Troll-y Yours BBW Erotic Curvy Fantasy Romance (The Centaurs)

by Fredricks, Sheri

  It bothered her how his eyes kept returning to her hair, which caused her cheeks to warm under his scrutiny.

  Al swallowed a sip of beer. “Have you worn your hair in any other style?”

  Oh gods…it is my hair. My awful red mess! Where’s the nearest rock to crawl under?

  “I sometimes wear it pulled back or braided. Otherwise, no.” Suddenly, the pizza tasted like algae in her mouth, and the portion she’d eaten churned in her stomach. She laid aside her unfinished slice. “Why do you ask?”

  *~*~*

  “Courtesy of the palace, my ass,” Ella mumbled under her breath. For two days, she’d wined and dined on the queen’s generosity. Been briefed and brought up to speed of radical rebel activity in the Centaur kingdom that she had no idea existed. Additionally, delivered to her room the next morning, along with cosmetics and fragrant soaps, were more shoes and clothes.

  Al had been little more than a militant specter who drifted in and out of her days. No time for tender rendezvous or steamy nights, the phantom enchanter was all business with a serious goateed face.

  Ella ducked under a pine bough, careful to avoid the dewdrops clutching the tip of each spiny needle. Water spots on the tan linen jacket covering her mahogany dress—bad deal. The stylish heels of her ankle-high boots sunk into the moist ground, creating an aerated trail of embedded square impressions behind her.

  Plagued by nerves, she forced herself to move her anxious thoughts away from the salon where she was headed, and instead remembered the first night’s stay at the palace.

  After they’d finished the pizza and each downed a couple beers, Al had reassured her for the motive behind his question of her hair. At the time, he labeled it a win-win situation.

  Through the eyes of her Troll naivety, perhaps it was. However, now that she’d gone through a crash course in espionage, her mouth dried up. She didn’t know if she could do this. It wasn’t that eavesdropping on someone’s conversation was frightening, not at all. Neither was asking questions to divine an answer.

  It was the fact that she’d never been in a professional hair salon that scared the Tartarus out of her. The slow turn inside her belly twisted a little tighter.

  Tucked safely inside her jacket pocket, lie the wad of money Al had given her to pay for the hair appointment. Disbelief at the high cost of female maintenance rode on Ella’s shoulders. Never having a professional hairstyle before, she found the expense hard to believe for a simple cut.

  At home, the trims were free.

  Right where Al described, she found the entrance to the beauty salon. Faint female chatter came from within, interspersed with an occasional laugh. Ella took a deep breath to settle her nerves and checked the surrounding woods before pulling open the door disguised as a green profusion of lily-of-the-valley, and stepped inside.

  Movement and gossip hit her at the same time as the sweet scents of henna and hairspray. Bright cheerful colors of orange, green, and red painted the faux cave walls. Poster-sized pictures of smiling models with elaborate hairstyles hung in shiny frames. They were glamorous women with modern cuts that mocked her from behind the clear glass, their hair more manageable than hers.

  She could never look like them.

  Straight-backed chairs hugged the wall in an L-shape to her right, a low coffee table neatly stacked with fashion magazines, positioned in front of the seats. Two females, a Minotaur and Satyr, sat in the chairs at opposite ends, flipping pages at a rapid rate. Above them on clear shelves were bottles of hair products lined in precise rows.

  “Well, hi there. May I help you?” Behind a reception counter, a Satyr with vivid blue streaks in her light brown hair glanced up from whatever she’d been doing at the desk. She chewed her gum like a Minotaur chewed cud, causing the delicate ring in her lip to flash in the light.

  Fake it ‘till you make it. Nerves stretched to their limit, Ella walked to the counter and pasted on a smile. “I have a ten o’clock appointment with Cherrie.”

  The Satyr’s dazzling smile went full voltage, her big blue, kohl lined eyes sparkled as she came out from behind the desk. “You must be Ella. Hi, I’m Roxy.”

  Ella held her hand out, as was polite.

  Instead of accepting the hand, Roxy reached to wrap her arms around and gave a big hug. “Thanks for coming,” she whispered, then continued in a normal tone. “Cherrie has her station right over here.”

