Loose Ends

by Kristen Ashley

  Maurelle stopped dancing and honed in on the woman gazing at the man.

  Specifically, the look of longing on her face.

  “Tell me what you want,” Maurelle whispered into the air, “what you really, really want.”

  Just as she did, the woman’s face fell and Maurelle looked back to the man.

  He’d dipped his head and was talking into the ear of the girl he was holding. Maurelle could see from his profile he had a smile on his face.

  He was not happy to be at a Spice Girls concert (this Maurelle knew by pure instinct, and this instinct had a lot to do with the fact he was more than a little rugged and he was wearing faded jeans and a plaid shirt that was very nice, but it wasn’t tailored or designer to the point if she caught it, it might make Posh swoon).

  He was just happy that she was happy.

  Maurelle looked back to the woman across the way in time to see her rush from her row of dancing, sing-shouting Spice Girls fans to the aisle.

  And then she lumbered down the aisle.

  Yes, lumbered.

  There was something wrong with her leg.

  Like . . . really wrong.

  “Oh dear,” Maurelle murmured into Sporty Spice belting it out.

  She didn’t know what Maurelle knew from just looking at the man’s demeanor and the kind of hold he had on the lady at his side, knowing this from having been discerning this kind of thing for a long time (in human years).

  The lady the man was with was his sister.

  At this point Maurelle knew the drill (she’d taken two whole classes on it, not to mention two fairy years of practical).

  She should spend some time observing the both of them. Use some of her magic to become invisible and get closer to listen and learn about these two people before she made any moves.

  But Maurelle saw the look on that woman’s face (actually, she’d seen both looks).

  And she saw the man had let his sister go in order to let her fully get into the song, but he still had a dashingly handsome smile on his face, happy his sister was having a good time even though his top choice would not be entering Spice World . . .

  And Maurelle turned her gaze to the woman making her awkward way down the aisle and Maurelle knew, she just knew in her head that woman had convinced herself a tall, broad, handsome man, who was the kind of man who didn’t have a problem showing how much he loved his sister (even though she didn’t know she was his sister), would never be for her.

  Maybe, with that limp, she wasn’t sure she’d ever find a man who would be for her.

  “That does it,” Maurelle decided as she wound her arm up high, kicked out a hip, did her patented disco stance (well, it wasn’t patented yet, but she was going to patent it with the Fairy Patent Board after she was given Free Wing) and she let fly.

  An aqua, hot-pink and violet stream of twinkling fairy dust shot down and slammed right between the shoulder blades of the man.

  Those around him who caught it oo’d and ah’d, thinking it was a part of the show, looking around to see if they could spot more such displays of bodaciousness, and Maurelle bit her lip.

  Doing things like that, the Elder Fairies didn’t like all that much.

  Maurelle drifted deeper into the rafters, waited and watched as the man suddenly leaned into his sister and spoke in her ear.

  She looked up at him, nodded, and he moved, causing quite a sensation and taking some attention from the show so the women he squeezed in front of could watch him go.

  He started down the aisle and Maurelle moved with him overhead, out of eyesight, and only dipped down to buzz the top of the entrance out into the concourse at the last minute.

  He thought he was heading to the bathroom, she knew.

  And he started heading that way, she saw.

  But his eyes caught on the woman leaning a shoulder to the wall, her back to him, her head bent.

  Her shoulders were lightly shaking.

  And it was clear she wasn’t laughing.

  Oh boy.

  It was worse than Maurelle thought.

  He hesitated (Maurelle just knew he would).

  Then he started heading her way (something else Maurelle just knew he would do).

  When he did, she started to smile.

  This was going to be easy!

  Just one of Maurelle’s Patented (soon) Disco Fairy Blasts and . . .

  Boom!

  “Maurelle,” she heard hissed, and her head flashed to the side, glimmer flying everywhere, to see Nissa there.

