Page 11

Famous in a Small Town

A fter another grievous error in judgement at the farm, I load up the kitties and head for town. If I’m lucky, I’ll make it to the school before the news of the drama makes it to the gossips. I’d prefer not to get the ‘looks’ that the biddies in the office always seem to give young people enjoying their lives. It’s like they’re dried up prunes and they think we’re inviting Satan himself to host a rave if we get seen without sleeves.

My temper can’t handle Judgy Judies today—not after the junior version of that trope made a scene that’s sure to make the front page of the Hollar gossip pages this week.

Pulling into the parking lot of my alma mater is strange this far from matriculation. I feel a sense of belonging, yet a sense of separation that makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know if that’s because of my tenuous relationship with memories of my past or if it’s normal for graduates to experience an uneasiness at returning to the place where the worst years of their life happened.

Don’t ‘at’ me on that—very few people have positive high school experiences. I’m not being a bitter Millennial; high school is four to six years of bullying, trauma, hormones, and an ache for freedom that adults aren’t ready to grant. Even the most lenient parents set boundaries that reflect the world as they grew up, not as teens are experiencing it currently. It sets them all up for battles and misery when paired with the Draconian social caste systems that student bodies develop.

Oh, yeah, my degree is definitely in clinical psych, right?

Stepping out of the Impala, I bend to grab my bag and unbuckle my companions. A piercing wolf whistle makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, and I bolt upright. Narrowly missing clonking my head, I whip around to shout a scathing response to the misogynistic fuckwit who thought behaving like an old timey cartoon character was cool.

Only I find a group of teenage boys that appear to be about the age of juniors standing with their hands on their jocks and tossing a football back and forth.

You have got to be motherfucking kidding me. I could be their ‘MTV young’ mother, for Aphrodite’s sake.

Jekyll and Hyde bound out of the car, clearly sensing my discomfort, and land on either side of me with glares on their whiskered faces. The boys’ eyes widen and they guffaw, still eyeing me like a piece of meat. A cougar I am not—despite my tryst with Hottie McBabyVet today—and I roll my eyes, flicking my ponytail over my shoulder to show my dismissal of their moronic behavior.

I’m so focused on pointedly ignoring their catcalls as I walk to the door. It doesn’t occur to me that the football team is Edgar’s domain and that might mean?—

“Well, hello, sugar.”

I goddamned swear, the Universe is plotting against me.

Turning on my heel, I face the escape artist himself. I cross my arms over my chest, letting Jekyll and Hyde do their protective snarls without a word of chastisement. He deserves ALL of our wrath for deserting me without so much as a ‘Sorry I broke your bed’ note. “Hello, Edgar. Are those your little doppelg?ngers?”

His brow arches and he glances over his shoulder where his JV O-line is still hooting and hollering in my direction. Jerking a thumb at them, he smirks. “Them? Just boys, drugar. ” He lifts his fingers to those lush lips and blows a whistle that makes even MY ears scream before facing the hyena squad. “We. Do. Not . Harass. Women. Gentleman! 50 laps for the entire team . Now !!”

The boys look like they’ve seen a ghost, moving like The Flash on his treadmill in the field's direction. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I bet they’re terrified. Domination Edgar is also Coach Edgar, and those boys have no idea what they’re dealing with.

“Better?”

I sniff, shrugging. “I suppose.” Spinning around again, I march towards the door and give him my back. I refuse to let him know how much seeing him is affecting me, and I don’t want to have the discussion we need to have in public. He doesn’t comment, but I can feel his eyes on my back as I open the doors and head for the office.

Why can’t one damned thing be simple in this blasted town?

* * *

“Why, Jolene, it’s so nice to meet you! I’ve heard such lovely things about you!”

I blink at the very blonde, brightly colored, very Southern woman that is Bobbi Jo Ratliff. I’d spoken to her on the phone several times in my various interviews, but nothing could have prepared me for the woman in person. She’s like someone took an older Elle Woods, dumped her in Pulitzer instead of Prada, bleached her hair an almost silver platinum, and gave her the personality of Kathy Najimy.

