by A. R. Miller
The combination of the rumble of the motor and a road that severely needs grading agitates the sensations triggered by my little fantasy. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks and it has little to do with the sun. What am I doing thinking about ravaging some guy I barely know? Gods, maybe I do need one of those little battery operated toys Nyssa is always praising.
That’s the best kind of fantasy, an evil little voice whispers in one ear.
You caught him staring at your window, says the voice of reason in the other, he could be dangerous.
Dangerous can be good, argues the devilish voice.
I groan, vanquishing the voices of temptation and reason as I pull into the drive, parking alongside a gorgeous Valkyrie. I wonder who it belongs to. No one in town I know owns one, not that I know everyone in town, but a bike like that leaves a lasting impression.
The bell jangles as I open the door, and my mouth nearly hits the floor. Alric Brand stands at the counter sampling ice cream with one of the owners.
“Keely,” Eileen calls, waving me in. “We made up some of your favorite ice cream. I even packed a gallon for you.”
With those words, Mr. Brand is all, but forgotten, until I catch the smirk on his face. He’s leaning against the counter, as if he owns the joint, laughing. Probably at the imaginary drool running down my chin as I picture a gallon of coffee ice cream. Definitely putting a bur in my shorts. Turning back to Eileen I feel the tension as well as heat in my cheeks with the forced smile.
“Great Eileen, I also need some milk and cream.” I hope she will ring me up while I pull the items from the cooler. No such luck. She scoops up another sample for Alric. Maneuvering around him, I place them on the counter.
“You should try the chocolate milk. It comes from real chocolate cows.” Part of me hopes he’s not just a pretty face and smart enough to catch on to the sarcasm.
Eileen laughs and shakes her head. “Pardon Keely’s manners Mr. Brand. Just a little joke we like to tell.”
“It’s Ric.” His smile lights the room.
“Ric,” Eileen says, with a girlish giggle.
Unjustified jealousy rises as I watch the two of them. Pulling out my wallet, I place the exact change on the counter and reach for my purchases.
“Thanks for the special ice cream Eileen, gotta run. Nice seeing you again, Mr. Brand.” I try like hel not to dash for the door, only to find him holding it open for me.
“Thank you,” I mumble, trying to push past him as he snatches the bags from my hands.
“Allow me.”
“What a gentleman,” I hear Eileen say as we step outside and almost lose the fight not to roll my eyes.
“I can manage.” I motion to the bags, succeeding in bringing back that condescending little smirk.
“I seem to remember you having a problem holding onto a comb yesterday. These are considerably heavier and much messier if dropped.”
Every muscle tightens. It was his fault I dropped my comb. Not that it matters to him. Taking a deep breath, I walk to my car and point to the back seat.
“You can put them there.”
With a low whistle, he stands back, taking in the car. There’s a momentary flash of pride.
“She’s something, isn’t she?” I run my fingers across the hood, on the way around to the driver side.
He nods carefully placing the bags in the nugget gold interior.
“1969, right?” he asks, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Yep.” I feel like a schoolgirl seeing him eye the license plate. I usually laugh at those who don’t get it, but something about the way he stares, makes I LUV 69 churn up dirty little pictures. The kind that cause cheeks to burn and legs to turn to rubber. Clearing my throat, I turn toward his bike.
“You own some pretty impressive wheels yourself.”
Tearing himself from my pale yellow ride, he nods, grasping one of the handlebars, a cross between fondness and excitement. Sleek and shapely, a deep, rich red, not burgundy, not blood red, somewhere in between. My stomach growls breaking the silence and we both laugh.
“I should get going, but it’s nice seeing you again.” I slide in behind the wheel.
He gives me one of those diamond-dust-dazzlers of a smile. “My pleasure as always.”
I watch as he gracefully mounts that beautiful machine, only starting my own when he pulls from the driveway.
CHAPTER FIVE
The four and a half star celebration starts with dinner at Basement Brews, the local brewpub. Just as suggested by the name the beer is brewed in the basement.
