8
I feel like I’ve been placed in an upright coffin.
My shoulders touch the box on either side of me, and there’s barely enough room front and back to move at all. There is some ambient light coming in, so that I know exactly how little space I’ve got. And I can’t hear a peep. Apparently, this thing is soundproof.
Athena just put all our asses in time out. Big time.
“Okay, Brandee Jean,” I say aloud. “You’ve got this. Remember the old Miss America pageants that Mama had on VHS? They put those girls in an isolation box, so they couldn’t hear the answers the other girls gave during the question and answer session.
“It’s the same thing,” I tell myself. “It’s the same damn thing. And if Miss Iowa can sit in an isolation box and walk out smiling, you can bet your ass that the five-time district Miss Roller Derby Dare Devil can do it too. Ain’t that right?”
And while I’ve always been really good at giving myself pep talks, and I definitely do bet my ass that I can get through this, there’s a major—and very sudden—issue.
My ass is no longer the only one in here.
“Um… hi,” I say.
I’m talking directly into the chest of a dude. And I do mean directly. Like, my mouth has his shirt in it. And I can’t really do much to change that, because there’s not enough room. I spit out a mouthful of Oxford and look directly up at the intruder.
“Alaric?” I ask. “What the—did you do your tele-porta-potty thing into my box? I hope you don’t have any ideas about what kind of girl I am just ’cause we’ve been flirting a bit.”
He stares back at me in this strange way. His eyes aren’t doing the little sparkle at me that they were earlier. And… they’re an icy gray. Were they that color before?
“Teleport is the word you were searching for, I believe,” he corrects, sounding super proper and incredibly uptight. If he’d said it in normal American English, it mighta been just a friendly reminder. “Furthermore,” Alaric continues, “I assure you, ending up here was in no way my intention.”
Alaric wriggles around a bit, apparently not understanding that the space we’re in is all the space we got. As he mutters something about, “one damn thing after another,” I feel cold metal rub against the back of my hand.
Curious, I run my fingers along it. And holy Christmas cheeseballs—Alaric’s gone and got himself in handcuffs. Maybe he extra pissed Athena off.
He yanks his hands away from my searching fingers.
“Who are you and how do you know my name?” he asks. “And where am I?”
I tilt my head, studying him. “Did you hit your head when you teleported in?”
“And how do you know my power?” His voice gets louder even though my face is still only a few inches away from his own.
“Okay, calm down. We met earlier today. Remember? You fell into my arms. We flirted. I was delightful,” I toss my head to accentuate this, and some of my hair goes into his mouth. “You were charming. There were definite sexy vibes between us and I didn’t hate it.”
“That wasn’t me.” He spits my hair out like I use AquaNet or something. “I don’t flirt and you’re not my type.”
A gasp escapes me. “Excuse you. I’m a Wisconsin hot dish. I’m everyone’s type.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You are fish and chips after a night at the pub. Greasy junk that you consume and regret the next morning.”
Oh. Hell. No. “Why are you being such a dick? Have you gone wacko?” I shift slightly so I can knee him in the groin. Unfortunately, I can’t lift my leg high enough and just manage to barely kick his shin.
He grunts at the kick, then sniffs. “A man that does not find a woman of your caliber attractive has most certainly not gone wacko.”
“A woman of my caliber? You barely know me!”
This quiets him for a moment. Then he clears his throat. “Actually, I don’t know you at all, and you’re right. I made assumptions based on a snap judgement. It was not gentlemanly of me.” There’s another moment of hesitation, before he stiffly adds, “I apologize.”
It’s the type of apology you get when a teacher or parent forces you to give one. Still, this guy doesn’t strike me as the type to apologize much at all. “Fine,” I say, “Those handcuffs on your wrist have something to do with your bad mood.”
“I am not in a bad mood.”
“So you always act like a junkyard dog when meeting new people?”
“Junkyard dog?” He sounds shocked to his core. “Is that your preferred type?”
“Nah.” I smile up at him, knowing he’s in a foul mood and having fun tweaking him to pass the time. “I prefer the charmers and sweet-talkers.”
