Page 16 of Till Orc Do Us Part
Cass:The orc wears a suit. Keep your teeth sharp, girl.
Aunt Mae:Heard you made an impression. Call me.
I toss the phone onto the counter, heart pounding.
This is exactly what I didn’t want. Focus shifting. Attention skewing. Drokhaz Vellum becoming more than the enemy.
I pace the store, restless.
We need a win. Something tangible. Something public.
And then it hits me.
The poetry shelf. The one he touched. The one with our town’s stories gathering dust.
I grab my notepad and start scribbling.
Boardwalk Poetry Night
SAVE OUR STORIES
Bring a poem. Bring a memory. Bring your voice.
I slap the flyer onto the front window before I can second-guess it. The bold letters glare back at me, defiant.
Good.
Let them talk about that.
Let them remember what we’re fighting for.
And if it helps distract me from the memory of how close he stood—how his voice sounded in the hush of my shop—well…
That’s a bonus I’ll take to my grave.
CHAPTER 6
DROKHAZ
The morning sun is too bright.
It hits the trailer windows like a hammer, scattering light across the desk where yesterday’s plans still lie untouched. I should be reviewing them. Deadlines loom. The firm expects numbers by week’s end.
But my mind drifts—again—toward ink-stained fingers and salt-heavy air.
Foolish.
I close the laptop with a snap.
A knock rattles the thin door.
Not my crew. Too light.
I rise, frowning, and pull it open.
Jamie Moore stands there, curls windswept, a canvas tote nearly as big as he is slung over one shoulder. Sand clings to his bare feet. His cheeks are pink with sun.
“Morning, Mr. Drokhaz!” he chirps.