She’s also a hugger.

Damn Edgar. That motherfucker should have warned me. I bet he’s laughing in his stupid, ass hugging athletic shorts. Yes, yes! I noticed.

“Um, well, it’s nice to meet you, too, Principal Ratliff.”

Her laugh booms in the wood paneled office, echoing like a funhouse. I don’t even want to KNOW what it sounds like in here when she loses her temper. “Oh, Jolene! We don’t stand on tradition like my predecessor did. Whistler’s Hollow Finishing School is remarkably different that when you attended under Principal Masterson.”

I’ll have to see that to believe it, to be honest. “That sounds good, ma’am—I mean, Bobbi Jo. I didn’t have a truly terrible experience here as some alumnae might have, but every institution can benefit from sweeping changes over the years.”

Her bright magenta lips break into a wide smile, and she nods. “That’s just what I told the board when I took over. We no longer require a uniform—that was my first decision, and I stand by it. Those old stuffy shirt academy type clothes only made for teens with little outlet for their emotions and it contributed to poor decorum. We have rules about attire for minors, obviously, but the staff and students dress casually. Only if they violate our simple guidelines, do they lose the privilege and get relegated to business casual.”

Hell motherfucking yes . I could kiss this ridiculous woman.

“Does that mean that I can wear clothing that is appropriate for creating art in my classroom? Nothing scandalous, of course, but not ‘teacher wear’? And I can encourage my students to bring art-friendly clothes that stay within your code for classes?”

“Of course ! It would be patently idiotic to have those little darlings ruining Gucci with oil paint, don’t you think?”

I roll my eyes. Their name brand extravagance wasn’t my concern, but if Bobbi Jo will let them dress for class, then I don’t have to worry about parents throwing hissies about ruined Armani, either. It’s a win-win, even if she doesn’t get why I want students to have the freedom to be messy. “I do, Bobbi Jo. I appreciate your vote of confidence.”

“Since you’ve filled out all your paperwork, would you like a tour of the building? We’ve made several upgrades, including the art wing.”

Art wing? What in the actual fuck?

“I would adore that, Bobbi Jo, but I need to get more chores out of the way before the staff meeting Monday. I’ve got my house moderately under control, but I need to check in on the studio installations, and I have to get my syllabus together as well.”

“ Too cute !” she yells. “Honey, if you show up with everything done, you’ll be the talk of the meetin’. I can only think of one other teacher who will be that prepared.”

You can bet your ass it isn’t Coach Edgar.

“Well, I like to get off on the right foot, ma’am.” I hold my hand out, wincing when she grabs me into another bone crushing bear hug. “I’ll email you if I have questions while I’m logging in this weekend.”

“You do that, honey!”

Backing away as quickly as I can without looking like I’m running, I find Jekyll and Hyde sitting on the bench outside the office. They give me a quizzical look and I shudder, hoping to convey that they did not want to be on the receiving end of the principal’s affections.

“Okay, my dudes. Time to check out the installations and do a little unpacking.”

* * *

Walking around the edge of the room, I envision the walls painted, the floors polished, and the logo emblazoned on the front window. The space is airy, but intimate, and I’ll want to add to the tastefully recessed lighting for both form and function. I’m lucky enough to have a storefront that isn’t facing the sun, though I’ll have the inside glass coated with a UV protectant, regardless. I can’t have the light damaging the art while it’s being shown.

I pull out my phone, opening my project management app and start making notes about which contractors to call in which order. I’ll start with lighting, as wrought iron pieces that look SoHo rustic will stand out in a town like this. After that, I can have the flooring upgraded to a matte black finish and add a coat of paint to the walls in a neutral color.

I’ll switch out the bulbs to art friendly lighting and have dimmers and event strobes hidden in discreet corners. I’ll need supplies for mounting and lighting individual pieces on the walls, and equipment for displaying 3D installations as well. Furniture is on the list as well, since I’ll need a small reception podium, seating, and tables for when we host events.