“A case of opposites attract, I assume,” he says stiffly.
I can’t help but laugh at that one. “My mama used to say the same thing.” I give him a little poke in the chest. “So c’mon, we got nowhere to go. Tell me how you scored a pair of silver bracelets in the two seconds since we were on stage.”
He goes red, which I first mistake for a blush, only to realize after a moment—it’s fury. Between gritted teeth he spits out, “There was a misunderstanding.”
“Ooh. You’re mad about something. Spill it.”
He raises his head an inch higher, giving me a great view of his nostrils. “I accidentally teleported into a girl’s locker room. I tried to explain myself, but the officer called to the scene did not find my story believable.”
I give a low whistle. “Not until you vamoosed right out of his cruiser, I’m guessing. Escaping from custody is a serious crime.”
“I was running unforgivably late. I had to…vamoose. And then I ended up here. Which one is preferable, I’d rather not say.”
“Oh please,” I give a little snort to let him know what I think of that. “You’d rather be smiling for mugshots instead of sharing space with all of this?”
Normally at this point I’d take a good step back and put my hands on my hips so that he could get the full power of my silhouette. But that’s not happening in our current situation, so all I can do is also stick my head up into the air, accidentally butting him in the chin.
I huff over the pain. “I don’t know what your game is, Alaric, but I’m not playing it. You can’t run hot and cold on Brandee Jean. Mama always said room temperature was best for chocolate and cheese and frosted cakes. I think that applies to boys, too. So, if you’re going to like me, you do it. And you do it thorough, you hear?”
Alaric’s eyes stare down into mine while I glare up, wanting him to feel the full heat of my words. Now we’re looking into each other’s eyes. And man—I swear they weren’t that color earlier.
It’s not a bad color, though. And I gotta say, despite his sniffy mood, my attraction seems to be growing. There’s something about the width of his shoulders and how they bridge one side of the box to the other. Or how his height means he needs to stoop a bit.
Plus, he smells good. Manly sweat mixed with a cologne with clove undertones. It’s like someone baked a pumpkin pie in a locker room, which sounds gross, but right now, I wouldn’t mind trying a slice.
So I do.
I figure since I just showed him the sharp side of my tongue, it’s just good manners to let him get a taste of its softer side too.
Sliding my hands up his chest, I curl my fingers around the back of his head, weaving them through his hair. A little gentle pressure brings his lips down to mine.
I flutter a soft kiss across his mouth.
Mama always used to say, “Brandee Jean, you don’t always need to go in guns blazing.”
I’m about to follow-up that gentle opener, when Alaric pulls back. Maybe he thought that was both beginning and end. He starts to say something too. Seeing an opening, I angle his head and go in for a little mouth to mouth.
His cuffed hands move between us, probably wanting to get in on the action. But Brandee Jean is running this show. Although that doesn’t mean I don’t want Alaric to contribut
e.
Pulling back slightly, I flick my tongue against his lips like they’re an ice cream cone. My naturally competitive nature now demanding a response. “Come on, Alaric. Don’tcha like me even just a little bit?”
I peek up at him through my lashes. He stares down at me with stormy grey eyes.
“No,” he says, his voice harsh. But even as he says it, somehow he gets low enough to scoop my knees into the V made by his joined wrists. I’m lifted so high my head bumps against the ceiling at the same moment his mouth smashes into mine.
He attacks without finesse, but a whole lotta hunger. Generally speaking, I don’t like this messy sort of kissing. I try to keep my smooch sessions as choreographed as one of my dance routines. That way nobody gets hurt. But this right here feels a lot like running with scissors. It’s dangerous is what I’m saying and I shouldn’t like it.
But I do. I really really do.
Alaric suddenly breaks off. He drops me and then pushes himself as far back into his side of the box as possible. We’re both breathing hard, like we’ve run a mile.
“Hell,” I say, unable to decide if I want to do that never again or a million times more.
“Yes,” Alaric agrees, clearing his throat. “I apologize again. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, and as I said before—you’re not my type. Also, I believe…” He stops to clear his throat once more. “I believe you have been duped by my bastard half-brother, Trevor.”
