Page 11 of Home to the Hollow

What the fuck is in the water in this goddamned town?

“I…” Jekyll and Hyde save me by letting out low growls, their ears pinning back as their bodies tense on either side of me. Tearing my gaze away from the hot fucking leprechaun, I look down at them sternly. “It was my fault. Don’t be dicks.”

“Aye, lass. It’s okay. Your wee caits don’t scare me.” His lips curl up as my stalkers take up their statue-esque seated poses and glare. “I’m glad you didn’t knock the messages out of my arms, or I would have to get banjaxed at the sodding pub instead.”

Luckily for me, I spent some time in Dublin on a project, so his pidgin English doesn’t throw me for an even bigger loop. “Um, sorry about… almost knocking you down. I was… well, I wasn’t watching where I was going because I have to get food for these guys. Seeing as we just met, I had to hit the web for answers. They didn’t seem keen on pizza.”

His chuckle makes me feel stupid, but he grins. “It’s grand, Tíogair. I’ve got my stout, you’ve got your beasties, and we’ll be on our way in no time.”

I finally gather myself, giving him an annoyed look. I don’t know what that stupid name means, but he’s an arrogant little shit for thinking he can nickname me when he doesn’t know my ACTUAL name. “Absolutely.” I look down at the servals, my head tilted. “Let’s go, Jekyll. Come on, Hyde. We have groceries to locate, and food to cook. No sense wasting any more time dilly dallying in the snack aisle.”

With that, I flick my ponytail over my shoulder with the confidence of a Valley girl, turn on my heel, and head for the dairy section.

I’m going to need two milkshakes to get over that bullshit.

* * *

“And then hejust keptsaying it!” I grouse, propping my feet up on the coffee table. “Can youbelievethat?”

Jekyll and Hyde are perched on the couch they seem to have claimed as their own, eyes wide and ears perked up as they listen to me rant about Mr. Lucky Charms from the grocery store.

We ate well after I sorted out their diet—or the best info I could find online until I go see Hottie McBabyVet on Friday—and now we’re in the media room with British mysteries on in the background. I love a good mystery, and the greatest ones are on the BBC.

You can’t convince me otherwise; don’t even try.

“Mrrrrp?” Hyde questions, opening his mouth for another mini meatball.

“Exactly!” I lob the cooked meat into the air, and he leaps like a tiger to catch it in his mouth. Jekyll gives me an expectant look, and I load another meatball up. “What a douche canoe. No, not a douche canoe, a failboat. A failboatfullof douche canoes. A goddamneddouche canoe navy, that’s it!”

Satisfied with my insult, I let the treat fly and this time, they both go for it. A minor scuffle ensues, and I wrinkle my nose. Greedy little shit, aren’t you, Hyde? “Hyde! That’s Jekyll’s. Get back to your throne.”

Amazingly, the little shit does just that.

The absolute bizarreness of everything that has happened since I set foot in this town is baffling. From the social media black hole to the hot guy parade to Hazel and now these guys, I can’t figure out why I feel like I stepped into an episode of Twin Peaks. It never felt like this growing up. I noticed nothing different than a normal—albeit snooty—Southern town full of rich twats who think they own the universe. Why is it that every encounter I have here feels like the start of another mystery?

Shaking my head, I launch another meatball for Jekyll and then pick up the remote. I’m in the mood for Gracie Lou Freebush to take me to giggle town while I chow down on this granny apple-honey-mango milkshake I made. Thinking about all of the unusual people I’ve met is giving me a migraine.

As if the Universe is conspiring against me, the bloody doorbell rings.

Jekyll and Hyde leap into action, skidding across the oak floor to stop in front of it, their bodies tensed like a hound on a fox hunt. I’ve been on fox hunts, though it was reluctantly, and with the caveat that I wasn’t killing a damned thing. The upper crust in England still participate in all sorts of ridiculous old traditions with business partners and when I contracted to the wealthy, I got roped into alotof weird shit on client meets. The fetish club in Germany was one of the best ones, but that’s because I spent most of the night analyzing the psychology behind the members’ kinks in my head.

The doorbell peels again, and I huff.

Looks like I’m answering because the twin terrors are snarling at the door as if it’s going to attack them on the spot.

“I’m coming! Hold your effing bits, I have to get decent!” I don’t, but at least that declaration might stop the idiot at the door that has a fetish for button pushing.

I yank it open, my expression defiant as I cross my arms over my chest. When I see the person standing in front of me, I pale. The change in my posture makes Jekyll and Hyde snarl, and I reach down to touch each of their heads before they decide to tag team the giant on my porch. For one, given his size, I’m not certain they’d win, and secondly, knowing the power his family holds in this town, I worry he’d have my new amigos put down.

“Well, well, well. Looks like the Cotillion Catastrophe is all grown up.”

Brand New Me

For a brief second, I consider spin kicking the smirk right off his goddamned face.

Instead, I re-cross my arms, giving him a look that drips with disdain. We are both too fucking old for this high school bully garbage. I’ve dined with the Pope, shopped with duchesses, and slept in castles. I’m not the paint covered, chunky nerd in braids anymore. I don’t have to put up with his elitist claptrap.

“Buena notte, Edgar. What brings you to the slums this evening?”

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