Authors: Sheri Fredricks
Two
W
armth, soft and heavy, filled the palm of Aleksander’s hand. The female’s nipple pebbled beneath the single stroke of his self-directed thumb. Against his nose, her rampage of fire-red hair smelled of sweet night-blooming jasmine.
A sharp elbow jabbed his ribs.
“Ow! Get off me, you oversized hairy ass.” Madder than a Saturday night Satyr with chipped hooves, the hissing ball of nails spun around and glared up at him. “What in
Tartarus
do you think you’re doing?”
A battlefield of cinnamon freckles lay positioned across the Troll’s cheeks and nose, prepared to join the allied forces of her narrowed eyes. Brows a shade darker than the wild hue of her hair, lowered over glittering aquamarine.
By the gods, the female stole his speech away. Not even his mare mother had that capability.
“What are you staring at?” Effective as a bump from a kitten, her small hands shoved at his chest. The tips of her pointed ears pinkened.
Aleksander’s pecker twitched hard. For all her Troll anger, she was exceedingly charming. He propped his hands on the rock wall behind her, trapping the nixie between his arms.
“Hello, sweet-thing. What’s your name?”
“Ballagon.” Slow and sexy, the corners of her mouth tipped up. Her pink tongue darted out and wet her bottom lip.
“Huh?”
Was that even a word?
“Ballagon. As in, your
ballocks
will be
gone
if you don’t move away from me this instant.”
Experienced in tactics of war—and women, Aleksander knew when to retreat. Transitioned into his true Centaur form, his hooves backed away from the Troll. He took in her curves, hidden beneath an ugly jumper-style dress.
Anger sparked in the depths of her glaring eyes.
“Is this the line to get in?” To his right, a genetically-challenged Minotaur bounced her gaze between the Troll and him.
He’d never been into the bovines, though he’d heard some outlandish stories circulated through the barracks which certainly kinked his tail.
“No, Carryyn.” More blue fire flashed in the Troll’s narrowed eyes. “I’m going in now to set up.”
“Oh, hey. You know my name. It’s spelled with an
r-r-y-y
, you know.”
A breathy sigh whispered from the red-haired
gnomette
before she shouldered him out of the way. Then she paused, her hand on the café’s door handle. “Carryyn with a C—second session. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”
With a final dirty look thrown his way, the beguiling Troll opened the door and disappeared inside.
He hadn’t yet shown her the full force of his indefensible charms. In ten minutes, she’d be boneless in his arms.
Confident of his abilities, Alek clip-clopped toward the eatery entrance.
The female Minotaur blocked his path. “Are you in the first session? Because it hasn’t started yet.”
Aleksander raised a brow at Carryyn. “Session for what?”
“Troll-y Yours, of course. If you didn’t sign up . . . .” She made a tisking noise and handed him a yellow sheet of paper. “Too bad, so sad. It would’ve been nice to share your table.”
A mixture of relief and confusion passed through him as he watched Carryyn stroll down the atrium mall, her polished horns swaying side to side.
Looking at the flier in his hands, the headline in bold read:
Are you a busy single professional?
Troll-y Yours guarantees you will meet a mythic of worth, or your next date is FREE.
TROLL-Y YOURS
The most enjoyable and fastest way to meet your special mate.
“‘Scuse me.”
Aleksander glanced up, then stepped his hind hooves aside to allow a Satyr to brush past.
Perhaps late for work, the waitress hurriedly wrapped her waist with the strings of a white apron and elbowed the door open. Her right hoof kicked it wider, and she scrambled inside—all while tying a bow at her back.
Alek used the opportunity to hold the door and peer within. Small round tables were set in rows, two chairs per table. Centered on each polished top, a red number marking a white card stood next to empty bud vases.
On the left side of the café, a few customers warmed barstools at the counter. Embedded specs of natural thermo-luminescent minerals lit the carved ceiling and reflected off the smooth granite top.
Situated at the back of the room, clipboard in her hand, Ms. Troll spoke to Sacha, the Centaur owner in two-legged form. He nodded, shook her hand, and disappeared behind swinging double-doors.
Thank the mythic gods Centaurs were born with transition shifts that altered, according to their time of birth. The pull of the moon, the line-up of the stars . . . it all had to do with their shape shift schedule.
The sexy Troll’s pale skin glowed with golden undertones, while her nose was straight, short, and delightful. When she glanced to see him in the doorway, the corners of her mouth turned down.
Not happy to see me? That’s because you haven’t met me properly.
Aleksander straightened his shoulders and stepped into the Neigh Café the same way he entered a briefing room—absolute and purposeful. The glittering scowl that crossed Ms. Troll’s features gave him a sense of satisfaction. His enjoyment with her impatience climbed when she stalked toward him.
“Are you following me?”
Alek eyed the clipboard she held before her as if it were a warrior’s shield. “Do you always talk to potential clients that way?”
“You’re not a client for another thirty minutes.”
“What’s your name, sweet-thing?”
Stubborn, she crossed her arms and locked her jaw, refusing to answer.
“Ella?” Apron-clad Sacha stood near the swing doors holding a silver water pitcher. He raised his brows in their direction. “May I see you a moment, please?”
Cute as a bunny, her mouth tightened before she answered over her shoulder. “I’ll be right there.”
Aleksander flashed his grin, knowing from mirrored practice it was dazzling against his tanned olive skin.
While Ella’s reaction was a subtle softening to her clenched jaw, her eyes narrowed on him.
A worthy challenge, but I likes me a good game.
By nature, Trolls were volatile mythics. Probably the reason he found himself drawn to them over the years. With nothing other than uprising rebels to fight the last few years, it answered the question he’d asked himself when he walked through the café door—why was he here?
“Look, unless you’re here on Her Majesty’s business, I’m busy.” She tilted her head and her little foot tapped the floor.
