Walked its stick ass over and high fived you? It’s a stick, for the love of peaches; you need to calm down and think!
My free hand comes up to rub over the stones on my necklace as I try to compose myself. Of course, that’s when two morenot peoplecome barrelin’ into the bar from the doorway that I know leads into the back office. One of them is familiar, which for some reason helps me not completely lose my senses. He looks like the guy from the back office who signed for the late package and helped me clean up my foot.
What was his name?
Alder, that was it.
Except, his yellow hair is way less blond and way more daffodil-toned, and while the tattoos on his arms and neck are still gorgeous, they’re no longer black and gray. I stare at the myriad of watercolor blossoms now tattooed all over him, while also notin’ that his skin sure as hell wasn’t lavender the last time I talked to him either. He also didn’t have a pretty flower tucked behind his ear like it’s the new favorite accessory of big muscly swamp-dwellin’ guys.
His butterscotch eyes scan everyone in the room quickly before settlin’ on me, confused. “What’s going on?” he asks, but I can tell the question ain’t aimed at me.
“She just started screaming for no reason,” the bark-covered bartender supplies.
I scoff. “You drugged me!” I growl at the bartender, my stick now pointin’ at him as furious accusation drips from my tone.
“I did no such thing,” he argues back.
“What did you give me?” I demand, panic once again bleedin’ through my voice.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa there, darlin’.” My eyes whip over to look at the other man that stormed in with Alder. “I don’t know what would make ya think that you’ve been slipped something you didn’t ask for. Mickey there makes ’em strong, but he’d never drug a patron,” he reassures me.
His skin is so pale that white is really the only color to explain it, but not the usual creamy skin tones or even porcelain. I’m talkin’ a china plate white. But then he has veins of gray breakin’ up his snowy pallor, almost as though his skin is made of the finest marble. His hair is black, short, and stylishly cut, and he fills out his snug T-shirt and jeans in a way that any girl could appreciate if she wasn’t drugged and cruisin’ for some serious trouble.
“Well, of course you’d say that, you’re probably in on it,” I snap back, my stick now shakily pointed at him.
I was all ready to possibly turn this thing into kindlin’ or hope it was some lucky talisman that would help me sort my life out, but now I think this stick might just be the very weapon that helps me get out of here in one piece and saves my life.
I don’t know what these people’s game is. Do they wait for some unsuspectin’ woman to lose her way and get caught in their web out here? It doesn’t sound like a solid plan for a good traffickin’ business, or whatever it is they’re gonna do with me.
My stomach lurches at all the awful possibilities that boil through my mind, and I try to shove those thoughts away. No, me and the stick are gettin’ out of here. I have to believe that.
“Now, now, darlin’, I don’t take kindly to such an accusation. I’ve never needed anythin’ other than this to catch a female,” he tells me jovially, gesturin’ at his face and body as though his point should be obvious to me. Sure, he’s hot—if you’re into statues—but that doesn’t negate the fact that somethin’ is seriously wrong here.
Alder steps forward, cuttin’ the marble-skinned man off. “Why do you think you’ve been drugged?” he asks me, a glint of somethin’ in his butterscotch gaze as it bounces from my stick that I’m clutchin’ like a weapon before goin’ back to my face.
Is that astonishment? Or...excitement? Shit, neither of those can be good.
I’m seriously the worst judge of character. Here I was, thinkin’ he was a nice and handsome guy when I left his office earlier. I don’t give a hoot that he’s got a flower behind his ear. He’s the kinda guy that can overpower you in a single move. Those muscles don’t lie.
I shoot him a glare, refusin’ to show him my fear. “I dunno, maybe it’s the fact that Mickey over here now looks like he’s covered in bark and has leaves accessorizin’ his fingers. Or thatthey”—I point over at the couple who continue to casually watch everythin’ take place like it’s the best entertainment they’ve had in a spell—“now look like some kinda close encounter of the third kind!”
I point my stick at the faceless people, and they shrink back slightly as though I’m the threat here.
“They don’t have faces!” I screech.
Alder’s brow furrows, and the marble guy next to him looks taken aback. No one says or does anythin’ for a moment, the bar turned completely quiet. I don’t know what to make of that.
It’s marble man who speaks first. “Wait, how are you—”
“Flint, look at her stick,” Alder interrupts. “Anything about that look familiar to you?”
Flint—I guess his name is—studies the stick in my hand, and I suddenly feel the need to do the same, or maybe drop it because...what the hell is wrong with it?
But maybe this is a ruse? Some kind of tactic for me to abandon my only weapon and become even more vulnerable?
Nice try, pretty spider, but this fly ain’t gettin’ caught today!
“Where did you say you found that staff again?” Alder asks me casually, a littletoocasually, as he also takes a step closer.
