Page 5 of Witches and Wine
“Hey?” I yelled, scrolling up and down as if there was more to the text message I’d missed. “Hey?” I shrieked again, annoyance coiling in my stomach. “We haven’t spoken for months, and all he can say ishey?”
Riley leaped from my lap right before I stood in fury, holding the phone in a death-like grip.
After taking a long, soothing breath, I tapped my forehead and gathered myself.
At least he had the decency to useonemore letter, unlike you, Chelsea. Pull it together.
Ugh. How had this guy always managed to get to me the way he had? He infuriated me as much as he made my knees wobble with the way he said things—flirty, sexy, and so irritatingly charming.
I’m still not responding. Not right away. I couldn’t in good conscience do such a thing.
Turning, I grabbed my keys and bolted for the door. “And now is a perfect time to check out this bakery. I could really use a cupcake or scone or virtuallyanythingsugary.”
Riley poked his head out from the hidey-hole in his carpet tower, those dark, glossy eyes plainlyjudgingme.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I grumbled, turning the doorknob and pausing as I looked down at my attire. “I should probably put some pants on first.”
Riley quirked his head to one side before disappearing into the hole.
After dressing appropriately and running a brush through my hair to make myself look somewhat presentable, given I wore zero make-up, I headed out the door and descended the two flights of stairs to reach ground level. There, sitting snugly across the street in all its confectionary glory, was the Arcane Cove bakery:
Muffin Compares to You.
I bumpedmy shoulder into the wooden swinging door of theSpeedy Sandalestablishment, the Cove’s only ethereal mailing service. When I stepped inside, it was unusually quiet, but then again, I didn’t usually stop by after midnight—ever. Admittedly, it was an excuse to get away from the club and re-gather my thoughts. There wasn’t much to the place save for a metal front desk and rows upon rows of mail slots. Within the span of my entering, several of the holes flashed blue or purple, and parcels, scrolls, or letters appeared out of thin air.
“Herm,” I yelled, scanning the five-by-five space and seeing no sign of him. Slamming my palm on the bell chime near the computer, I hit it three more times for good measure and shouted, “Hermes, you here?”
“I’m out back, Dion,” Hermes’ voice responded from outside.
Inviting myself behind the desk, I slid the limp screen door aside and stepped to the vast green meadows situated beyond the post office building. Faint sounds of an electric razoremanated from one of several wooden stalls. Hermes sat on a stool, shearing a black sheep in the dark with only a single heat lamp illuminating his work.
“You’re doing thatnow?” I asked, leaning on a support beam and crossing my feet at the ankles.
Hermes paused long enough to shake some of the wool free from the sheep and wipe a forearm over his sweaty forehead. “Been a busy day. Needed to get done, and quite frankly, I find it therapeutic.” He gave a lopsided grin, those glacially blue eyes glinting. If I had to compare Hermes’ appearance to anyone, I’d most certainly compare him to the likes of a younger, more chiseled version of Clint Eastwood, but I wouldneverin Tartarus tell him that. As per his norm, he’d stopped shaving, and his chin bore light brown stubble. “What the hell are you doing here this late, anyhow?” After Hermes raised a brow at me, he finished shearing the sheep.
“Thought I’d check to see if I had any replies from my wanted ad?” I hung my thumbs from my belt loops and waited for Hermes to call my bullshit.
Hermes smirked, patted the now bald sheep on the ass to hurry him along, and stood. “Considering you just sent it out yesterday, bro? No. But Apollo showed interest.”
“Sunny can eat a bag of dicks,” I clipped, shoving off the wooden beam and dragging my hands through my hair in frustration.
“Olympus, Dion,” Hermes huffed, a chuckle following. “I know you aren’t our brother’s biggest fan?—”
“Half-brother,” I corrected, my words surrounded by a snarl.
Hermes raised his palms. “Half-brother. But he offered to headline one night with Apollo’s Suns. Could be good PR for the club.”
Two cows and a bull moseyed passed us, munching on hay and mooing.
“Nah, see, because the bands I invite into Bacchus haven’t publicly flaunted their powers and identities in the mortal realm. Musicians that want a place where they can feel unburdened.”
The words flew from my tongue before I had a chance to process them. It sounded uncharacteristically empathetic for me.
Hermes slowly narrowed his eyes. “Spill, Dion. What in the Underworld is going on with you?”
“Nothin’.” I sneered at him and turned away.
Hermes didn’t buy it, kicking up dirt with his boots as he crossed to me. His hand clapped on my shoulder, jostling me. “Come on, Frenzy. Who’s your best bud? Who’s your best pal?” He dragged out the “a” in pal and gave a deranged grin.