  Nissa was her friend. Before they let her out on her own, Nissa had been her hands-on mentor and Nissa had always been at her side when she’d made her first matches, guiding her through amusing misunderstandings when a hostess called names of parties waiting for tables at a restaurant, or two people reached for the same carton of eggs at the exact same time at a grocery store.

  Nissa was still her mentor, always there when Maurelle gave her reports.

  Nissa was a whole twenty-six fairy years old (her birthday was just five fairy days before (that would be fifteen human days)), had graduated Salutatorian at the Match Academy, and thus had had Free Wing for eight years.

  Nissa always hit her quotas, and then some, doing it right smack in the rules.

  Ice cream scoops falling.

  Wayward Frisbees.

  Tumbling floppy hats.

  Kites stuck in trees.

  Puppies galore.

  And rambunctious kittens who somehow got loose at rescue centers?

  Forget about it.

  That was Nissa’s thing.

  “What are you doing?” Nissa (who had a kitten with a crown on its head on the T-shirt she was wearing, unsurprisingly) was still hissing.

  “I—” Maurelle started.

  “You don’t even know their names,” Nissa pointed out irritably.

  “Hey. Is everything okay?”

  The deep voice stopped their fairy conversation (which, by the by, was below human hearing level—dogs could hear them, and cats, and horses, and such (no, your cat or dog was not staring at nothing with perked ears just for the sake of making you think they were weird or dotty, they were listening to a fairy conversation)—they’d have to shout really loud to be heard by a human, though that was strictly verboten).

  Maurelle felt Nissa touch her arm and then she felt herself go invisible just as they both watched the woman look up at the man.

  This is the good part, Maurelle thought as she watched the woman pale, her lips parting, and then the becoming pink started to creep up her cheeks. Yep, this is the good part.

  Maurelle smiled.

  “You’re not okay,” the man murmured, his gaze falling to the woman’s wet, flushed cheeks.

  “Yes . . . I . . . no, really . . .” the woman stammered, straightening and pushing back into the wall at the same time lifting a hand to her face to rub some wet away. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re crying in the hallway of an arena at a Spice Girls reunion concert,” he pointed out bluntly.

  Maurelle winced.

  It might not be good if he wasn’t the kind of guy who could go gently.

  “You . . . are . . . gonna . . . get . . . into . . . so much trouble for this,” Nissa whispered. “They told you last time you did something like this, and it didn’t go that well, that you might be pulled out of the field so you can re-take the entire Appropriate Match Scenario course. And that’s a whole year!”

  Maurelle had forgotten to mention that sometimes her maverick ways didn’t work out as she’d hoped.

  “It’s gonna be okay,” Maurelle whispered back.

  “And what if it isn’t, Maurelle?” Nissa asked. “What if this goes really bad and they get really mad and they don’t make you retake Appropriate Matches. They take you off Match Duty altogether and reassign you to Woodlands. I mean, you’d be sitting on toadstools or guarding four leaf clovers forever.”

  Maurelle liked the Woodlands (toadstools were super cushy).

&n
bsp; But only for a visit.

  Her fairy heart started pounding.

  “Well, it’s kind of an emotional song,” the woman stated lamely, and Maurelle and Nissa’s conversation was halted.

  “‘If You Wanna Be My Lover?’” he asked incredulously.

  Boy, he had very pretty green eyes (though, with his erroneous titling of the song, she found she was correct, he was no Spice Girls fan).

  Goodness, Maurelle hoped he wasn’t a dud.

  And not just because her future actually did have Woodlands Duty complete with toadstool lounging on the horizon if this went bad.

  “That song is called ‘Wannabe,’” the woman corrected.

  “Whatever,” he muttered, his lips twitching once before he got serious again. “It’s obvious you’re not fine. Do you need something?”

  The woman blinked up at him.

  “I . . .” she began but stopped.

  Gracious, but she had very pretty blonde hair. It was straight, though there were some flips at the ends, and it was really shiny.

  “What would I need?” she asked curiously.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “Seeing as you’re all by yourself, leaning against a wall crying at a concert, maybe someone to talk to,” he suggested.

