Page 23 of Oh No! There’s an Incubus in my Hot Spring (Getting Cozy with Demons #1)

twenty-three

Drama at the Grand Reopening

T he caterers show up just as Channel Nine finishes their tour of the entire place. The reporter, Andrew, assures me that he’ll use all the best shots for the special that’ll air on Sunday night. I’m not sure how I got so lucky to land such a prime time, but I’m grateful.

Irene is directing the caterers with trays of empanadas and bowls full of chips when we come back to the lobby. We have a station at the entrance with soft drinks, beer, wine, and little glowing name placards strung with fairy lights. Maybe we went a little overboard with the “enchanted” theme.

No, it’s just enough.

“Okay, Sylvia, you’re going to be serving the drinks and welcoming people for the first thirty minutes, and then I’ll take over so you can mingle with them,” Irene says as she touches all the instruments for opening wine and beer bottles, straightening them on the table.

“Apollo, I need you to be charming.” Irene gulps as she looks at him. “Yeah, nailing it. But also, no talk of magic. You’re a normal dude, okay?”

His eyebrow ticks and he smirks. “I understand how to integrate undetected.”

She blows out a heavy breath. “I will be helping with the food, making sure the bathrooms are good, and then taking over the drinks and managing the trash.”

“That seems like too much,” I say.

She shakes her head. “Trust me, I’ve manned the entire diner at breakfast rush. I’ve got this.”

I grab her hands. “Please don’t hesitate to ask either one of us to help with something. I don’t want you to be dead at the end of the night.”

“If any of us are still standing at the end, I’ll be surprised,” she says with a smile, squeezing my hands.

“Oh, one of the upstairs lights was flickering during your interview,” Irene says, looking around. “Might need to change a bulb.”

“Irene, it’s fine,” I say, dragging her attention back to me. “It’ll add to the haunted aesthetic and we’ll get it later.”

She nods but I can see the panic in her eyes.

“Everything’s going to be great, promise. You’ve done amazing,” I say, holding her gaze.

She breathes with me, and slowly, her shoulders melt away from her ears.

The crunching of gravel alerts me to a car approaching and we all look out the open doors. We marked parking spots with string and ribbons, and the first guest to arrive follows the plan easily, picking a close spot by a golden tree.

A middle-aged woman slips out of the driver’s seat in a cocktail dress, her hair coifed perfectly on top of her head. Leonard appears from the spot behind her, and another man joins them as they approach the springs. I turn on my best host’s smile as they come inside.

“Thank you so much for coming,” I say, showing them in.

His mother reaches out first. “Brittany Jones.”

“Sylvia Azarolla,” I say, taking her hand firmly.

“Anton,” his father says, reaching out next.

“Welcome, let’s get you tagged.” We stop at the first station, and they write their names down on the glowing placards, then hang them around their necks.

“Thank you so much for inviting us, despite my son’s history with this place.” Brittany elbows her son and he rubs the back of his neck.

He must’ve told her about vandalizing the place just in case it came up in conversation. What a cutie.

“Of course. I left some chalk upstairs so you can tag the wall a little more politely. It’s our guestbook of sorts, inspired by Leonard,” I say, smiling at him.

Anton chuckles, his eyes sparkling as he takes in the room. “You sure know how to dress a place up.”

“Thank you.” I wrap one arm around Apollo’s waist and another around Irene’s, pulling them into the praise. “We’ve worked really hard, and I love it.”

Another two cars crunch up the drive, spurring me into action. I move to the drink station and serve the Joneses their beverages. Apollo takes Leonard’s family upstairs to the “guestbook,” and Irene helps the newcomers with their name tags.

The guests flow in over the next thirty minutes—mostly people in town I’ve interacted with, like the father-daughter owners of Nipon Sushi, the manager and a few of the workers at the local grocery store, and of course I had to invite everyone at the comedy club. We need some levity here. There are a lot of faces I don’t know, but thank goodness for Irene helping with the name tags, I can address everyone properly as I serve them drinks.

“My turn,” Irene says, pushing her way behind the reception station.

I take a steading breath and give myself a decent pour of red wine.

“Go get ’em,” Irene says, patting me on the butt to shoo me away.

I sip my wine and wind my way to the second floor for some tapas. The “Leonard” guestbook wall already has several signatures and drawings. Charlie is posted up on the desk with the chalk and a little hand-drawn word bubble above his head that says “Welcome to the Enchanted Sylvan Springs! “quack quack!” I smile and snap a quick picture of it for social media.

“I’m gonna be a star, mama!”

I chuckle. You sure are, buddy.

Apollo is chatting with Dave, a cook from the diner, so I join him for a bit to get my bearings. Dave is going on about the Colorado hockey team, and Apollo, bless him, is listening avidly. I squeeze Apollo’s arm after a few minutes and let him know I’m going to mingle.

Every group knows me by name and welcomes me into their circle to chat as I move about. The big topic is the haunted status of the springs, to which I tell them to keep their eyes on Ghost Hunter Gabe’s channel on ViewTube for an update. Some ask about the renovations, praising the new aesthetic, and others talk about how excited they are to have a more private venue in town.

When it’s time for the big giveaway, I move back toward the guestbook wall where the comically large chance wheel sits. Each slice has a social media handle on it for those who entered the drawing, and I’m hoping it’ll land on someone who’s actually here tonight.