Frowning at the list, I slot in a call to Jackson to sort the estate leftovers out, as I haven’t touched my inheritance funds since my parents passed, and I’ll need it for seed money. I need him to draw up incorporation papers, handle licensing, and re-jigger all the accounts to keep the I.R.S. from blackballing me as well. He’s going to be busy for a couple months; I hope he’s ready.

Once I settle the list of supplies for the gallery portion, I walk into the back room. It’s much bigger than the front, considering I require art storage space, a working studio, an office, and a lesson space for the students. I was lucky a space as large as this was open on such brief notice, but as I walk through the rooms, I can tell that it’s perfect.

The installers have painted the walls in a neutral color; the floors are all a dull concrete with drains, and my equipment appears to be in working order. The sinks work, the wheel is functioning, and all my personal tools organized in the exact diagram I provided, including the supply storage areas.

Adding a list of actual materials to order for myself and the studio, I walk into the office. It’s bare, but the cool black marble I picked coordinates with the soft purple walls as planned. Saoirse swore I was decorating it like a Vegas bordello, but purple is my favorite color and I like the seductive atmosphere it creates. I make an entry for office furniture on the list and walk out, sighing in relief.

I have no idea if Bobbi Jo will let me use the kiln at the school, but my guess is she won’t mind. That lifted a HUGE weight off my shoulder. I wonder what other fancy devices they might have in their new ‘art wing’. I’m trained in a lot of mediums, and I love to learn new ones. Having the rich assholes in the Hollow pay for that with their taxes feels quite satisfactory if I say so myself.

“ Mow !”

The cats come skidding in on the highly polished floor and I laugh. Time to add studio shoes to that idiotic pet owner list. They need to be protected from any dangerous things lurking in a functioning art studio. I’ll have to teach them about what they can sniff or lick, too. That’s going to be interesting.

“Well, they didn’t fuck it up, guys. I’m as shocked as you.”

Hyde bobs her head, looking at me with wide eyes before darting her gaze back to the doorway. Jekyll lets out another yowl and I tilt my head. They’re trying to tell me something.

“Jolene! I’m so happy I caught you. Did your contractors get everything set up correctly? I must confess that I recommended them to your attorney when he called to complete the lease.”

Mayor Cornelia Sykes is standing in the doorway to the studio. I hear a deafening roar come from the front of my building and I freeze, a look of terror on my face. Jekyll and Hyde tense up on either side of me, their bodies preparing for defense as the loud noise gets closer. Finally, the Mayor winks at me, moving to the side of the doorjamb to allow a motherfucking lion to stand beside her.

My jaw drops to the floor, and I do my best Shemp routine as my servals hiss like they’re ready to attack the king of the goddamned jungle to protect me. “That’s—That’s…”

Her rich laugh tumbles from her full lips, and her braids touch the base of her spine as her head tips back. The lion shakes his mane. His eyes narrow on my companions suspiciously, but he doesn’t advance. When Nelia finally gathers herself, she wipes her eyes, giving me an amused smile. “Oh, Jolene, I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time. You looked like you were going to have a coronary on the spot.”

“It’s a fucking lion !” I manage.

“Yes, yes, he is,” she replies, her fingers checking her colorful makeup carefully for streaks, as if she can see her face. She looks down at Jekyll and Hyde with a fond expression. “It’s okay, little ones. Zareb will not harm you. He is friendly with all the companions in town, whether furred, feathered, scaled, or otherwise.”

I look down at the crew, shrugging. “If Nelia says he won’t harm us, we’ll have to trust him. The roar was misleading, though.”

Cornelia laughs again, shaking her head. “Zareb despises when I leave him in the car. I leave the window open, of course, but he prefers to be near my side. I simply didn’t want to frighten you, but he clearly had other plans.”

My eyes narrow as I look at the fierce beast, and his head drops as if to acknowledge that he misbehaved. Jesus, the animals in this town are drinking the same magic fucking water as the hot dudes. They act like humans, and I’m not even going to broach why serious predators are allowed to roam freely about the city. “Well, since I’ve been scared out of my wits and we’ve calmed our kitties down, how can I help you? I was planning to come to Town Hall next to drop in like you asked.”