“You could say I am. What time—?”
“What are you, the Head Palace Guard or something?” Ella rolled her eyes and huffed out a laugh.
“Well, actually—”
“I’m booked for tonight’s sessions. I’ll have another in a few weeks. Do you want to be on the waiting list for that?” Tiny red-gold tendrils escaped the silken mass pulled back from her oval face. Her pen clicked and she poised her hand over a sheet of lined paper. “Name?”
He shrugged to hide his confusion. Why weren’t his charms working? Didn’t his battery recharge this afternoon? “Kempor Aleksander. Head Cen—”
“Aleksander Hedson. Got it. Payment will be due prior to your session. And, Al…?” Her smile lacked warmth. “Please don’t be late.”
Ella’s bluntness and the slaying of his name dropped his jaw.
She turned on her practical, low-heeled shoe and walked briskly to speak with Sasha, who waited in the rear of the café.
No woman in memory had
ever
tossed him aside like an unwanted toy. Why, he’d been dismissed quicker than a new recruit.
Restless to reach a plausible explanation for the Troll’s behavior, Alek forged his way to an empty spot at the counter and sat his equine ass on the hard wooden floor.
Around the curve of the bar, patrons eyed him over their drinks. A short statured male Troll with thick shoulders met his wandering gaze head on, then slid to the clear glass he gripped in his hand. Next to him, his Minotaur friend wore a dirty work shirt. The pair looked vaguely familiar.
The bartender flipped his drying towel to land off to the side and clip-clopped his hooves toward Alek along the lengthy bar counter. “Get you something, Kempor Aleksander?”
Alek glanced at his watch—five hours before he reported for duty. “Yeah. How about a brew dog?”
Time enough for one and if he nursed it, he could stay for adventure time in fifteen. Curiosity unwound the muddled knot of confusion surrounding the Troll, Ella.
“Glass?”
Alek lifted a brow. “Spike, have I ever drank beer from a glass?”
Spike placed a napkin and then the bottle in front of Alek. “First time for everything.”
That includes this clusterfuck tonight, Alek deduced with sarcasm.
Spike leaned his elbows on the counter between them and motioned with his thumb. “You in on this?”
In mid-swallow, Alek nearly choked. “
Kolasi
no.”
Not just hell no, but no way. He scratched his goatee and glanced over his shoulder.
Ella’s gaze landed on him but she quickly looked away. Color bloomed in her cheeks until her freckles stood out.
He faced Spike and picked up his beer. “People actually pay someone to get hooked up? Why not
buy
a sure thing?”
His buddy Nubbs ran a profitable and highly sought after black-market ring where everything from whores to hallucinogenics were paraded and sold. The king of the underground did this covertly to flush out traitors for Her Majesty, Queen Savella.
“Not everyone is as lucky as you with the ladies.” The front door opened and Spike swished his tail with a smile. “Kempor Hippolyte, nice to see you again. Get you something?”
Without turning around, Aleksander pushed out the empty stool to his left, making room for Savella’s bodyguard. She always wore her sword on the left hip, and he didn’t care to be jabbed by the scabbard all evening.
When the entrance door opened and closed a second time, sounds of everyday business in the mall ebbed and flowed.
An aroma of a dozen rose bouquets floated down, surrounding him in a cloud of sweet perfume. Aleksander used his front hoof to kick out the empty stool to his right, but before he could hook his fingers around the barstool and pull it away from Hippy, the rustle of silk and a feminine sigh made itself at home.
“Hey, Alek.” The world’s smallest purse, attached to the longest shoulder strap in history, plopped on the counter. “Spike, can I get a glass of Chardonnay, please?”
Aleksander whipped his head to Hippy’s voice on his left. His eyes took in not a gnarled, seasoned warrior, but an alluring feminine figure, wearing a red wrap-style dress.
Behind him, fast trotting hooves zipped from table to table. In the bar’s mirror in front of him, he glanced at the Satyr flower girl with an armful of red blooms dropping long-stemmed roses into each glass decanter.
“Hippy—Pan’s hooves! Please tell me you’re not here for—” He took in her auburn hair, curled and styled into a messy, sexy look. He leaned closer. “Are you wearing makeup?”
Un-fucking-believable
. Kempor Hippolyte, Queen Savella’s bodyguard, here to find her
mythic of worth
on a speed-date.
And looking damn hot.
She wasn’t his type, though. Besides, he never fished off the company pier. Hippy had been on the royal force as long as he had.
A look of disgust rolled his way. “Don’t be ridiculous, dumbass. I’ve got a date later. I do have somewhat of a private life.”
Spike set her wineglass on a cocktail napkin, and Alek grudgingly pushed a few greenbacks across the counter. “I got it.”
It appeared everyone had a love life, except for him.
*~*~*
Oh my gods. He’s still here!
And chatting it up with a gorgeous female.
The knot in Ella’s stomach tightened to match her grip on the clipboard. Couldn’t be an ugly Minotaur sitting next to him. Oh no, it’d have to be someone with a killer figure and sculpted arms who probably spent hours in the gym every day.
Glancing down, she gazed in disgust at her simple brown, shin-length skirt and sturdy leather shoes.
I look like shit.
This gig had better make some serious money, because wearing hand-me-downs and clothes Mama chose made her the Troll who lived under the bridge.
Al’s long fingers stroked his goatee.
Ella imagined how it might feel if he were to stroke her cheek the same way.
Ridiculous.
She shook her head. The Centaur was Mount Olympus handsome and she—well, she was a plain Troll who lived at home with her parents.
Her breast tingled where his palm touched earlier. Another opportunity missed. She should have turned to him and smiled, instead of offering to castrate him with a snarl. His aura, violet and dark red, all but exploded with sensuality.