Page 1 of Hunted By Fae
ONE
BEE
The heat of this town is drier than the deserts beyond the ridges. It beats down on me and thickens the night air with a sort of suffocation I have only ever felt before with a Halloween mask pulled over my head.
My lungs are tight in my chest, scraping and clawing for a full, fresh breath, and the sweat that clams my skin isn’t exactly helping.
I need a break. An escape. Shade and a breeze.
The mere thought is a relief.
Flapping my hands, I give an enthusiasticno!to the Californian country guy trying to pull me into another swing around. Line dancing, they call it, this outdoor gathering of country folk in boots and hats, kicking about the dirt.
Tesni called it ahonky tonkonce.
That might be my favourite set of words.
“Country dance,” Tesni tried to correct herself with that bared-teeth look of hers, the look she gives when she’s so not in the mood for teasing, but it’s a honky tonk, and I am never changing my mind on that.
And at this in-the-desert-honky-tonk-outdoor-line-dancing-dirt-fest, I am sweating my ass off.
The guy gives up and delves into the crowd to find another dance partner, one who is probably better skilled at line dancing than I am.
I pinch the front of my t-shirt and tug it back and forth, wafting fresh air through the fabric. The clamminess of my skin is quick to soothe. But with the afternoon sun sweltering down on me from above and scorching thisdesert to total dehydration, I take a beat—and duck under the canvas roof of a popup bar.
The shade is an instant reprieve from the harsh sun—but the heat still swells around me.
Wish I was back in Canada already.
That was the plan.
London to Vancouver, then drive the campervan across Canada, change over for a car before heading down to New York—the state, not the city. But Louise just had to go pick up precious Ruby from LAX when her flights got all muddled up, and I’m apparently an asshole for suggesting Ruby do something without Louise holding her hand through it, like catching a connecting flight and meeting us in North California.
So here we are.
Last minute trip down to L.A. in the Winnebago, picked up Ruby, now heading back to the border—and stopping off in little country towns on the way to make the detour worthwhile.
It’s not bad, actually.
But I don’t like to go off schedule.
I especially don’t like being trapped under the scorching sun, a heat that is only ever to be temporarily enjoyed, not lived in. A week of this is too much.
With a fistful of menus from the tall wooden table, I fan myself under the shade of the pop-up bar’s canvas roof. Hot air wafts in my face, and I fleetingly wish I’d brought the little handheld fan that Tesni bought me two towns back. Left it in the Winnebago back at camp.
“Get a drink or get out!”
I turn my dark, tired stare on the bearded man poking his head out of the beer-truck.
He leans over the edge of the counter, impatient. “Seats are for customers only!”
I don’t have the strength for a fight. Not after a long day and night in the Winnebago with Ramona, Louise, Rubyand Tesni, then a full day of line dancing out in the dirt with only beer to hydrate me.
My shoulders delate with a huff.
I cave in to the temptation.
Shadeandbeer.
