ solicitor or lawyer—or whatever it is they call themselves over here—owes me change. I gave him a fistful of money and it couldn't ‘a cost over five grand for him just to stand up in front of the judge and say not guilty. Shit, I coulda done that myself!"

  "Eight, what part of bail don't you understand? You paid the fee to the lawyer—that's what they call them here—and then he took the rest of the money and gave it to the court for bail. There still wasn’t enough so I had to go to a bail bondsman. I had to sign papers for the rest of the money and promise him that you’d be with me day and night, and if you took off, I’d let him know about it right away.”

  Clark saw that his brother didn’t comprehend what he had just said, so tried again. "Hey, if you take off, and I don’t tell him about it, then he’ll come and find your ass and throw it in jail—no more bond possible—and then they send me to jail, too. So no disappearing acts, okay?"

  "Yeah, well, okay. Thanks, I guess. But what about my money; when do I get it back?"

  "Well, if they find you not guilty, and you haven't screwed up before the court date..." Clark looked at his wayward older brother to see if he was following his train of thought. It appeared he was. "Then," he continued, "You’ll get what’s left of your money back after the bail bondsman gets his. If you're found guilty, they'll probably keep most of it as a fine, plus you’ll have to serve time in prison. Hey, where'd you get that much money anyhow? No, wait, I don't want to know. Don't tell me anything. Crap. How come you and Niner are so screwed up?"

  "You may think that we’re screwed up, but if Niner comes through, then we'll have a bag full of jewels and the deed to that old mill. That old lady wouldn't sell to the Rancho Diablo guys, but she'll give it to us, and then we can name our price to Diablo. Not bad for just readin' some old letters, eh?"

  "What are you talking about? Grandpa never knew what was in those old letters."

  "Well, maybe he did and maybe he didn’t. He was told by his great-grandpa that in one letter, there was a young girl named Leah who was working at a Moses Hospital in Greensboro on a certain day. You see, I'm not as dumb as you think. I asked around and, well, I didn't find any Leah working there, but I did know the day all the excitement was supposed to happen,” he bragged.

  “Grandpa was also told that there’d be an unknown broad who’d come in, shot in the shoulder, and that this nurse Leah would be the one to tend to her. Well, I just sort of hung around, waiting for that day to come. When it did, I went to the emergency room and waited. Sure enough, some fine-lookin’ woman in a old-fashioned dress come in, half-dead it looked like. I had to wait for her to come out of the surgery, then I kind of followed her to her room. I hid in the laundry closet ‘cause they kept tellin’ me that if I didn’t have business there that I had to go somewheres else.

  “Well, when I was hid, I sawed the shot lady's one nurse get knocked out by this freaky little man in a long, black frock coat. He run away, pushing that hurt woman in a wheelchair out of the hospital. I guess they stole a car and got away. So, no matter what her name was, this nurse had to be the one Grandpa had heard about.

  “I followed the nurse home to see where she lived, then tailed her from there to the airport the next day. I gave the bartender, Harry, a c-note to drug her so I could take her back to her place and get the letters that told where the treasure was. Well, at least I thought that she was the one who’d have them. Then I saw the Limey there at the airport bar with her, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t have them in his carry-on bag. He had them sittin' right there in the side pocket, just waitin' for me to snag ‘em. Well, I almost got ‘em, but he shoved them inside when that nurse woman started puking all over the place. Harry split, but I had promised him another c-note if he’d help get those papers for me. He went to her place first, but I didn’t know that. I was hiding out until I could get her to open the door. I would have had her, too, if that Limey hadn't knocked me down. She ran and Harry went after her to...um…to try and convince her to give us the letters, but the Limey got him, too. Hey," Eight exclaimed, seeing the look of disgust in his little brother's eyes, "he was a big dude. I mean not tall, but that guy was built like a coal train locomotive."

  "That's not what I mean. Why don't you just get a job and give up on those old fairy tales?” Clark asked. “There's no bag of jewels, and everyone who’s ever went after them has wound up dead, missing, or in prison."

  "What? Do you want me to wind up like you—lickin' boots and kissin' arse for minimum wage?" Eight scoffed, and put his dirty shoes back up on the desk, daring his brother with the sneer on his face to tell him to move his feet again.

  Clark reached over and knocked the shoes off the desk, grabbed the folders and replaced them in the basket before they fell on the floor, and then sat in the other chair. "Well,” he said, drawing out the word for effect. “At least I can have the comfort of a real woman when I want and can eat steak every once in a while. And if I decide to go for a walk, I don't have to worry that some sniper is going to take me out if I wander past a fence.”

  Clark watched as Eight pulled up his grimy, once-white tank top to inspect his navel and see if he had any good globs of belly button lint that needed picking. He shook his head in disgust and continued his lecture. “That might not seem like much to you now, but if they nail you on the assault charge—and they probably will—then my boot-lickin' job might just start lookin' real nice." Clark leaned back in the straight-backed chair and laced his fingers behind his head. "Yup, nice, curvy real women, and ice cream, any time I want it..."

  "Well, we'll see,” Eight said with self-assurance as he pulled his shirt back over his hairy gut, then sat up straight. “I still think I have a shot at getting those letters. They should tell me where the jewels are. That old lady who was with those two at the airport is the one who’s on the news all the time. She’s the one who owns the mill, and I know where she lives. All I have to do is go up and talk to her, real nice like, and ask her to get the letters for us." Eight had a dreamy look in his eyes. "Yup, me and Niner will talk to her real nice like."

  “Well, I don’t want to know about it, and I don’t want to hear about letters or old ladies or mills or anything else that sounds like a plan that might get you—no, that will get you—into trouble. And you can’t go anywhere without me, and I say stay put! Now, get up off your hairy ass and grab that broom. Someone broke a bottle by
the front door, and you need to clean it up before someone steps on it and the motel gets sued.”

  Eight leaned forward, groaned and stood up, arching his back in an exaggerated stretch. Physical labor just wasn’t his thing. He was the brains behind their plans and sometimes the muscle. But he’d sweep a bit of floor just to shut up little brother. He was such a wimp. Mother must have screwed around on Pa because he certainly didn’t act like a MacLeod, even if he did look like one. He gave Clark a fake smile, grabbed the broom and dustpan, and opened the door to go outside.

  "That's him!" he hissed, then popped back inside and hid behind the door.

  "Who?" Clark asked.

  "Uh, nobody," Eight replied a little too quickly, trying to recover from the shock. He didn't want to involve Clark in any of this. If he did, then he and Niner would have to split the money three ways. As it was, Harry thought he should get something besides the $200 for his effort, and the brothers should at least help him make bail. "Piss on 'im," he whispered, talking to himself.

  "What?" asked Clark, "Piss on who?"

  "Nothing. Nobody. I'm just having a rough day."

  But it wasn’t a rough day for him. It had just brightened up considerably. The dark-haired Limey with the letters in his bag was staying at his brother's motel. It would be no trouble to get the master key from Clark when he wasn't looking, sneak into the room, and grab the letters. They even had a copy machine in the office, so if he could figure out how to use it, he’d make copies, and return the originals. The Brit would never know he’d been robbed. And the MacLeods would finally have the treasure.

  **Part Two

  Chasing Mama