  On hooves tall enough to be called platform, Roxy turned her killer figure and led the way to a chair, tucked next to a slotted room divider. Ornate tattoos decorated her bare arms, and her fashionable clothes rocked the house.

  They stopped next to a comfortable looking black chair with a chrome footrest.

  Roxy turned toward another Satyr, who stepped quickly in their direction while tying on an apron. “Hey Cherrie, here’s your ten o’clock.” She returned her high voltage grin to Ella and said in a singsong voice, “Have fun.”

  There was about a six-inch height difference between Cherrie and Roxy as they passed each other. Hooves make all the difference.

  “Have a seat.” Cherrie’s cheerful smile prompted one back as Ella sat in the padded chair. The Satyr’s nimble fingers lifted Ella’s hair, playing with the length and testing the thickness. “Wow, you have some awesome hair. What did you want to do today?”

  The beautician’s stark red hair couldn’t be natural, but it looked fabulous on her. Layered all around, it floated with animation whenever she moved her head. Ella watched their reflection in the mirror before the chair.

  Gathering the mass with experienced fingers and holding it in an upsweep, the piercing green of Cherrie’s eyes met hers in the mirrored reflection.

  Ella’s reflected pale blue eyes looked uncertain, even to her. “Can I trust you to make me look better?”

  Beautiful was out of the question, and anything would be better than how she looked now. Nervousness slowly receded, excitement building in its place. She was sitting in an honest to goodness professional hair salon, about to alter her most dreaded feature.

  “Honey, you’re already gorgeous. I’m just going to enhance that.”

  Cherrie’s warm smile loosened the last of Ella’s reservations and she relaxed into the chair.

  A towel wrapped around her neck, followed by a shocking pink animal print drape that covered her body. “Let me brush you out, then we can get started.”

  A few minutes later, Ella laughed at her reflection. Her hair was parted in four equal sections, as if her head were a detailed map.

  Cherrie took a long tailed comb and separated out thin strands with a weaving motion. She shoved a small square of foil under the section, painted the area with a flowery scented solution, then bent the foil over to wrap it and moved on to the next area. Over and over the procedure repeated, her nimble Satyr fingers flying in her work.

  They made idle conversation during which Ella waited for an opening to start gathering intel, as Al put it.

  In no time at all, Cherrie finished by wrapping Ella’s treated hair in a large warm towel.

  “I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Need a magazine?” Meticulous by her Satyr nature, Cherrie straightened the workstation.

  “No thanks, I’m good.” In the reflection of the flat glass, she watched her stylist retreat into a room behind a wall. Ella crossed her legs, then uncrossed them. How in Tartarus was she supposed to bring the topic of rebels into a conversation?

  Around the salon, the sound of small hooves tapped against tile floor. The lathe privacy screen blocked the view of the front desk.

  Ella wanted to attract Roxie’s attention to ask her advice or start a conversation; anything to get this moving along. Anxiety of impending failure built like water behind a beaver dam. Without even starting to gather intel, she’d already let Al down—heck, the whole Centaur kingdom. Ella thoughtfully chewed her thumbnail, bouncing her leg on the footrest, waiting for inspiration to hit.

  In the station next to her, a Minotaur in desperate need of
a forelock trim filled the chair. While the Satyr stylist decked the female out with the latest in draped chic, their excited chatter climbed over each other. Obviously, the two shared some salon time together.

  A depressive weight settled over her shoulders as familiar self-pity made itself at home. It must be nice to enjoy regular appointments in an upscale shop like this.

  “Time’s up, Ella. Let’s get you over to the wash rack.” Cherrie led the way to a row of shiny white basins. Sleek black chairs backed up to each bowl. “Have a seat and lean back.”

  This was no ordinary hair wash. Lavender scented shampoo filled her senses, and the Satyr’s strong fingers massaged her stress away. The experience should have been illegal. Cool water, poured from a white ceramic pitcher, rinsed the suds away.

  “That was incredible.” A pleasant tingle covered the surface of her scalp, invigorating her skin and brought a smile to her lips.