Everyone is dressed to the nines. Even Jenny, clearly uncomfortable under all the hair spray and eyeliner—Nyssa’s obvious influence—but too polite to say anything. Nyssa can carry the look, or maybe we’re just used to big hair, false lashes and thick eyeliner. According to Rey, she hasn’t changed her look since the 60’s, when she dated the King. Contrary to popular belief, it’s rumored he fashioned his Un wife after Nyssa, not his mother.
With a bow and sweeping motion of his arm, Rey holds the door for us, the courtly gesture lost when he proclaims us his harem. His lowered head bounces off the door as Dara’s elbow connects.
The hostess immediately escorts us to our table.
“That was fast, even with a reservation I expected to wait on a Saturday night.” I slide into the booth next to Dara.
“Only the best for our four and a half star salon,” she says with a wink, passing out the menus. “The boss also said the first round is on him. Your server will be with you shortly.”
Shortly? More like the snap of your fingers.
“Hi, my name is Tina and I’ll be your server tonight.”
“Hi Tina, I’m Rey and I’ll be your customer tonight, and your date when you get off work.”
A collective groan is released and Nyssa sticks a finger down her throat as we watch Rey grasp little Tina’s hand and kiss it.
Tina swats him on the head with her pad and chuckles as he lets go. “I’ve already been warned about you by the other waitresses. Now what can I get you all to drink?”
She efficiently scribbles down our order and hustles to the bar. This girl probably rakes in the tips, turning over tables faster than I can decide what to order.
“Hey, check it out.” Nyssa holds up the specials insert. “Fey Creations Mousse!”
Leave it to Nyssa to skip right to dessert. It is flattering to see an item named after you, or in this case your business.
The drinks arrive and once our orders are taken, I look around the room. People watching is a hobby of mine. I enjoy trying to figure out what they are like by how they dress, act and interact with others. Most of the time I’m correct in my assumptions, but there are the rare occasions I’m completely off the mark.
This time the mark isn’t even in sight. In the far corner sits Alric Brand with two others. One that I can’t identify with his back to me and one that I thought I’d never see up close.
Var Royd, the king of tabloid fodder, Iowa tabloids anyway. Pictures so do not do that svelte body, or his sand and sea coloring justice, but that’s not what keeps me staring. It’s his aura, it’s blurry. Not glamour blurry, more like a cloaking spell. Maybe it’s a purchased spell, or charm, but that begs the question, why would a supposed En–hater use magic?
Royd heads up one of the largest insurance companies in the country catering specifically to Unchants. According to the gossip rags, he is the driving force behind The Alliance for the Removal of Enchants, or AFROE for short. Trust me, the hair reference—totally lost on them—gives us a chuckle. Obviously, he’s smart enough not to leave a paper trail so there’s no concrete proof.
Of course, there is a counter group, The Brotherhood of Enchanted Purity, a group of Ens with the basic premise of keeping Ens and Uns separate. I guess you can categorize them as the KKK of the En community. And let us not forget The Coalition for a Magical Tomorrow, comprised of Ens and Uns. Kind of a hippy love fest for all l
iving things, queue the Disney soundtrack. That one is a real eye roller.
I mean seriously, who in hel comes up with these names? Then there are all the splinter groups, too numerous to remember, most with ideas too whacked out to make sense.
This all started with The Unveiling in the 80’s. The Angels were pushed aside by the Vice. The Brat Pack graced the silver screen. Big hair and glittering makeup were the standard for both males and females. The Berlin Wall fell and the Cold War became lukewarm. The 80’s were an age of excess, excitement and enchantment. Not to say, I, as well as other Ens, haven’t embraced the new millennium. Trust me we all partied in 1999, the 80’s just hold a special place in most of our hearts.
Enchants who lived and intermingled with humanity decided they didn’t want to be the hidden people anymore. There’s plenty of controversy about who took that first step and allowed Uns to see us as we are, without all the glamours and hiding. Check the history books and you’ll find several conflicting theories in both the who and why. Even Ens are befuddled by whose brilliant idea it was to come out. I hate that term. Maybe dropping the veil would have been more appropriate. Or sticking with stupid names how about Glamourless Glamour?
