Page 74 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

“I’ve got it,” I hiss. “Why don’t you get inside? I’m sure Dalton needs you to run some errand or clean up some horse crap.”

“Oh!” says Eric, feigning surprise. “That’s what I needed to tell you. I wanted to show you this!”

With what can only be described as a triumphant grin, he whips off his Green Squire tunic. Underneath it is Chris’s armor and his extra Red Knight costume.

Stabbing my cigarette out, I stand up. Since I’m on a higher step than Eric, I’m nearly nose to nose with him. “Why are you wearing that?”

“Since your dumbass brother fell off his horse, I’m the next Squire in line. I’m the Red Knight until—or should I say if—Chris comes back.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Of course it’s fair,” snaps Eric. “I’ve been here nearly as long as you. I’ve gone through the ranks, and now it’s my turn.”

“What’s not fair is that I—and my friends—never even got a chance to try!”

“That’s life, Sweetly,” says Eric, shrugging. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get my horse saddled. It’s nearly showtime for the Red Knight.”

I swear under my breath as he pushes past me. Before he starts up the stairs, he kicks the plastic trash can over, spilling filthy straw and wood chips all over the edge of the stairs.

“Goddammit, Eric. You’re such an unredeemable douchebag. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

“That’s for messing up my chances with Layla! Be sure to tell your brother I took his job.”

“I hope you fall off your horse!”

“Just like your loser brother did?” he throws back.

He kicks the trash can one more time as he walks away. It goes bouncing into the parking lot, spilling more filth. It’s a warm spring night, but there’s not a hint of wind. Nothing to sweep the wood chips away or hide Eric’s treachery.

I’m so angry, tears rise in my eyes. Stupid, ridiculous tears, even when I want to yell. And hit things. Especially things named Eric Taylor.

I swipe at my tears and get a bunch of sand in my eye.

Dammit!

I’m not even halfway done with mucking out the stables, and now I’ve got all this mess to clean up. I grab the broom that’s propping open the back door and stomp down the stairs. Right as I realize what I’ve done, the metal door slams shut behind me. Locking me outside, with no way to get back inside except through the front door.

Swearing again, I text Jett.

Kit: COME GET ME? BACK DOOR, BY THE STABLES. I’M LOCKED OUT AND CAN’T GO THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR. PLEASE BRING MY BACKPACK.

His answer doesn’t come back immediately—he must’ve started the trumpeting to announce the King’s arrival by now—and so I’m stuck out here. Tucking my phone into my bra strap so I don’t miss Jett’s text, I begin the slow, terrible process of refilling the plastic trash can with soiled hay and wood chips. Only this time I don’t have a shovel. Just a broom and piece of cardboard that was shoved beneath the dumpster.

Revolting.

Using the cardboard like a makeshift dustpan, I get most of the hay and wood chips off the ground and into the can. Of course, I also manage to get a good portion of the nasty stuff in my hair and down the front of my Wench’s dress.

Then, I drag the can to the dumpster. It’s filled nearly to the top with horse poop, soggy straw, and who knows what else. Flies buzz around it, and after baking in the sun for the better part of the day, its smell has moved from earthy to downright hazardous.

“Get in there,” I mutter, as I jam my hip into the trash can and scoot it up my body. It’s surprisingly heavy since the straw is dense with horse waste. I stand on a milk crate so I can lever it in enough to flip it into the dumpster.

When the trash can rests on the lip of the dumpster, I shove my shoulder under it and tip it over. It tumbles into the dumpster, spilling out its noxious contents.

I reach in to shake out the rest of the foul stuff inside the can, but as I lift up the container, my phone flies out of my bra strap and goes arcing in with all the mess.

Of course it does.

I lunge forward to catch it, but I’m already off balance. With a yell, I land in the dumpster, face-first in a pile of filth.