  Cherrie laughed. “That was nothing. Just wait until I cut your hair. I have the perfect style in mind.”

  In the chair, the stylist’s talented fingers sectioned Ella’s hair. Holding taut, she combed and snipped, chunks as long as her finger fell into her draped lap. The females in the next booth over, were still going strong, gossiping about Bacchus knew what.

  “How short will it be?” Ella asked, hoping her voice didn’t sound as uncertain as she felt.

  “I wouldn’t dare cut your gorgeous hair short. That would be an offense to the gods! I’m only trimming the damaged ends, then I’ll blend in layers. You’ll love it. You’re going to see such movement in your hair with all the waves you have.” Cherrie gave a dramatic sigh.

  Bingo! Thank you mythic deities, her opening finally appeared. “Speaking of movement,” Ella kept her voice low and gossipy. “Did you happen to hear the rebels are being naughty again?”

  Cherrie’s green eyes met Ella’s in the mirror. A small smile grew. “I heard something about that.” The ladies in the next stall quieted down, listening in. “My friend heard it from a co-worker, whose boyfriend’s cousin is a rebel. And she said they’re gathering during the invisible moon.”

  “That’s what I heard, too.” This came from the Minotaur with yellow perm rods in her forelock.

  For the duration of her haircut, the two stylists and client next door launched into a detailed dissertation of everything they knew or heard of regarding the rebels. They spoke of past attempts to dethrone the queen and recruiting to build their army.

  “So, where’s everyone meeting?” Ella asked. “In case I want to join in.”

  The Minotaur lowered the lids of her cow-brown eyes and gazed back between the slits with a smile. “You know the southern amphitheatre where they held the Spring Fling last year?”

  Ella nodded.

  “It’s supposed to be somewhere thereabouts, during the night of the new moon.”

  The Satyr stylist chimed in. “And the Centaurs don’t have a clue! Isn’t that great? The soldiers will be in for a big surprise if they come nosing around.”

  Inside, nausea churned Ella’s stomach, hearing the plans of a surprise attack against Aleksander’s men.

  Minotaur and Satyr discussed everything from lining deep earthen pits with sharp pikes, to hidden spring-loaded darts on patrol trails.

  Through it all, she managed to keep an interested expression pasted on her face. Ella would nod her head at the right times to encourage them to continue. Anger curled in her chest and brewed from the hateful information. Hidden beneath the drape cover, her hands knotted into tight fists.

  Horrified by all she never knew, Ella did her best for Al and the Centaur Crown.

  Twenty

  “It’s true. People who constantly compare themselves to others are insecure. They are looking for validation that they’re as good, if not better, than the person next to them...”

  Dressed in his signature black robe, Templar Khristos droned on with his closing remarks. On the elevated dais, the dark priest’s medallion of office caught the stab of overhead light and blinked a flash to the audience.

  From the back of the Communal Chamber, Aleksander tuned him out while the mandatory meeting for Representatives of the Woodland Nations came to a close. Alek leaned against the rock wall and propped a boot near his butt. Khristos continued to spout his religious crap and it appeared nobody was listening.

  Seated front and center in the audience, Queen Savella’s back remained straight and tall.

  Maybe she was listening…more likely sleeping with her eyes open.

  Standing nearby in a shadowy front corner, Hippy yawned without covering her mouth. From the guard position, she had an unobstructed view of the open meeting room and, most importantly, Her Majesty. No doubt, she also had a clear shot of Minotaur representative Mykal, whose limited theological beliefs seemed to pertain to the area of Savella’s cleavage.

  Aleksander lifted higher on his toes and skimmed the seated heads of mythic dignitaries to the other side of the circular room. Seated directly behind Savella, Koviac, the great Wood Nymph ambassador, shook his white crowned head at Mykal’s antics.

  Bastian stood beside the main vestibule doors that opened to the wide outer hall, and Nubbs had positioned himself in the murky alcove of the other exit. Behind the paneled door lay a corridor that paralleled the hall. For safety, Hippolyte preferred this private mode for Savella’s travel route as doors opened discreetly into each chamber along the way.

