Guys and Godmothers

by Candice Gilmer

  The smell hit her. Her stomach grumbled. “That smells great.”

  “Yeah, I love Luigi’s Pizza.” He opened the box and the pizza was covered with everything, cheese dripping over the edges. He slipped a piece on her plate. “The benefit of living downtown: I know where all the hole-in-the-wall places are.”

  “And I’m sure you’ve had the food poisoning to prove it,” Greta replied.

  He laughed. “Only once in a while. I have a test, though, for hole-in-the-wall places.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The silverware.”

  “Silverware?”

  “If it’s clean and wrapped well, then I know it’s good. If it’s sloppy, my cutlery sticking out or something, then I wonder what else they don’t take the time to do right.”

  Greta grinned. “That’s actually a good idea.” She looked at the fork he’d given her. “Is this clean?” She tilted it in the light.

  “I said it works for hole-in-the-wall restaurants. Not houses.” He playfully snagged the fork from her and held it up to check it.

  “I was kidding.” She grinned.

  He handed the fork back to her. “Besides, who really uses a fork when eating pizza?”

  “I do,” Greta replied, and stabbed at the toppings on her piece, scraping them off to eat first.

  “Weirdo,” he said with a grin.

  “Yep.” Her nerves were a mess. While she, so far, was enjoying Bruce’s company, a nagging worry in her stomach about being alone in his apartment. After all, what did she really know about him?

  She was about to take a bite when Bruce stopped her cold.

  “You going to take your mask off?”

  He had already pulled off his browncoat jacket, the coat lying over a chair across the room. The nice cut of his burgundy shirt along with the steampunk-esque gun belt he wore gave him a very surreal appearance. A handsome one, but surreal as well.

  And he looked way too much like Mal from Firefly, staring down someone for an interrogation.

  “Uh…” Greta put her hand on her mask. “I…”

  “It’s up to you, though I wonder if you’re going to be able to eat with it on.”

  “Got a knife?” she asked.

  Bruce hopped up and got her a knife. “You sure are a tricky gal. Do you wear the mask all the time?”

  She shook her head as she tried to get a chunk of pizza in her mouth. It didn’t work well—she bumped the edge, and knew her mask would be ruined if she kept this up. And she’d worked pretty hard making the mask to ruin it now.

  Inside, she knew, some part of her did, anyway—she was going to have to come clean about her scars.

  It was time.

  A huge knot churned in her stomach. Bruce had a point. She couldn’t rightly eat the pizza, even if she cut it up, without taking off the mask.

  Greta inhaled a breath. “I have to tell you something.”

  “All right.”

  “Please don’t pass judgment until you hear everything, okay?”

  Bruce nodded and touched her arm. “You can tell me anything.”

  “I sure hope you’re right.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Bruce sat very still. He didn’t want to do anything to make Greta run, or stop, or, well, whatever.

  He wanted to hear this. It was obviously important. He’d been thinking about the mask all day, and wondered what she hid behind it. But how could he ask? At least in front of people, how could he? He knew she did it to protect something, but no one else did. At least no one at the convention thought it was anything more than a mask.

  No one thought she was hiding.

  Except him.

  Was she burned? Scarred? Tattooed?

  What would make her hide her face?

  Greta sat her plate back on the coffee table. She took another deep breath, and sat straight, hands rested in her lap, clenched together, her knuckles white.

  “When I was seven years old, a dog attacked me. The left side of my face is scarred.”

  “I am sorry,” he whispered, realizing the irony of him blubbering to her about Steve, and she never once said a word.

  She let him say what he had to say. She’d even gotten him a sympathy card.

  God, she was strong.

  “I am horridly terrified of dogs. I was taken out of school, because the family responsible made me sound like a monster that had been tormenting the dog and it snapped. I was shunned, treated like a diseased monster. I transferred to another elementary school, but by high school, the torment got worse. Even people who were supposed to be my friends would say scathing things about me behind my back. I’ve hidden all my life from people because of the way I was treated.”

  Bruce felt sick to his stomach. “Who did this? How did it happen?”

  “I was walking home. Scott Coleman, son of the local judge, told the dog to attack me. He’d been out with friends, showing off or something. Anyway, I was the grand finale.”

  “Was there bad… Did you two not get along?”

  Greta shook her head. “I was there. That’s all.” She turned her head, but he doubted she saw anything around her—her eyes, too far off, locked someplace else. “If it hadn’t been me, it might have been someone else. So in a way, I’m thankful. It could have been someone younger. There were a lot of kids in the neighborhood then—little kids. So I thank God the dog attacked me and not a little toddler. He could have killed a little kid.”

  “What happened? Didn’t your parents press charges?”

  “They tried. I think. But like I said, Scott was the son of a judge. His dad made me out to be a monster and it was my fault.”

  “The other kids? Didn’t they do anything?” The anger in his gut burnt a hole in him. He wanted to find this Scott guy and pummel him. Break him. Like he broke Greta.

  God help the guy if Bruce ever met him.