“I wanted to verify my contractor completed your work satisfactorily, and I brought you the license for your companions. I had Aldous expedite it without you present—in case you got caught up in your unpacking—and though he complained, he finished this morning.”

Her lips quirk and I realize the mayor knows her executive assistant is an odious little toad, but she allows it because he’s good at his job. Taking the papers she offers while giving Zareb a cautious side-eye, I nod. “Thank you, Nelia. That was on my list for Town Hall and now you’ve saved me a trip. The work is amazing, to answer your question, and I’d love to have the contact information for a few other workers to help finish this place.”

She fishes in the pocket of her wildly colorful pantsuit, handing me her card. “My email is on here, and if you’ll let me know what you need, I’ll send along information. I appreciate you wanting to use local workers instead of having your attorney send city folk. It helps the economy, and it makes your new business look Hollow-friendly.”

I beam. “I’ve always been a shop local when I can type of gal. Of course, sometimes that’s not possible because of availability or the… attitude of certain people… but I promise I will when I can, ma’am.”

Tutting at my accidental use of ma’am, Nelia nods as she looks around. “You’ll be having lessons for students and showings. Have you considered partnering with Hazel and perhaps Benjy for some of those… drink and draw or paint and eat type events? I think many of the women here would love to have some wine at the bar and paint little keepsakes for their homes.”

A snort escapes and I cover my mouth. As if these people who own actual Monets and Rembrandts would want to display homemade claptrap in their modern-day mansions. “I… uh, that never…”

Amusement flits over her caramel skin and she shakes a finger at me. “Now, Jolene. Just because people are wealthy doesn’t mean they don’t enjoy doing ‘normal’ things on their own occasionally. It’s good business sense to cater to their need for being ‘one of the little people’ and showing off for their other wealthy friends.”

I blink. She has me there. To that end, I could do craft classes with Dylan in his bookshop or teach yoga or self-defense classes in the park. The nearest gym is twenty minutes out of town if the traffic is good, and I’d bet most of them simply use Pelotons or something equally expensive in their homes instead of making the trip. All those things will expose me to gossip and chatter without having to interrogate, and no one would be the wiser.

Now I know why Nelia has been mayor since I was in high school—the woman is savvy as hell. She’s also possibly drinking from the ruddy Fountain of Youth, but that’s a puzzle for another day.

“That gives me great ideas, Nelia. I don’t need to charge much—money’s not the issue now—but it would help me re-acquaint myself with the town. I appreciate your input,” I reply.

“Well, Zareb and I have a few more stops to make before we need to be at Town Hall for meetings. Please contact me for that info, and anything else you need. Have a lovely day, Jolene.” The lion turns tail and heads into the front as she winks at my own companions, then exits in a trail of spicy perfume.

Looking down at Jekyll and Hyde, I whisper, “That was weird, right?”

“ Mow !” they reply in unison.

“Yeah, super fucking weird. She showed up before I could find her, and she’s accompanied by a bloody lion. Just when I thought this place couldn’t get any stranger…”

* * *

After I finished up at the studio, I went to Atwater’s and loaded up on groceries. Going into town for meals or DoorDashing stuff is a short-term solution, and now that I’m living in a functional home like a real girl, I gotta start cooking again. I’ve been far too complacent with my routine since that stupid agent gave me the brush off. I didn’t spend my college years studying while on the bike and treadmill to go back to the body I hated as a teen. I’m not ‘skinny’; in fact, I’m definitely a mid-sized curvy woman and I’ve learned to love this shape without developing an eating disorder.

Plus, if I’m going to be banging that hot little vet on the regular, I need to be comfortable in my skin. Wolfie seemed to appreciate my curves, and even that jackwad Edgar didn’t act like the teenaged twit he used to be about my nakedness. I’m a straight eight in Europe, but they have different body standards than Americans do. I can’t help but get a little nervous when I remember the hurts in my past.

Okay. Enough moping.

I’m an adult now, and my high school shit needs to stay in the past where it belongs, even here. Besides, what am I doing acting like I’m going to hop on the Teddy train and take another blind ride? He’s on my shit list for the foreseeable future, and people are going to wag their tongues like puppies after word of my romp with the town vet gets around. I can’t start building a fucking harem.