Phones point my way to record as I reach up and grab a rung of the colorful wheel. I’m reminded of The Price is Right for a second as I pull it down. The yellow marker at the top clicks loudly against the rungs and the audience claps.

The wheel slows and I start scanning the names. My eyes land on @Jason_ArtNerd and the air leaves me like a punch to the gut. My stomach tenses and I look out at the audience, reapplying my smile.

The wheel clicks slower and slower as Jason’s Instaframe handle gets closer and closer. Fuck me. Why didn’t I screen this? I let Irene handle everything related to the giveaway, and of course she doesn’t know Jason’s handles.

His name is three away when the momentum slows significantly. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and nausea rolls through me.

Please no. Please…please…

Apollo is suddenly at my side, his lips close to my ear. “You’re all right, lovely.”

If only I could tell him how all right I was not.

The wheel catches on the last ticker before his name.

I hold my breath.

It slips over the edge, landing firmly on Jason. Black creeps in around my vision as the crowd cheers. I’m not smiling.

I take a breath and grin, clapping my hands.

The nausea really takes hold when I see a head moving through the crowd. Jason emerges between the guests and acid hits the back of my throat. I take a drink of my wine and set the glass aside, picking up the oversized spa package voucher.

Jason’s eyes are locked on Apollo, his lips set in a firm line as he approaches us. Apollo’s hand tenses on my hip and I feel the sharp prick of his nails.

I hold out the voucher. “Congratulations. You can sell this voucher to cover the cost of the hotel you’ve been staying in,” I say, only loud enough for the three of us.

Jason finally looks at me. “Who the fuck is this?”

“Please take your prize,” I say, keeping a mild smile pasted on for the cameras that are still filming from Channel Nine.

“I want to know who the fuck has his hand on my girlfriend,” Jason says much louder than necessary, and my heart thunders as my eyes dart around the room. Some of the guests have stopped talking and are now looking at us. Channel Nine is moving in closer.

Crazy-girl is screeching for justice, but she’s not equipped to handle this situation delicately. Logic must remain in control if I’m to salvage this.

“I’m not your girlfriend and I don’t owe you any answers. I don’t owe you anything except this voucher. Take it without a scene, please,” I whisper as I thrust the paper toward his chest.

He snatches my wrist, and I gasp. Before I can jerk back, Apollo is grabbing his arm.

“Remove your hand, or I will remove it for you,” he says, the threat deep and chilling.

The reporter, Andrew, is practically salivating, his hand on the cameraman’s shoulder as he guides him forward.

Fucking wonderful.

There goes the delightful piece about my springs.

“Stop acting like impudent children, both of you,” I hiss and pull on my arm. Jason releases me and Apollo drops his arm.

He grabs the voucher with a sneer. “Fucking whore.”

Apollo’s hand snaps out like lightning, grabbing Jason by the neck of his shirt.

“Enough,” I shout.

Apollo hides his snarl as he looks down at me, his eyes still hard as ice. His nostrils flare and he lets out a heavy breath as he turns back to Jason.

“Don’t come back.” He releases Jason’s shirt with a shove and Jason stumbles back dramatically. The room is quiet. All eyes are on us.

“That’s assault,” Jason declares, pointing at Apollo.

Irene pushes through the crowd and stands in front of me with hands on her hips. “I think it’s about time you go.”

Jason tongues his teeth, glaring at me. Fire rolls through my veins and I glare right back. The night is already ruined, no need for a smile.

“Now. Before I call the cops,” Irene says.

Leonard steps up beside her, as does his mother and father, blocking Apollo and me from the camera. Jason scoffs and turns for the stairs. I really hope he slips.

He doesn’t.

Irene turns to me. “You okay, hon?”

I swallow, bobbing my head. Normal chatter returns to the room, but the news camera stays pointing at me.

“Could you ask Andrew to wrap up?” I ask her.

“Sure thing,” Irene says, moving toward the reporter.

Apollo’s hand is still tense on my side, and I wait until the cameras are off to turn to him.

“What the hell was that? Threatening to remove his hand ?” I whisper.

His jaw flexes. “He was hurting you.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to hurt him,” I say, frustrated. “I can handle myself. I can handle him .”

“He was mistreating you in front of everyone. He was making you embarrassed and ashamed. He was lying.” Apollo lists the reasons as if it excuses him.

“He was trying to make a scene, and you antagonized him. You gave him the scene he wanted.” My voice is too loud.

I turn my back on him and grab my wine, then take a long drink. My heart is aching. He wanted to protect me, but he made a spectacle out of something I could’ve diffused. Now Channel Nine will be changing their piece, and whoever sees the special will know all of my fucking drama. They’re going to start digging, and they’re going to find dirt.

Too focused on my business. Never there. Cold, unloving girlfriend. No wonder he cheated. No wonder I’m unworthy.

I finish my wine and bite back the burning behind my eyes.

When I turn around, Apollo is gone. My hand tightens on my cup and I scan the crowd, but he’s not in there.

I swallow the lump in my throat and take a deep breath. I must salvage the night somehow. There’s a bottle of red on the tapas table so I pour a refill and reenter the crowd, begging for talk of hockey and hauntings.