  She shook her head. “They didn’t want to cross Scott’s story.” She stroked the edge of her mask. “I did get a letter from one, once. It was sort of an apology. Not that he was willing to do anything about it, only he wanted to ‘ease his conscience.’”

  “Good God.” Bruce couldn’t imagine. What kind of horrible people lived in her town?

  “Now you understand why I’ve always hidden. I don’t know how to live any other way. I’m trying to save my money to move into the city so I can disappear.”

  “I can’t believe your parents didn’t do more.”

  “They did what they could. My grandparents got very sick about that time, and they moved in with us. It was a big upheaval, and my parents only had so many hours in a day. Between my surgeries, school, and taking care of them—well, to try and put together a lawsuit that might, or might not be won? It was too much.”

  He reached over and squeezed her hand. “I don’t know how you’re not still horribly angry.”

  “I have my days. A few months ago, I saw Scott Coleman at the gas station. I wanted to aim the gas hose at him and light it on fire.”

  “Nice. You do have a vicious streak.”

  She smiled, sort of. “I went home and wrote about castrating my villain before chopping his head off and burning him. The editor thought it was a little extreme.”

  He laughed. “I bet.”

  Greta brushed the edge of the mask. “Now you know the why.” She reached behind her head and started undoing the straps.

  Bruce made himself sit as still as possible, watching each strap come down.

  She kept her hand over the mask, holding it in place. “It is, um… Don’t freak out, okay? It’s bad.”

  “I won’t.” He prepared himself, steeled himself for the impact of what he was about to see. She said it was bad. He made a wish he was able to keep it together and not do anything to make things worse.

  She lowered th
e mask. Some of her hair fell forward with it, shielding her from him. She sat frozen, staring at the floor.

  “Let me see,” Bruce said.

  Greta turned, and brushed her hair back.

  Bruce tipped his head to the side, taking in the details. It took him a moment to realize what he stared at. The curved scars ran along her jaw. He could see a dog clamping on, once, twice, then onto her throat—the scars were so clear and perfect.

  He literally bit his tongue to keep his reaction neutral.

  You’d better pray, Scott Coleman, I never, ever, meet you.

  Greta shifted on the couch, pulling open the top of her blouse, not saying anything. More of the half-circle marks on the top of her shoulder. Tears welled in her eyes.

  The skin—scarred-but-whitish—the same tone as her unscarred flesh, and looked like, well, like a strange brand that had healed.

  While the damage was obvious, it wasn’t nearly as bad as he guessed. Of course, they were old. They wouldn’t still be red or pink.

  Before he could stop himself, he shivered.

  The movement must have jarred Greta out of her stillness, because she pulled her blouse shut. “I… Yeah.” And she stood.

  “Wait, what are you doing?” Bruce asked. “Where are you going?”

  “I know it’s gross, horrible. I… Yeah, I should go.”

  “Don’t you dare.” Bruce stood, following her. He grabbed her arm. “You have a scar. So what? Everyone has scars.”

  “And what would you know about it?” Greta asked.

  “Not everyone’s scars are on the outside, Greta.” He reached for her face, stroking her head, and let his hand slide over the puckered, scarred skin. She winced, pulling away. Still, he didn’t turn away from her. “I still think you are the most beautiful person I’ve ever known.”

  Greta snorted, looking away from him. “I’m no model.”

  “Did I ever say you had to be?” He let out a breath.

  She pulled away. “Please don’t. Don’t tell me that. It’s bullshit and you know it. People want perfection, not… not broken.”

  “I never said I did.” He pulled her to him. “I don’t know why this had to happen to you. I’m sorry it did. But I don’t hold it against you. Thank you for sharing something so personal with me.” He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her.

  She let out a soft sob as she curled into his shoulder.

  Bruce stroked her hair, his fingers tangling in the curly jumble. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “I don’t know if I should stay.”

  “Stay. At least eat something. You might feel better.”

  Greta let out a soft smirk. “You sound like my mother.”

  “Not the romantic angle I was going for, but I’ll take what I can get,” Bruce replied.

  She pulled away, a smile on her face. “You’re easy to please.”

  He smiled back, realizing this was the first time he’d ever seen her full face as she smiled. “You have a beautiful smile, whether you realize it or not.”

  She snorted. “You’re getting close to the BS Meter.”

  “I’ll stop. For now.” Bruce held her hand and led her to the couch, where their pizza waited on them. He helped her sit and handed her back her plate.

  She picked up her soda. “You know, if there’s any more, I really would like a beer right now.”

  “You got it.”

  “No, no you don’t,” Lilly said, flying in front of Cupid.

  “What, me?” He put his hand on his chest, grinning. “You wound me, dear Miss Bloom. I am only here, observing.”

  “Well, you’re not welcome here. You need to get out.”

  Bruce and Greta had decided to watch a movie, and currently were curled together on the couch. It had taken Bruce about twenty minutes, but he finally got his arm around Greta, and she didn’t pull away.

  All they need now is time…

  Cupid hovered next to her. And not him.