  “Those who seek comparison, only for use in putting someone down, they are the ones who suffer the worst.”

  The sound of clearing throats brought Aleksander’s eyes back to his current duty. If Khristos wasn’t careful, he’d put his disinterested flock to sleep.

  “Mythic friends,” the dark priest’s voice rumbled low, edging toward his dramatic closing. “When we have the gods in our heart, the deities helps us accept who we are. I can say this because I truly believe, it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. The gods love you for who you are, the way you are.”

  Alek nearly snorted aloud. Who was Khristos kidding? The priest looked down his arrogant Roman nose at any mythic who wasn’t of Centaur breeding. Good thing no one listened to the crock of lard peddled as the power of positive thinking.

  Savella stood, turned her back on Representative Mykal, and offered her hand to the Troll ambassador, Archibald. Today, the queen wore modern business attire; a fringe-trimmed tweed jacket and a slim, dark grey skirt. She appeared very confident, very cool, and every inch the monarch.

  Other leaders also stood. They shook hands and clapped one another on the back.

  Across the room, Hippolyte gave a nod to Alek and made her way to Savella’s side, politely situating herself between the Centaur queen and throng of well-wishers—the signal it was time to initiate Her Majesty’s extraction to the private exit.

  Aleksander caught Bastian’s eye and motioned with his head to indicate the queen’s withdrawal from the chamber. The guard nodded once in acknowledgment, then turned when the door to the outer hall opened. After Bastian’s crisp salute, the silver brush cut of Colonel Petros stepped through. The two spoke, then both looked in Alek’s direction.

  Curious over Petros’s appearance, especially when the Colonel viewed diplomats the same way he viewed the squashed remains of a bug under his boot, Alek waited for the male to cross the meeting room.

  In the shifting lights and shadows, his patchwork-colored equine body blended with the myriad of reflected colors and shapes. A modern work of art, painted with russet browns, shades of black, and underlying white, yet the distinguished silvery hair set him apart.

  “Kempor Aleksander.” Petros snapped a salute. “A female Troll is waiting to speak with you.”

  His heartbeat quickened. Alek glanced toward Hippy and Savella, and saw Nubbs guarding the partially open side door. In a few more seconds, Her Majesty would be safely ensconced in the private hall and on the way to her office. When the door closed behind Nubbs, vacating the Communal Chamber could
begin.

  Aleksander returned his attention to Petros, anxious for Ella’s report and, more importantly, to see her again. “Where is she now?”

  “In her assigned stall.”

  “Stay here and help Bastian clear the room. I’ll go to her now.”

  Petros’s put a calloused hand on his arm, stopping him. “Be careful, Alek. The innocence of this one might knock you off your hooves.”

  The older man gave him a knowing, fatherly look, then moved to herd Mykal toward the exit.

  Bring it on. Alek felt a ripple of anticipation for that very occurrence.

  *~*~*

  Blades of bluegrass absorbed the sound of Ella’s booted feet pacing the stallroom floor. There was so much to remember. And details—times, places, people. She hoped her message, asking to see Al, went straight to him. Otherwise…no, she wouldn’t let her racing mind go there. The hastily written notes she’d jotted in the restroom were in her jacket pocket, she wouldn’t forget anything. For an extra measure of confidence, she gave the outer linen a quick pat.

  There came a knock, and she forced herself not to run and rip open the door.

  “Ella, it’s Alek.”

  She then…ripped the door open. “Pointed horns of Pan. Al, do you guys know what you’re dealing with? They’re crazy! The rebels are out of their bleedin’ minds.”

  Without his elongated body and sexy tail, he was able to shut the door as soon as he stepped into her room. “Slow down and tell me what happened.”

  Ella paced to the floorbed, and then turned to face him.

  Above his wide stance and crossed arms, he wore a huge smile that crinkled the corners of his warm brown eyes.

  “What?”

  “Your hair, it’s…”

  Go ahead and say it. It’s orange and ugly and no matter what I do, it’ll still be orange and ugly.

  “…a nice cut. When you stomp around, it looks like sunshine kissed your head and streaked rays into your hair. It’s lovely. You’re lovely.”