Page 26 of Oh No! There’s an Incubus in my Hot Spring (Getting Cozy with Demons #1)

twenty-six

Channel Nine Special

A pollo wakes me with drip coffee doctored to perfection and his very best attempt at a pancake. The butter makes it better. He vows to watch more ViewTube cooking classes and try again soon.

When I’m fed, he pounces, eager to make love to me again, and I’m eager to let him. Sex with Apollo isn’t him needing my energy anymore, and it’s definitely not him seeking his own pleasure—though he is finding it. Sex with Apollo is a connection to an otherworldly source, something eternal and glorious. I can see it in his eyes, and I hope he can see it in mine.

I shower and tame the top half of my hair into a double braid that meets at the back, and let the underside fluff wild and free. I get comfort clothes that still look nice, and apply some natural makeup. The mirror reflects someone that Business Me wouldn’t recognize. Someone happy.

I bound down the stairs to find human-looking Apollo waiting for me, dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt. We have three reservations today, but who knows how many walk-ins will show up on a Sunday.

“Ready?” I ask.

“More than,” he says, grabbing my hands. He kisses my knuckles and smiles. He looks happy, too, and my heart soars.

I’m his mate.

I’m his forever.

And he’s mine.

I lock up the apartment and do a quick survey of the parking lot to ensure all the strings and ribbons are still up. I’d wanted to do a concrete pour, but Turdleneck made that impossible with the limited time we had, so it’ll have to wait until next spring. I’m sure it’ll be fine.

We throw open the doors to the lobby and set out the welcome signs. Apollo and I film a quick video for social media with Charlie, declaring the doors are officially open. Our presence isn’t huge , but one of these days I’ll have a video go viral. Maybe that Gabe special will help.

Or the Channel Nine one…

I try not to let my mood sour. There are hours to go before that airs, and I’m sure it’ll be fine. Even if it’s not fine, it doesn’t matter. Any publicity is good publicity.

The first appointment shows up right on time. Mr. Saito—the sushi joint owner—has already signed his waiver, so I pass him the key to the private bath and wish him a relaxing time. Apollo straightens the curtains and fans a few magazines out on the sitting table.

And that’s how the first hour passes.

I get on social media and reply to comments, then check on my Boogle listing…and find several one-star reviews.

Anonymous writes: The place is dirty and the “theme” is cliché and appalling. The water isn’t even very hot, and it’s not mineral rich like Silver Mountain.

Bucky writes: The owner is a psychopath. Also, who charges $70 for an hour in a lukewarm spring? What a rip-off.

“It’s a private spring, and it’s a solid hundred and five, thank you,” I mumble, panning to the next one.

Marcus writes: I’d rather sit in my bathtub.

On and on they go. I pan over to my Boogle ads and see that the clickthrough rate has plummeted. There’s a notification at the top of the ad listing.

~~

Due to the business’s low rating, your audience potential has been reduced.

~~

Fucking.

Mark.

Him and his little band of cronies one-star bombing me.

Apollo comes behind the reception stand and massages my neck. I’m so angry I barely enjoy it. I need to do something about this. I can’t just let him do this to us.

I take screenshots and take to social media again, tagging Ghost Hunter Gabe, Irene, and anyone else in town who has accounts and are favorable to me.

By the time Mr. Saito is leaving, my video has two thousand views and a swath of angry-face emoji comments. Righteous fury fuels me as I clean up the private bath, ensuring everything is as it should be for the next customer.

Two walk-ins arrive before lunch, younger girls who get their parents to sign digital waivers for them. I show them up to the second-floor pools and they squeal with delight. The looks on their faces are totally worth it.

Irene comes in at one to take over the front of house so Apollo and I can have lunch. His idea of lunch is a little different than mine, and I end up sitting on the kitchen counter for him. He makes me a sandwich after, and I can’t help but grin.

The Joneses show up at three for their appointment in the third-floor spring, and Leonard lingers in the lobby, telling his parents to go without him.

He approaches the reception stand. “I saw your video about the reviews. I just wanted to say that we’ll be leaving one for you when we leave.”

Aww…

“Thank you, I really appreciate that.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he says, scrubbing the back of his neck with a blush on his cheeks. “So, uh, I was also wondering if maybe you needed some more help around here? I mean, I understand if you don’t and my schedule sucks , but I’m taking mainly online classes next semester so I’ll only be gone like two days a week.”