I don’t blame anyone’s fear; I have plenty of my own. If I were an Un confronted by En Talents, I’d be terrified. As an En, those fears terrify me. Look back at Salem if you wonder why, or even right here in The Meadows at the State Hospital. Not a hospital at all, but a containment facility that housed Ens, who either refused to, or couldn’t control their talents. Run by Uns who knew and wanted us locked away and Ens, who helped them to keep others from finding out about us. It’s still in use, still state–run, but no longer referred to as a hospital. Aptly renamed the Containment Unit, or C.U. for short. Housing convicted Ens as well as those who cannot control their Talents.
Not everything you read about us is true, be it history books, or tabloids. Many of the ‘myths’ were allowed to circulate to keep us safe. Take mirrors and vamps—even though technically vamps aren’t Ens—if it were true, why would they frequent the salon? Kind of pointless, just like that myth in today’s age.
I elbow Dara and nod in their general direction.
“Curious,” she says softly, cocking her head to one side.
That one word sums it up. Well, almost. Stalker also comes to mind as I glance back at the very hot Mr. Brand. I’m getting more than a feeling he’s following me, it’s like the fourth time in two days I’ve seen him. A little too cowinkydink for comfort.
CHAPTER SIX
A wall of funky techno beat greets us as the door swings open, enveloping us when we step inside Atramentous. Caught in a wave of barely heard greetings and congratulations, I’m separated from the others. Rey and Nyssa scurry off to the dance floor, pulling a protesting Jenny along and Dara disappears into a group of her own kind.
Musical fingers caress and pull, begging me to join the writhing crowd under the multicolored lights, but my well–wishers pull me the opposite direction. Brad grins from behind the chrome and smoked glass bar, and begins mixing my usual as well as one for Dara.
The owners of Atramentous luckily chose the sleek, elegance of the black and white palette with chrome accents. I may long for the 80’s, but things such as pastel décor should be left behind.
I jump as Dara’s burgundy–tipped fingers curl around the glass before it touches the bar. With one tip, the glass is empty and another waiting for her. Maybe it’s mind reading, or a gesture too quick for me to detect. I’d like to think Brad is just good at his job, but it’s probably that he knows us too well.
She stands next to me, elbows braced on the bar, surveying the room, the lightness of her earlier mood gone. Here, is where tactfulness comes into play. Should I ask what’s bothering her? Should I just stand here supportively?
I’m her friend, but I also know better than to step on sensitive subjects. It’s probably better to let it alone. She’ll tell me if she wants me to know. She has a tendency to keep to herself, unlike me who goes running to her whenever something seems the slightest out of whack.
A couple of Uns stand on the threshold of coming toward us, probably assuming we’ll be dazzled by their fashion sense. One pushing up the sleeves of his coordinated sport jacket and tee combo the other checking his frosted hair in a mirrored pillar. I nearly choke on an ice cube as their progression halts. One look from Dara and they can’t get away fast enough, Frosty shivering as he looks over his shoulder. She gives me a sly grin.
Jenny, Nyssa and Rey make their way off the dance floor, laughing and fanning their faces. I motion to what’s come to be known as our table, complete with reserve card announcing Fey Creations. Yep, we definitely spend too many weekends here.
Dara shrugs, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. Looking around I try to pinpoint what’s bothering her. Nothing unusual, just the typical lack of common sense induced by alcohol, the opposite sex, and the proverbial letting down of hair at the end of the week.
An extremely tipsy Un fawning over a group of Ens, catches my eye. The scene is funny and sad at the same time. You just can’t get it through their heads being with one of us won’t make you one of us. You have to be born this way. It’s also dangerous. Un bodies are much more fragile than En bodies.
At the other end of the scale is a fashion disaster. Again funny, yet sad. On vampires, romantic–poet looks good, or maybe we just expect it, but dwarves do not look good in flowing lace and velvet.
“What’s up with the fanged one?” asks Rey, receiving a tiny fist to the arm from Nyssa.
