Free Bayou Fairy Tale by Lex Chase Page B

his neck, buying some time before settling on an explanation.
    You see, Ramona, Taylor is a fairy tale princess, and I’m the descendant of a witch and a horny fuckwit who ate a gingerbread house. Oh. And ate his sister too. Weird, right? Just go with it. So, Taylor is technically royalty, and by proxy, good. And I’m… not. We aren’t exactly meant to fraternize. Ever. In fact, I was assigned by Idi the Witchking to hunt and kill Taylor. Oh, who’s Idi the Witchking? Well. That’s someone else entirely. Head hurting yet? I can draw a diagram. But then I’d have to kill you. I may or may not be joking about that. I’m probably not.
    “We come from very different backgrounds,” Corentin said instead. He shrugged. “His father isn’t the most accepting guy in the world.” There. That was mostly true. Well, true enough. “I don’t have any family to call my own.”
    “I’m sorry,” Ramona said sheepishly. “I shouldn’t have pried.”
    Corentin pulled the trash bag from his bucket and yanked the plastic ties. He tilted his head away from the stench as he sealed the bag into a tight knot. He dropped it back into the bucket with a plunk ,then gave Ramona a two-finger salute.
    Ramona held out the towel, and he accepted. It was still warm, fresh from the dryer. He blotted his face and noted the lavender fabric softener. Honeysuckle’s favorite brand that she loved to torture him with. Levis that smelled springtime-fresh conjured visions of the Barbie Dreamhouse. He cringed.
    Corentin rubbed the towel in his hair. “Taylor’s my family,” he said as he scrubbed. “And I’m his. We may not have much, but we make it work.” It felt so freeing to say it out loud and not have to pretend. He dried off his arms once again. It was as dry as he was going to get anyhow. He could deal with wet jeans. “Taylor has really taken to volunteering at the library. The kids flock to him like ducklings. Like….” He glanced at Ramona.
    She grinned. “Like anyone with functioning ovaries flocks to you?”
    He chuckled. “Fuck, that’s so embarrassing.”
    “I’d enjoy it before age catches up to you.” She winked.
    The words concerned him. How old was he? Taylor hadn’t told him. And his journal only gave a rough estimate. Was he really almost fifty?
    “I don’t know. I think I’d make a rather dashing seventy-year-old.” He winked at her in return.
    “Don’t let your ego bite you in the ass, okay?” She pulled the check from her pocket, and he took it between two fingers and nodded. “Here. For all of your trouble. And thanks for putting up with me luring you out here. You should bring Taylor by. How about dinner?”
    Corentin thumbed his chin. “I have to admit, if you can rescue me from another bean supper, I’ll gladly dig out another Barbie doll, on the house.”
    “It’s a date.”
     
     
    “OF ALL the four traffic lights in Ellsworth, you forget the difference between green and red,” Corentin grumbled at the puttering Neon in front of him. He leaned back in the driver’s seat of the truck and dropped his left arm out the window. The Neon timidly crept into traffic. “Go. Move. There’s a gas pedal there, Granny.”
    The sun turned the Chevy interior into an oven. Corentin rolled his wrist, working out the crinkle and pop of bones. He lazily soaked up the heat like a sleepy lizard. His jeans were another matter. At least Ramona was nice enough to loan him some extra towels to line the seats. He couldn’t afford to mess up the Chevy.
    As the Neon scooted on, Corentin let off the brake and the truck coasted. He ran his hand over the warm leatherette of the steering wheel. The bumps and ridges struck him with an odd unfamiliarity. The off feeling tingled in the back of his mind.
    He shook his head. This is my truck , he repeated, as if he’d convince himself. His slow, meditative strokes held him present in the moment. He was here, in this place, in this moment, this truck.
    The truck was