Although, there are a few other sexy specimens floating around…

Oh my god, what is wrong with me?!!!

Saoirse would cackle her tits off at this line of thought, and she’d be right to do so. I’ve never successfully dated one guy. My pathetic attempt after my weight loss in college ended in betrayal and a pain so deep that I started dating women when I moved to Paris for my first consulting job. They were hot, French, and didn’t mind my curves, which helped me heal from the destruction Trevor left in his wake. I’m pretty fluid with lovers—again, Thailand rears its head—and I had a grand time with the ladies for the first few months.

That’s how I met Saoirse—we hit it off at a bar, went to her place and discovered after one kiss that we were best friends, not lovers. She still threatens to wife me if I don’t eventually find someone serious. Neither of us believe in that sort of patriarchal BS, but the threat tickles me, nonetheless.

By the time we met up again in Germany a month later, I was simply picking whatever dessert I wanted from the cart and so was she, so we cavorted around Munich throughout my entire contract like wild women. I haven’t met any women who don’t look like they have a stick permanently wedged in their ass in the Hollow outside of Hazel and Nelia, so that option isn’t on the menu. It would simplify things immensely, I think, but also complicate them. I’ll reserve judgement on that for a time when it’s relevant.

Breaking out of my reverie, I look at my computer screen. Two hours ago, I brought the groceries home, peeled off my sweaty work clothes, and donned comfy stuff while I started knocking shit off my list. So far, I’ve emailed Nelia and Jackson, ordered most of my art materials for the studio, and cleared my Amazon list for home and office furnishings. I’m due a little physical activity before dinner.

I stand and stretch, walking to the hall closet to pull my yoga mat out. Plopping my Air Pods in my ears and my phone in the pocket on my thigh, I pad out through the kitchen towards the backyard. The landscaping here is immaculate—obviously a result of Gene and his boys keeping it over the years. Stepping onto the smooth concrete of the patio, I look out in the wide expanse, studying the direction of the sun as it sinks into the horizon. There’s room on the porch past the long table, chairs, and cooking setup, but I think I’d prefer to be closer to nature.

The grass is slightly damp as I walk out into the yard, flicking my mat out in an open space between the swings and fire pit my parents put in years ago and the patio setup. That circle of fire and air was the one major thing I asked my parents to give me that they didn’t fight me on. In fact, they loved the idea of a roaring fire pit in the autumn evenings with large comfy basket swings big enough for two placed around it. Sometimes, when my mom was home, we even sat out there together, reading in our swings by the waning light until it was too dark to see.

I’ll be damned. That memory came easier than any memory has recently. Maybe it’s because it’s so innocuous.

Shaking my head at the ridiculousness that is my psyche, I pull out my phone and turn on my patented ‘ Bad Ass Bitch Mix ’. I know it’s weird to do yoga to loud slammin’ tunes, but re-affirming my inner strength and my physical strength is what I’m after. Hence, I listen to a playlist full of women who aren’t here for men’s shit. With the week I’ve had, it can’t hurt to gather my cajones and get tough.

I start in tadasana, feeling my breath flow as I close my eyes. As the music pumps in my ears, I move through uttanasana and into ardha uttanasana . The stretch in my back after all the lifting, carrying, and fucking is marvelous. I pause for a moment, breathing through the muscles as they ache. Not doing yoga for a week was a mistake I won’t make again. I can’t even imagine what would happen if I’d driven to that gym I looked up to practice my Muy Thai.

The sounds of nature filter in past the headphones occasionally as I slide my hands down my calves, walking them forward until I’m in plank position. Holding it while the muscles in my abs tighten, I open my eyes, looking out at the sunset as I breathe.

Dipping to chaturanga , I hold again as my breath pushes in and out, and loud music fills my mind. My body goes to pure muscle memory as I curl my toes and push up to urdhva mukha svanasana , making my calves and hamstrings sing with the burn this time. By the time I switch to adho mukha svanasana , I’m really feeling my lack of commitment and the bloody sexcapades.