Two days off sounds nice. A real weekend.

I smile. “Yeah, we’d love to have you around. When can you start?”

He grins. “Like, next week?”

“Okay, I’ll shoot you some paperwork. Now go enjoy your soak! Time’s a-wasting,” I say, shooing him.

I check Boogle again and see several five-star reviews going to war with Mark’s one-stars. Mr. Saito is in there, but everyone else is no one I know.

I swap over to Instaframe and see my video is up to thirty thousand views. So many comments of “I’ve got you, girl!” and “Boost incoming!” flood my screen. I swallow and blink back the burning in my eyes.

There is still goodness in the world.

Apollo emerges from the second floor after cleaning up after the teen girls and wraps his arms around me from behind. “I like this mood much better.”

“Me too,” I say with a sigh.

The third appointment comes in, and two more walk-ins around four. By five, we’ve made a grand total of three hundred and twelve dollars. We shut down at six and clean up, tossing the used towels in the new industrial washer before heading into the apartment to catch the Channel Nine special.

Irene cracks open a bottle of wine and sets it down next to a big bowl of spaghetti Apollo made. I start my laptop and set it at an angle so we can all watch while we eat. I grab Charlie and set him front and center so he can watch, too.

Channel Nine’s ViewTube page opens, and I click on the live stream of the Sunday evening news. Apollo serves me way more pasta than I can possibly consume with the nerves bouncing around in my stomach, so I accept the glass of wine from Irene first and take a large drink. The meteorologist is talking about a cold front approaching that will likely put a few inches of snow on the ground, and I pull out my notebook to remind myself to cover the decks tonight.

Then the picture of Irene, Apollo, and I standing in front of the springs appears in the upper left corner of the screen.

“It’s us, it’s us!” Irene screams through a mouthful of pasta.

“Coming up next, a spirited story with a lot of heart,” the anchor says with a smile before cutting to commercial.

My stomach is doing backflips.

“Eat, lovely,” Apollo whispers, and I realize I’ve completely neglected his meal.

I set down my wine and take a big bite of noodles and meaty sauce. The tomatoes are sweet and tangy, the fresh Italian herbs are singing, and the noodles are perfectly al dente. I slurp them up noisily and then smile at him.

“Better than my pancakes?” he asks with a soft blush.

“It’s really, really good,” I say, covering my mouth with my napkin.

“Yeah, seriously. It’s, like, better than restaurant quality,” Irene adds.

He beams and my heart bursts. I don’t know if he actually likes cooking, or if he realized I was incapable and decided to step up, but it’s obviously bringing him joy when he succeeds. Maybe I should buy him some special cooking gear? A real stove would probably be a good start.

“And now, a special on what Grizzlywood residents called the haunted hot spring,” the anchor says, and Irene points wildly at the screen as she drinks her wine.

The screen dissolves like a late-90’s PowerPoint presentation and Andrew appears on-screen in front of our building.

“It’s known as the haunted springs, the hooligan hangout, and many more interesting monikers.” He walks toward the camera as he talks. “That all stops today. Welcome to the Enchanted Sylvan Springs.” He steps aside and the camera zooms in on the front, then all the way up to the third-floor balcony framed by trees.

Irene squeaks in delight and pours us each a refill.

It cuts to an interior shot of Andrew at the reception stand. “Abandoned for twenty years, the business was in a sorry state when new owner Sylvia Azarolla arrived. But that didn’t stop her from rolling up her sleeves and getting to work.”

The shot cuts to my face on the second-level balcony. “I’ve always been very driven, so when I walked in and saw the place was a mess, I just shook it off, turned on my music, and got to work. Several truckloads of rotted furniture and musty carpet later, we were finally ready to start the glow-up.”

It cuts back to Andrew. “And what a glow-up.” He steps aside again and the camera pans over the second-floor lobby, then the balcony. It looks fucking enchanting, just like we wanted.

“But there’s more heart to this story than we know,” Andrew says, and the camera cuts to an interior shot with the reporter seated in an interview-type situation.

My nerves prick and I take another big drink, only to choke on my wine as the camera cuts to Jason. I swallow and cough, gasping for air as Andrew greets my ex.

