Page 25 of Sweet Poison

Mushroom Girl looks up at me with wide, curious eyes, blush still staining her cheeks. Despite the nervousness and her shyness, there’s an undeniable warmth in her gaze that draws me in. The way she avoids eye contact and fidgets with her shirt makes her seem even more like a fairy caught lost in a world that’s not her own.

As her beautiful eyes hold me hostage, everything else fades away. It’s just her and me, and the strange sense of familiarity I can’t quite place. Where have I seen this girl before?

“Uh…she doesn’t speak,” one of the men says. I think it is ugly vest, but I ignore him and keep my eyes trained on the sweet creature who is looking at me as if she knew me.

There’s shock reflected back at me but also a fuck of a lot of warmth.

Why?

“Willow,”she lifts her right hand, signs and then extends her hand for me to shake. Her eyes pin me in place. They’re blue, with a hint of green—my favorite color. When I take her delicate hand in mine, it feels like she’s making the organ in my chest come alive, one weak heartbeat at a time with just her touch.“Willow O’Sullivan.”she signs again with her free hand.

Then it hits me.

Willow…

In that moment, every dark corner of my soul turns a little bit blue— a blue that reminds me of warmth and of the girl who once painted my dark world with color and magic.

The only true friend I’ve ever known.

Thud.

Thud.

I glance down at our joined hands, my mind racing to catch up with the sudden revival of my heartbeat. It’s a strange sensation. Of course, my heart worked properly. The fucker has kept me alive all these years but it never got excited about anyone or anything. Now, though it feels like a drumbeat echoing through my chest, and I can almost feel the sparks crackling inside me. I keep looking down at our hands, trying to make sense of this strange sensation in not only my chest but my skin as well. The warmth of her touch sent a jolt through my entire body, and I can’t quite grasp what’s wrong with me. My pulse quickens, and the world around us seems to shimmer more than the ugly Christmas decorations all around us.

Wild hair.

Wild heart.

Wild One.

Holding her small hand in mine, I sense that something shifts inside of me, and deep down I know it won’t ever be the same again because of her— because she’s here.

My very own fairy.

Chapter

Eight

SCROOGE, MEET YOUR MATCH

Madden

“There’s just something about the holiday season that annoys the fuck out of me. Maybe its all the caroling and Christmas decorations, or perhaps it’s all the happy fucking people.” – M

Later that evening I stand at the edge of the balcony, staring down at the crowd below. The white party is in full swing—people laughing, dancing, toasting—and yet, I feel nothing. It’s all a blur of color and aggravating sound, a distant echo that doesn’t reach me. The ever-present emptiness is overwhelming, an abyss that swallows everything in its path. Not even the obnoxiously cheerful crowd below, joyfully counting down to Christmas Day, can bring a spark of joy to my blackened heart.

“What the fuck is so special about this damn holiday?” I mutter to myself, shaking my head as I watch families and couples take selfies beneath an enormous, glittering Christmas tree. The sight makes my stomach churn.

Just as I turn to retreat into the suite, something flutters into my peripheral vision. A flash of green catches my attention against the backdrop of the twinkling lights. I notice a small green butterfly landing on the railing, its wing shimmering like emeralds in the dim light. Instantly, my thoughts drift to Willow O’Sullivan. Just the thought of her and the memory of her looking up at me so beautifully and so shy makes my chest tighten, as if the emptiness is starting to fill with something, and I’m both annoyed and confused by it.

When I close my eyes I still see her in the meeting room, surrounded by her colleagues. Even shy and silent she stands out among them—her wild brown curls bouncing with each subtle movement, the ridiculous mushroom shirt she wore, bright and out of place in that boring environment. I also see her signing her name rather than using her voice. Why didn’t she use her voice?

Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes, still focusing on the butterfly. The longer I watch it, the more I find myself thinking back to Willow’s life when I was briefly a part of it. As a child, she was teased relentlessly for her disability, for the sound of her voice—or lack thereof. The thought of her still being hurt, just for being herself, ignites a spark of unexpected anger within me.

I grip the railing tighter, knuckles pressing into the metal. The butterfly flutters away, startled by my sudden anger. My eyes follow its flight, tracing its path through the crowd below.

And then, amid the colorful lights and laughter below, I catch sight of her. I sigh in exasperation as I watch her from above. She’s walking out of the lower-level suites, her long brown curls catching the breeze, her mint-green skirt swaying with each step, the white tube top hugging her curvy frame.

---