  “They seem to be doing well, so far, I think,” Cupid said, sounding, well, nice. What was the matter with him?

  “Yes, yes they are.” Lilly replied. “So why are you here?”

  “I told you, observing. I cannot do anything, considering the dead zone is still in effect.”

  Lilly crossed her arms, her wings fluttering. And he wasn’t kidding. He didn’t have a single minion with him, and no arrows on him.

  “I cannot believe you are merely here to observe.”

  Cupid smiled. “Maybe I am, but maybe I’m not.”

  That didn’t sound good at all.

  “What’s going on, Cupid?”

  “I am here for you, Lilly.”

  “Uh.”

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  “A what?” Lilly asked, offended he would even bother, yet morbidly curious.

  Surely he didn’t want her to release the dead zone, did he?

  “A proposition.” Cupid smiled that grin of his. “Do not worry, it is not unethical. Trust me, my dear.”

  “Unethical to you, or to me?”

  He shrugged. “That is for you to decide.”

  She waved her hand, gold sparkles swirling around. “Let’s hear it.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Are you open to such a thing?”

  “More curious than anything.”

  “Since this is going to be your last Fairy Godmother gig—”

  Lilly put her hand over her face, covering her blushing cheeks. “Does everyone know?”

  “The whole Fairy Realm is abuzz about you. Weren’t you aware?”

  She shook her head, more gold flying everywhere.

  “Do not fret, that is why I’m here,” Cupid said, grinning. “I wanted to offer you a job.”

  If Lilly had been drinking anything, she would have spit it across the room. “You what?”

  “Do not worry. It doesn’t go against any of your precious fairy laws.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  “Where is it written a god cannot employ a fairy?”

  Darn, he had her there. “Doing what, Cupid?”

  “Training my minions, of course.” He floated around her, hands behind his back. “It has come to my attention that occasionally, my cherubs can be overzealous. They do not think before they act—”

  “All your doing, of course,” Lilly quipped.

  “Exactly. I do not seem to have the knack for it. Perhaps you, with your three hundred years of experience, could better serve to train them to not be—shall we say—so quick to prick.”

  Lilly let out a snicker.

  “I am very serious in my proposal,” Cupid said.

  “I know, just, well…” She covered her mouth. “Quick to prick…” And burst out laughing, even though she didn’t really want to. But it was funny.

  Really funny.

  This garnished a laugh from the mighty love god. And was she mistaken, did his ears turn a little pink?

  “I’m sorry.” She fluttered a little closer to him.

  “Yes, I suppose I deserve that,” Cupid replied, and yes, his face was a slight shade of pink.

  Lilly tipped her head to the side. “Well, I guess the mighty Cupid is somewhat human after all.”

  “I could take that as an insult.”

  She shrugged. “It wasn’t meant as one.” She floated away from him, gold dust trailing everywhere. “Now, what was it you want me to do?”

  He sighed. “I need help—”

  “Do my ears deceive me?” Lilly said, hand on her cheek. “You need my help?”

  “I would like some, yes,” Cupid said, his shoulders slumping. He didn’t look as arrogant as usual.

  “Why me?”

  “Because, you still have a few years of fairy service before you have to leave. You
could remain in the Realm, help me with the minions, and remain close to the other fairies.”

  “Why would I want to?” Lilly asked. Her conversation with Andres flashed through her mind. Why would she want to stay in the Realm when she, unlike most of the other fairies her age, couldn’t even get a date?

  And the more she thought about it, the more it seemed the best course of action to leave.

  For some reason, fairy men weren’t into her, and it had been a very lonely last three hundred years. A mortal, however, could be. There were by far more male mortals in the world than there were fairies. Surely she could find one that liked her.

  “I thought you would want to stay because of Andres.”

  “Why him? Andres hates me.”

  Cupid raised his eyebrow. “Do you truly believe that?”

  “Of course he does. He is always on my case. It’s like I can’t do anything right where he’s concerned.”

  Cupid nodded. “Perhaps, my dear, you need to consider that before accepting my offer.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to accept? The mortal world appeals to me more than you know.”

  “Are you sure?” Cupid asked, his usual swagger back, full force.

  “I am very sure,” Lilly said.

  “Well, if you change your mind,” Cupid replied, and with that, disappeared.

  Lilly shook her head. She couldn’t work for him… That would go against everything.

  Wouldn’t it?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Greta slouched into the couch, or rather, into Bruce’s arms. She’d taken off her corset and minimized the layers of her costume to something far more comfortable, and now they were drinking beer and watching movies. The first one, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, was a fun romp, in honor of the steampunk con. They’d both seen the movie so many times, they maintained a running commentary throughout.

  The second one, however, was Captain America. Greta had admitted she’d never seen it, so Bruce insisted they watch it next.

  The movie started when he got up to use the facilities. Greta sat there, watching him walk to the bathroom, admiring his butt—yep, she wasn’t ashamed to admit it—and rubbed her arms.

  She was cold.

  Which was strange, because she usually wasn’t. Of course, she usually wasn’t curled into a guy, either. Maybe that was something?