  “I don’t know you,” she stated the obvious.

  “Best person to talk to when things are going down that make you cry,” he returned.

  “I don’t know if that’s true,” the woman refuted.

  “Are you crying now?” he asked.

  She was not.

  For a second she just stared up at him. Then she curled her lips in between her teeth, but that move didn’t hide her smile since her pretty brown eyes were sparkling.

  And not from tears.

  He blinked.

  Good.

  He was observant.

  He absolutely did not miss that sparkle.

  No, I was wrong, this is the good part, Maurelle thought.

  The woman uncurled her lips to answer, “No.”

  “So one thing down,” he replied. “Now, hit me.”

  “With what?” she asked.

  “With what made you cry,” he explained.

  It was then her cheeks got very pink, it was very pretty, and Maurelle bit back a giggle because she knew what made the woman cry and it wasn’t something she could share with him.

  Namely, it was that she found him attractive and never thought in a million years he’d be right there, standing close to her, asking (okay, maybe kinda demanding) she bare her soul to him.

  His eyes narrowed on her face.

  Hmm.

  How did that ominous look make him even more handsome?

  “Shit, is it a guy?” he demanded to know.

  “I—” she began.

  His shoulders straightened and his face got hard.

  And he was even more handsome.

  For real, that square jaw looked made from granite!

  “Is some guy being a dick to you?”

  The woman immediately waved her hand between them. “No, no . . . it’s not a guy.”

  “You sure?” he pushed.

  She nodded.

  He studied her a moment before looking over his shoulder at the concession stand then back to her. “Let’s go get a beer, find someplace to sit down and then hash it out. Or . . . do they sell beer at Spice Girls concerts?”

  Panic hit her as she glanced at the concession stand across the wide walkway, and her voice was a lot louder when she cried, “No! No beer.”

  “Oh man, damn. Sorry,” he muttered. “You don’t drink.”

  “No,” she stated hurriedly. “I drink. Wine and cocktails and beer. Wine mainly. And cocktails. Okay, maybe cocktails mainly, if I’m not at home. But I like beer. Beer is good. I like the darker beers, and craft ones, though IPAs are kinda bitter, I think. But I’ve had some good ones and . . .” she trailed off from her blabbering when he started chuckling.

  “Okay, so you drink beer, and apparently you’re down with alcohol on the whole. Are you driving tonight or something?” he asked.

  She shook her head then apparently changed her mind and nodded it.

  Another deep chuckle.

  He had a nice laugh.

  “Is that a yes or a no?” he queried.

  “I . . . no, my friend is driving,” she admitted like she didn’t want to say the words, which she didn’t since saying them gave her no reason to refuse a beer.

  “Okay, then you just want a pop?” he offered.

  What she didn’t want to do was limp to the concession stand.

  This was where it might go bad.

  Maurelle’s teeth caught her bottom lip.

  “Listen—” the woman began.

  But he reached in and grabbed her hand.

  Tugging on it gently, he said, “Let’s go.”

  Maurelle got stiff.

  Nissa murmured, “Oh dear.”

  He tugged her from the wall and she took one step with him before she ripped her hand from his.

  He’d turned toward the concession stand, but when she pulled away, he twisted back to look down at her.

  The instant he caught sight of her stricken face, he mistook the reason behind it and whispered, “God, I’m sorry. That was . . . I shouldn’t have touched you.”

  “I’m lame,” she declared.

  He stared at her, obviously thrown.

  “You’re—?” he started.

  “Lame,” she said decisively.

  He shifted to face her fully, stating deliberately, “You’re not lame.”

  She looked into his eyes, lifted her chin, Maurelle held her breath and heard Nissa pull in hers and she and her friend watched the woman walk a small, ungainly circle before coming again to stand still in front of the man.

  He’d watched.

  And he’d seen.

  And now a muscle was jumping up his cheek.

  With her chin still up, but her hands in fists, she repeated, “Like I said, I’m lame.”