I’m gonna be sore AF when I go to bed. Maybe it’ll keep me from jumping the next hot dude that bats his lashes at me and uses an infuriating nickname.

Jumping back to uttanasana , I stop to breathe again as I finish my sun salutation. I’m about to raise my arms and start my virabhadrasana sequence when a loud screech followed by a small, more high-pitched call startles me. The birds are loud enough to cut through the pounding bass of Queen B, and I turn around, putting my hand up to my eyes to shield them as I face the brightest point of light coming from behind my house.

An enormous eagle—literally the biggest damned bird I’ve ever seen in flight—comes swooping down into my yard. It’s fucking beak is the size of a bloody bear's paw, and there is no mistaking that this is a predator bird. Where in the seventh circle of Lucifer’s whorehouse did this monster come from? Is this one of the townspeople’s crazy-ass companions? After meeting Zareb, I wouldn’t put it past that old bitch Zelda to send her man-eating eagle after me.

Eyeing the bird carefully, I bend to pick my phone up, making certain that I don’t make any sudden movements. Jekyll and Hyde are in the house, and for once, I’m glad they aren’t here to mix it up with something that’s spooking me. This bird has talons that look like it can kidnap children . I sure as hell don’t like their chances if they start shit with it.

Once I’m upright, the bird tilts its head toward me, looking puzzled. Yeah, no more than me, buddy. I swipe the screen open, watching the bird as my thumb scrolls to the number at the bottom. I added Wolfie last, and given he’s a vet, perhaps he will come rushing to my aid before I become this bird’s Happy Meal.

It rings for an interminable length of time before he picks up, his voice muffled in my pods. Whispering low, I say, “I have a situation. There’s a… very large, very hungry-looking bird in front of me. If it had scales, I’d swear it was a fucking pterodactyl. Can you help?”

There’s a pause, a shuffle, and his voice is low as he responds. “Well, sugarplum, you’re doing the right thing. It’s not an escapee from the dino park, but since I’m currently hanging out with our resident bird expert, you’re in luck.”

I blink. Whistler’s Hollow has a resident bird expert? What the fuck doesn’t this damned to—Suddenly, I remember the sexy shirtless dude that was removing a redbird from the crawl space.

Holy shit, he must be the bird expert.

Or should I say, Dr. Bird Expert?

Letting out a wispy chuckle, I pretend to smile at the bird, hoping it stays non-confrontational while I figure out what to do. “Um, so if Dr. McNuggets is there, could I turn on the camera and show you this thing?”

After a few laughs and some muffled sounds, Wolfie finally answers. “Of course, sugarplum! Presley says he’d be much obliged if you did.”

I take my eyes off the bird—who I decide to refer to as Euryale because if I end up having to speak to it, I’d prefer a name—to look at my screen. I swipe the video call on, looking down at the faces of the two thigh-quakingly hot dudes on the phone. They wave as if we’re having a grand safari, and I almost lose my temper. I don’t know what the doc sandwich is doing, but their cavalier attitude has my teeth on edge. Do they think I’m joking about the size of this monster?

“I’m flipping the camera now, you dipshits. Don’t look this excited when this thing rips out my innards.”

Before they can respond, I hit the camera switch button and slowly lift the phone towards the bird. Euryale just sits on the lounge it landed on, watching me as I move like I’m trying to slide under a laser beam.

“ Holy fuck Jolene !”

The loud wail in my ears makes me wince and sweat slides down my spine. Are they actively trying to get me killed? Hissing under my breath, I grind out, “What?”

Dr. McNuggies answers, his voice laced with awe. “That is not a pterodactyl. That is a harpy eagle. It’s one of the largest raptors in the world, and extremely far from home. Don’t scare it away!” I open my mouth to answer, but he cuts me off. “Get your shit on, Lucy! We’re gonna go see the coolest damned bird in the universe at Jolene’s!”

The phone clicks off, and my eyes widen.

Now I’m trapped with the largest dinosaur bird in the world—alone—waiting for two hot dudes to save me.

Could my life be normal for like… an hour?