“Trevor?” I repeat, remembering Alaric’s attempt to get his brother outed on account of his absence right before we were put in this time-out. “Trevor isn’t even here. He’s the contestant who didn’t show.”
“Actually, I’m fairly certain Trevor was one of the first ones here,” Alaric says, his breathing more under control now. “You just didn’t know it. Trevor and I were…having a bit of a spat when the lightning struck.”
“Oh, so you were like, fighting?”
“Something like that,” Alaric says. “Zeus’s powers were dispersed to both of us, and I received the ability to teleport. My brother, however, received the ability to physically mimic others.”
“Wait—so you’re saying the guy that fell out of the tree and landed on me when I got here was actually Trevor…pretending to be you?”
“Quite,” Alaric confirms. “And I’m guessing he was up in that tree in order to keep an eye on other contestants as they arrived, perhaps hoping to overhear conversations and gather information to use against you later.”
My eyes narrow. “Or he was just copping a feel,” I say, remembering his line about being a master clothing adjuster.
“Yes, well, Trevor’s taste in women has always been…unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate my ass!” I say. “Wasn’t your tongue just getting friendly with my tonsils a minute ago?”
“A mistake,” Alaric says. “It’s been a trying day and I lost my self-control. Once again, I do apolo—”
I cut him off. “I don’t want another apology. Trevor might be an underhanded little weasel, but at least he’s not chronically stuck up. I’ve never met anybody so full of themselves and that includes the time I met the third runner up to Miss Northwest Wisconsin.”
“Third runner up, you say? My goodness, a young woman of such consequence and humility. She must have been a gem indeed.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You know, Trevor tried to get you disqualified for not showing up on time. And he wanted your powers too. Maybe when we get outta here, I’ll tell Athena you’re the imposter.”
Alaric is silent for a moment and I’m pretty sure he’s rethinking his attitude. But then with a sigh he says, “I would advise against saying anything at all. My relationship with Trevor is ugly and it will not help your chances to get involved in it. He will not hesitate to use you or anyone else to take me down.”
Now it’s my turn to hesitate. His tone hasn’t warmed up any, but that warning, though stiff, seemed heartfelt.
“So you two got some sort of blood feud going on, huh? Reminds me of the Sorbero twins. They were the identical type, so the only way you could tell ’em apart was by the scars they’d given each other. If it’s anywhere near as bad as them, then I’m guessing you’re here late cause Trevor didja dirty, huh?”
“Indeed,” Alaric nods, his chin dipping against my head. He jerks away when I look up at him, like he’s afraid I’m gonna kiss him again. “He had one of the servants give me the wrong information about where Amazon Academy was located. I was popping in and out of various places trying to find it, luckily remembering at the last moment that if I focused on a person instead of a place, I would be led to them. But somehow I ended up next to you, not Trevor.”
“Aww…” I rest my head on his chest, unable to stop myself from teasing him. “We’re supposed to be together.”
He shudders. “Sorry, but the girl I marry will have no otherworldly blood. I’m guessing you’re a shifter of some sort? I’m getting a very ‘raised by wolves’ vibe from you.”
I slap his face. It doesn’t have the impact I’d like, but with my strength I don’t need to wind up in order to leave an imprint. “I was raised by my mama, may she rest in peace. And I’m the only human in the whole group, thank you very much.”
Alaric swallows. “I apologize. You’re correct. That was out of line.” There’s a pause and then he adds, “You’re truly human? No paranormal blood at all?”
“Well, my mama says the boy who knocked her up with me had farts louder than a gunshot. But I don’t think he was any sort of magical being because of that.”
Alaric makes a sorta choked noise in response, but his mouth remains flat. It’s disappointing. Usually that fart story kills.
“What about you?” I ask. “So far, there’s a lion shifter boy, an Amazon girl, and a harpy. I’m not sure what everybody else has got in their surprise bag.”
“It’s not spoken of in my family,” Alaric says slowly. “But for centuries there’s been a strain of fairy blood that does not dilute no matter how much time passes.”