“Look who’s talking about fangs.” Nyssa links arms with Jenny and heads to the table.
He just grins and rubs his arm as he follows.
“Check it out, talk about sagging opportunities.” Nyssa giggles bobbing her head in the direction of the bar.
A rather well endowed—check that—overly endowed female in need of support leans against the bar.
“Obviously she hasn’t discovered Victoria’s little secret.”
The three of us groan, but Jenny’s puzzled look is just the opening she needs. Sure, it was cute the first time, but now it’s getting a little old.
“What, you don’t know what Victoria’s secret is?” we ask in unison.
“Expensive underwear,” pops off Jenny.
“No,” we say, beating Nyssa to her own punch line. “The secret is that it pushes everything back up where it belongs.”
“Oh...oh!” Jenny flushes bright red after turning to look at the woman. “Now I get it.”
Mumbling something uncomplimentary under her breath, Nyssa’s lower lip extends and she crosses her arms over her own endowments. Can we say, Keely’s jealous? Yep, those of us flat as a pancake have a right to be, no matter how often we hear ‘But clothes hang on you better.’ Who wants to be considered a hanger?
Rey drapes his arms around Nyssa and Jenny escorting them to the table. Even Dara’s mood lightens briefly before fading back to dark.
It isn’t until we are seated that I see the reason for her mood shift, or maybe feel is more appropriate. Tingles slither across my skin as I look across the room and meet the eyes of the oh, so lovely, Mr. Brand.
The tingles turn to a slow caress as his lips curl upward and he nods, lifting his drink in my direction. Breathing becomes less automatic. I have to remind myself in and out as the walls begin to crush. This has gone past the creeping me out stage moving on to scared stiff. Why do I want him when it’s beyond obvious that something isn’t right with the whole situation? I mean, shit, besides the fact that he has beautiful hair what do I know about him? I don’t know if Dara’s claws digging into me, the chorus of my name repeated, or him breaking eye contact brings me back to the real world. Doesn’t matter, I’m just glad to be back.
“Geez, Keely, way to pay attention,” says Rey. “What could have been more interesting than us?”
“They are.” Nyssa points toward Brand and his companion then fans herself. “I’d say
they are way more interesting than us. So hot.”
She’s right, they are both damn good looking. Brand’s friend is the photo negative of golden boy. With midnight hair and pale skin, he’s a male Snow White in the form of a döckâlfar. He’s far from dainty, or even wiry like Brand, a strange combination of pretty and muscle. Visions of the dog with Brand outside my window flash and I wonder if they are one and the same.
A slow creeping itch rides the surface of my skin, their chemistry pulling more than my attention toward them. Damn elves, I wish they’d dial back the sexual attraction. With as gorgeous as they are, they don’t need to amp it up. Practically any woman in here would take them home, hate to admit it, myself included.
Rey snorts, “Sure, if all you want is eye candy. Why bother when you have me?”
“Oh sweetie, that’s like comparing Hershey’s with Godiva.”
“Everybody likes a Hershey bar.”
Nyssa rolls her eyes. “Uh...yeah right...like anyone would pick that over fine chocolate?”
“I would,” says Jenny. “I like Hershey bars.”
“See?” Rey slips an arm around Jenny. “Thanks, darlin’.”
“And Godiva is too expensive.”
Nyssa laughs, slapping her hand against the table and Rey drops his arm.
“What?” The look on Jenny’s face is beyond priceless.
I shake my head. “Do yourself a favor Jen, let it go.”
“But...”
“Seriously, they aren’t making fun of you. It’s just the two of them playing with sexual innuendos.”
“Oh, oh!”
Sometimes I can’t believe she’s that naïve. I mean really, in this day and age is it possible for anyone of her age to be that innocent?
“This next set is for my stylist and her crew,” announces the DJ as the first strains of a song from my favorite band blare from the speakers.
A spotlight swings toward our table and we shield our eyes and wave. Damn, this is turning into a regular town celebration not to mention some awesome free advertising.