  “You’re not lame,” he growled.

  Her eyes got big.

  Maurelle nearly let out a fairy burst of twinkle dust for joy.

  “Oh my,” Nissa breathed.

  “What happened?” he asked low.

  “A . . . a . . . car wreck. When I was fourteen,” she answered.

  “How old are you now?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Christ,” he bit off. “You still have pain?”

  “Oh dear,” Nissa mumbled.

  She could say that again.

  It was rather known in fairy circles that some men had difficulty taking on issues, like chronic pain due to a car accident, especially at the very beginning.

  It was rather known in fairy circles that some women had that same hesitation.

  Maurelle had a feeling this particular woman knew this all too well.

  And this was one of the reasons most fairies (read: nearly all but the most adept or experienced) steered clear of this kind of matchmaking just because (but also at the strict decree of the Elders, a major reason why Maurelle was always getting into trouble, because she didn’t steer clear, as was currently apparent).

  Maurelle was holding her breath again.

  “Sometimes,” the woman said.

  “Shit,” the man muttered. “You in pain tonight?”

  “Not my leg,” she told him.

  “So it’s not dancing or something that made you come out here?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “You shouldn’t call yourself lame,” he told her.

  “That’s what my mom says,” she told him.

  “Your mom is right,” he returned.

  “And my dad,” she went on.

  “He’s right too.”

  “And all my friends,” she kept at it.

  He made no reply, just scowled down at her.

  Really, he was just . . . everything.

  “But . . . I am lame,” she pointed out.
>
  “You got a bum leg as a result of a car wreck. That makes you a woman with a bum leg. Not lame,” he retorted.

  Maurelle let out her breath in a gust.

  She just knew it.

  That man. Spice Girls. With his sister.

  Yes.

  She knew it.

  Maurelle grinned.

  “A pretty woman with a bum leg,” he amended.

  Maurelle’s grin grew into a smile.

  “A pretty woman with great hair and a bum leg,” he added.

  Maurelle let out a fairy burst of twinkle dust for joy.

  Nissa immediately swung out an invisibility web to shroud it.

  A new blush had crept up the woman’s cheeks, and she was opening and closing her mouth, but no words were coming out.

  “Not to make myself seem less of a concerned citizen, but if you weren’t as pretty as you are and you didn’t have that head of hair, I might have asked if you were okay but I wouldn’t have pushed the beer,” he explained.

  “Oh,” she whispered.

  “But just to make things clear, at this point, I’m still pushing the beer,” he went on.

  “Oh,” she breathed.

  Maurelle giggled.

  “And just to say, I don’t give that first shit about a bum leg,” he finished.

  “Oh,” she mumbled, looking nervous, cautiously happy, but still troubled.

  “So, can we get a beer and find somewhere to sit so I can make sure you’re all right before I ask you out on a date, this being after I ask your name, which I’ll do while we’re waiting in line for a beer?” he requested.

  “I . . . you should know, I saw you in there with a girl,” she admitted. “You’re hard to miss, being tall and all,” she quickly added.

  He certainly was tall.

  And all.

  Maurelle giggled again.

  “Yeah, you were hard to miss in there too,” he returned.

  “Nice,” Nissa whispered.

  “Not because you’re tall,” he carried on. “Because of other things.”

  “Nice,” Maurelle whispered.

  “Though I didn’t see you walking,” he went on. “But even if I did, it wouldn’t have mattered, like it doesn’t now.”

  “Niiiiiice,” Maurelle and Nissa drawled in unison.

  He continued, “And that girl is my sister. She grew up on the Spice Girls. Tickets were my birthday present for her. She was supposed to bring a friend. She wanted me to come with her instead, mostly because she’s my baby sister and it’s her job to torture me, but partly because she kinda likes spending time with me. I didn’t grow up on the Spice Girls, except having to endure it when she blasted it. I grew up on Green Day.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “But she’s my sister. I love her. She wanted me with her. What was I supposed to do?”