“Oh wow, that makes so much sense! When you said I wasn’t your type, I didn’t realize it was ’cause you prefer boys.” I grip one of Alaric’s hands. “You missed it, but one of the other guys—Constantine—is gay too. Maybe the two of you will hit it off. He’s—” I’d been about to say he’s cute, but now realize that I have no memory of his face and quite possibly never saw it at all since my attention was entirely focused on his lower half. “He’s got two and a half legs,” I finally say, ’cause it feels like some sort of physical description is needed. And then before Alaric can ask any follow up questions, I add, “I can put in a good word for you. Tell him you’re not that bad a kisser.”
“Not that bad!?” Alaric shakes his head. “Never mind that. I’m not—fairy is another word for fae, the fair folk and—okay, hold one moment—I heard that aloud and realize it’s not helping to clarify.”
“It’s okay.” I smile at him gently. “I once participated in the first annual outer outer Milwaukee suburbs Gay Pride alliance pageant. I didn’t win, cause, well, we found out when we got there that it was only meant for drag queens. But damn we had a good time anyway. And those girls helped me up my contouring game to levels I never would’ve reached otherwise.”
Alaric breathes out slowly through his nose and then in again.
“You’re not claustrophobic, are you?” I ask. “’Cause you sound like you’re maybe starting to hyperventilate.”
“I am not hyperventilating,” he says through gritted teeth. “I am trying to control my temper, which up to this moment has been remarkably steady!”
He shouts the last bit in my face, which I don’t much appreciate.
Also, I can’t really have him freaking out in here, and despite the stick up his ass, he’s obviously had a tough day, so I decide to help him out.
“Look, Rick, let’s get those cuffs off you and I bet you’ll feel a lot better.”
“My name is Alaric, not Rick.”
“But you told me-oh, I guess that was your brother who told me to call you Rick.”
“Yes, he knows I detest that nickname.” I tug at the cuffs. “And I think it might be best to leave that for now,” he adds.
“Listen, I know a thing or two about getting out of handcuffs,” I tell him. Well, that came out wrong. Now, I’m the one blushing. Time to explain.
“Back on the junior beauty pageant circuit, Missy Jenkins was hard up for a talent. All the dance moms had their girls running around in tutus. There were baton twirlers, and tumblers, and my personal favorite, tap dancers. But Missy, she had her own special talent. She could escape handcuffs like she was made of butter. It was during the Little Miss Wisconsin Corn, Apples, and Potatoes Pageant that she broke the world record for being so quick at it. Got her picture in the Guinness books and all that stuff.”
“Fascinating,” Alaric says, in a tone that conveys quite the opposite.
“So anyway,” I go on. “The trick was that she would throw her shoulder out, which means you’re super lucky you didn’t teleport into a time-out box with your bastard brother. You teleported to Brandee Jean for a reason, and that reason was for me to free you from these cuffs. I’m blessed with super-strength and can pop your shoulder out in a jiffy.”
All the blood now goes in the reverse direction, rushing from his face and leaving him pale. “I don’t think—”
“That’s right,” I say. “Don’t think.”
Then I snap his arm out of its socket. He releases this deep male groan that goes a little gaggy at the end. But I pay it no mind. Alaric sags back against the box, which actually gives me a little more room to maneuver.
I study his popped-out shoulder, wondering if it’s supposed to look quite like that. Just so he’s not worried too, I cover the silence with a little conversation.
“Now don’tcha worry, this is something I have some skill at. While Missy Jenkins had the escape trick down to a fine art, her nemesis—Alabama O’Keefe—had a tumbling act that blew people’s minds. She also had an arm that liked to wander off a bit from her shoulder, and I’d popped it back into place more than once. It was at the same competition that Missy broke the world record that Alabama’s arm went out right in the middle of her tumbling act, leaving her to land flat on her face and break her nose—which actually was a blessing since the one she was born with hadn’t been doing her any favors. But she flat out refused to tumble anymore after the reconstruction. Which was a good call—that new nose was an award-winner.”
Amazon Princess Page 6