Page 2 of Hunted By Fae

What’s there to complain about?

The beer comes in a flimsy plastic cup that, if my grip tightens a bit too much, dents under the pressure.

I’m careful to angle the rim at my mouth, then sip and sip and sip, until it’s filled to a comfortable, safe level, and I can perch myself on a wooden stool, the sort of seat that is never good for lower back pain.

I scan the honky tonk. My mouth tugs at the term, the echo of a smile.

The fairy lights that zigzag from popup van to food truck aren’t turned on yet, not with the daylight swelling over the burnt earth, and there are more denim-and-boots combos than I can count. But the joy of the day is written on the faces of those flinging themselves around in dance to the live music blasting from the band on the stage.

I look over to the row of portable toilets down the way, where a bedazzled pink-velvet hat bobs in a sea of leather and straw cowboy hats.

I recognise the obnoxious hat.

The very same one Louise picked up in town earlier this morning. Even from a distance, the hot pink clashes with her fiery red hair, dyed and cheap-looking, but unmistakable in a crowd.

She waits in line for the portable toilets.

I narrow my stare through the dancing heat waves and find that Ramona and Ruby are with her, sharing a cheap silvery flask of bourbon between them.

Ramona’s dark braids stick to her shoulders, clammed with sweat; Ruby’s golden tendrils are brushed out into something a bit on the shaggy side.

Tesni isn’t with them.

Something flickers in my chest, the fleeting touch of a cold panic.

I scan for her, flickering my gaze from face to face, searching for a faint dusting of soft freckles, pale peachy hair split into Dutch braids, and a simple getup of all black—a black t-shirt, black jeans, black boots.

Found her.

And her predictability tugs a smile onto my lips.

There, on the hood of a beat-up truck, old and rusted with chipped blue paint, Tesni is planted on the hood—with a guy between her legs.

His face is nuzzled into the crook of her neck, but Tess apparently couldn’t care less about him, as she never really does care much for me.

His softly murmured words, his hands grazing up the meat of her thighs to rest on her hips, it’s all background touch and sound to her.

Her face is angled to the radio perched on the edge of the hood.

Kind of rude for someone to bring along a radio to play while there’s a literal band up on the stage.

Tess fiddles with a dial, either turning the volume up to hear over the blaring band or finding a new station to listen to, because frankly, Tesni doesn’t give a damn about being rude.

The muscles in my shoulders are softer now that I know where she is.

I guzzle down the last of the beer before it gets too warm.

The flimsy plastic crinkles in my clammy grip before I aim for the bin on the brink of overfill.

I toss it and it lands with clatter.

My breath pins to my chest.

I watch the plastic cup swirl, as if ready to topple off the pile and hit the dirt.

But it doesn’t.

I spare my perfect aim a smirk before I throw the weight of my crossbody bag onto the tall bar table, then fish out a compact.