Page 1 of Fated to the Grumpy Dragon
Chapter One
Emma
The budding flower of hope died in a flurry of cursing and snarls from outside the dingy walls of the trailer where I lived. The language was as dark as the night outside.
I should have known better than to give even a single flicker of flame to such an idea. After all, peace with the dragons, even if itwasmore than just a rumor, wasn’t guaranteed to bring me anything.
The hellhole I’d chosen for myself wasn’t about to change anytime soon. We couldn’t just up and go back home. Many of us didn’t even have homes left to go back to. Life in the refugee camp would go on.
As terrible as it was.
The flimsy metal door flung open, followed by a bark of red-hot anger as it smashed against the exterior wall and bounced back into the face of the person trying to come through.
“Stupid, fucking door. Doesn’t even know when it’s supposed to stay open, useless piece of shit. Goddamn rain! Fucking soaked.”
I cringed, looking helplessly around the interior of the trailer, hoping nothing was out of place or amiss. I kept my breathing low. Soft.
“You would notbelievethe absolute bullshit going on today,” Robert “Bob” Sullivan snarled, stomping across the freshly cleaned floors in his rainy boots, tracking water, mud and who knew what else indoors.
He opened the fridge, and his hand darted in, snagging a beer like a lizard does a fly. Aggressive and lightning quick. He popped the top, the cap dropping to the floor. His boots came off as he sat, tossed haphazardly toward the door, spraying water and bits of mud everywhere.
What did Bob care, though? He didn’t do the cleaning. I did. Not that it stopped him from screaming at me if it wasn’t perfectly clean. Or if I took too long to clean. Any attempt to tell him it would go faster if he helped had long since been abandoned.
Bob didn’t take orders. He gave them. This washiscamp. He was the boss, and he expected people to do as he said. At six-five, touching tw0-fifty, he was not a man to cross either.
The recliner chair creaked as he dropped into it.
“Another ration cut,” he spat, answering his own sentence as if I’d spoken. He preferred it that way. “I told them I don’t get enough food as is, but they didn’t listen. They don’t care, the fucking feds. Stupid politicians. They’re still eating fine, of course. But not us, not here. I have to suffer because they won’t give up a damn thing.”
I knew what the others in the camp were doing for food. I knew what Bob ate. After all, I prepared it. There wasn’t a single “lack” on his plate. Maybe it wasn’t the AAA-grade steaks andlobster he thought was his due, but he ate well every day. Many in the camp had to skip meals. Bob had beer to spare.
At least you’re not in a tent. You get to eat full meals as well. No empty belly. Not anymore. That’s why you’re here. The warmth of the trailer. The food. Keep that in mind.
I often was not full, however, because I gave away much of my food. What I kept for myself was enough.
“Beer!” Bob barked, draining the last of his bottle and holding it out by the stem, waggling it impatiently when I didn’t immediately materialize at his side.
Heaven forbid I have to take five steps across the trailer to reach him.
Fresh refill in hand, he took a long swig and then went back to cursing the politicians, the military, the people in the camp. Everyone he could think of. Never himself. Bob was perfect.
I snorted.
The baleful glare of two watery blue eyes pinned me in place. “Is something funny?”
Swallowing nervously, I shook my head. “No, Bob, that wasn’t a laugh.”
“It sounded like a laugh. Why are you laughing?”
Telling Bob he was wrong was never wise. Having him think I was laughing at him was worse. I licked my lips, right hand shaking. With a large effort, I stilled it.
“I was agreeing with you.”
“About?” he growled.
“The politicians. You’re so right. They’re so greedy.”
Bob eyed me slowly. “I know I am. There’s war going on, and those fat cats still can’t be bothered to suffer like the rest of us!”