Andrew starts in. “You’re Sylvia’s ex-boyfriend—”

“Boyfriend, not ex,” Jason says, frustration clear in his features. Then he shifts his expression, furrowing his brow and letting his eyes open wider. I remember those fake fucking eyes. It kills me that other people would fall for them.

“She seemed clear on opening night about where you stand.” The snip of me saying I’m not his girlfriend. “Can you explain?” Andrew says.

“We’re…we made mistakes, but we’re just on a break.” He really turns up the ‘beat puppy’ eyes and looks at the camera. “I came out here to show her that I still care, that I’m still here for her.”

My pulse thunders in my ears and I think I’m seeing red.

Andrew smiles. “That’s so incredible. You dropped everything and came all the way out here for her. Why did she leave?”

“She was running away from me. She’s so addicted to work, and when I wanted to get serious with her, she shut down.”

“What the fuck!” I’m standing, fists clenched.

Irene slaps the laptop shut. “Okay, well…that needs to be fixed.”

I pace to the door, then back to the table, trying to control my breathing, trying desperately to get crazy-girl under control.

I know what hotel he’s staying in. I could just pop by for a visit and give him a huuuuge earful of my rage. I could bring a bucket of spring water and douse the inside of his car. I could buy some pad thai and throw it at him. I could stab him with a fork.

“Sylvia,” Apollo says, breaking through my delirious hate-planning.

I stop pacing and close my eyes as I pant like a bull.

Why won’t he just leave me alone?

Furious tears bathe my lashes, and I growl, trying to keep the beast in her cage.

Why won’t he just let me live?

“Hon, it’s gonna be okay,” Irene says, approaching me with another glass of wine. “We’ll send your statement to Channel Nine and they’ll have to amend the piece.”

But the damage is done. Everyone heard it.

Workaholic.

Running away.

She grabs my arm comfortingly and passes me the wine. “We can fix this.”

I clench my teeth against the scathing comment I want to hurl. Spewing hate at my friend is not going to solve the situation.

“I’m really upset right now,” I say, trying to work through what’s going on.

She nods. “Rightfully so.”

Apollo reaches out for me and I take his hand. “We’re not scared of your anger. You can let it out.”

“I want to ruin his fucking life! ” I scream. “He’s trying to ruin mine and I want to bury him in his lies.”

Irene nods again. “So let’s do that. Send in your statement. Send in evidence. Get the piece amended.”

I sigh. “We don’t have time for this. There’s a business to run and only us three to do it.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I cringe. It’s my mother. I can feel it in my wine-warmed gut.

I pull it out and…yep.

“I can’t,” I murmur, setting my phone on the table.

Apollo picks it up and takes the call. “Hello, Mrs. Azarolla.”

I hear a shrill “Who is this?” from the speaker.

He cringes and pulls the phone away from his ear. “I’m Apollo.”

“Sylvia’s friend?”

“Sylvia’s boyfriend,” he corrects, and I grin. Before she can launch into any questions, he takes control. “I wanted to thank you so much for calling to congratulate your lovely daughter on the opening of her business, but she’s absolutely exhausted and fell asleep already. I didn’t want you to think she was avoiding you.”

Oh.

My.

God.

I can’t tell what my mom is saying, but Apollo smiles and nods a few times, and then says, “Yes, I’ll make sure she calls you in the morning. Good night.” And then hangs up.

I stare at him, mouth agape. “You lied to my mother.”

He freezes, eyes wide with horror. “I thought a small lie would be better for all of you.”

I sob, hugging him tightly. “You’re the best.”

He holds me back, relaxing into the embrace.

“And that’s my cue to leave.” Irene grabs her backpack from the couch and heads toward the door.

“Hey,” I call to her and she stops. “Thank you so much for everything. You’re the best, too.”

“I know.” She grins. “See ya tomorrow.”

When the door clicks shut, Charlie quacks at me pathetically. “I thought I was the best.”

“You are too, buddy. Swear it,” I say, grabbing him from the table and petting his little rubbery head.

Apollo guides me to a chair.

“You need to finish your delicious meal.” He walks to the laptop and opens it. “And I need to show you this video I found of cats chasing their own tails.”