Page 8 of The Bairwick Witches
“Cal had that nerdy, clean-cut librarian vibe about him, and it worked for him. He somehow rocked both his glasses and his notoriously bad haircutsandpulled them off. The vibe got me a couple of times, even when we weren’t drinking. Like we would be hanging out, and he’d take a slender finger and push his glasses back up on his face, and I’d swoon. And then jump him.
“And he’d have a total Giles fromBuffyvibe now that he is older, if—and listen—I get we’re all aging. Even if it’s a slower process for us witches.”
“Thank the Goddess our genes are good on top of that,” Beau interjected, as he and Schuyler held their milkshakes up for a toast. “Croy DNA doesn’t fuck around.”
“Well, Cal’s genetics double penetrated him raw and mercilessly apparently, and he opted to not face that gracefully and, um, fix it himself.” Schuyler had held back his reaction when he met Cal in front of the restaurant. He wasn’t sure if his initial impression was accurate until they sat down. “You could see the hardening, the plastic shine, around his eyes, by his ears.”
“No,” Beau gasped. “Over-glamouring?”
Schuyler confirmed in the affirmative, chasing his milkshake with a stolen Oreo from Beau’s stash. Sad at the thought of how much Cal had grown to dislike himself to the point of continuing to bewitch his own appearance. Sky spotted the effects on Cal’s hands as well. The plastic shimmer, the hardening of the skin, all caused by heavy Glamouring.
“He hadn’t done it that night. He knew I’d see through it probably, but he’s definitely been casting on himself something crazy and trying to use makeup to cover up the damage. I mean, we used to do Glamours back in the day for fun. I spent a week as a ripped blond-haired blue-eyed twink named Ranaldo.”
Schuyler sighed and took another big sip of his extra-thick shake. Past the scars of Cal’s insecurities were the other signs that he wasn’t the same person Sky remembered. In fairness, their friendship went from close-knit to social media-based; mainly the occasional “like” and the yearly happy birthday posts. Cal had crafted himself a more normative thanwitchylife, a far cry from the bold and proud witch he’d been in their days running around. He’d admitted this to Sky during dinner, even though Cal’s friends didn’t know his truth. Or that he still had a residence in Bairwick, even though he worked in the city, some career involving brokerage or finances. Two terms that instantly tuned Schuyler out of any conversation. Cal cared about the dollar, making money for people who already had money.
They’d enjoyed some laughs over dinner, and Sky was pleasantly surprised by the nostalgic feeling Cal brought along with him. And Schuyler wanted to reconnect their friendship—an area he’d failed in with many former friends since he’d committed the cardinal sin of leaving them in the dust to build a life outside of Bairwick with his now-ex.
There were some great times and laughs with Cal, ones Sky would be happy to add more of. Though he was taken aback when there was a strong visual disappointment written across Cal’s face when their evening did not end with them moving to a second location, but instead Sky thanking him for a great night and saying they’d chat later.
“I could tell he was bummed, but it wasn’t the Cal I remembered; he was someone new, I’d need to get to know him again.”
“I don’t recall a Cal,” Marshall said between bites of his Nestle Crunch. “But I also don’t remember why I walk into rooms sometimes.”
“Oh, I remember his ass, he was hanging around here a lot,” Beau added. “And let me tell you, that boy was the human equivalent of human Ambien.”
“He wasn’t that bad. He’s a quieter kind of person,” Schuyler defended.
“Bor-ing kind of person,” Beau interjected. “He was talking to me once, and my soul literally left my body ’cause I died midway through.”
Schuyler shot his uncle some side-eye, moving the late-night conversation along. “Enter Fernando Rio Riaz, the cocky Hispanic forty-something who waltzed into the restaurant ten minutes late. And I’ll admit, I was caught off guard by how handsome he was in person. I mean, pictures did not do thispiece of man candy any justice. Olive skin, green eyes, with the darkest, thickest hair I’ve ever seen. And the cockmeat this dude had packed into those painted-on pants, by the Goddesses, I was ready to let him Gael Garcia my Bernal right there.
“And because of it, I was too blinded to notice the red flags: the arrogance, the way he was rude to the waiter, the materialism, flashing his watch at me to make sure I knew what kind of phone he had, and the car he drove. How many times he worked out for the body he flaunted in his too-tight shirt. The cockiness. I mean, what a tool. Except I didn’t notice until after our two rounds of sex.
“I learned the extent of his douchery while getting dressed. He was sitting in bed smoking, and I was half dressed when he admitted he didn’t think we were going to work out. Apparently, while I was a ‘great time,’ I was, in fact, not pleasing enough aesthetically.” Schuyler closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to forget the shot to the gut Rio Riaz’s words caused. “We’d fucked for three hours, flip-flopped, did everything on the menu, and somehow through all of that, through all the praise I received during—I was not a pleasingaesthetic!?”
The words hurt. Rio Riaz’s casual mockery of his body—in specific detail—hurt the most and had lingered for days. Sky even cancelled two other dates not feeling up to any more potential scrutiny. And Rio Riaz’s comments were not simply focused on the slight weight gain, but on Schuyler’s cheekbones, eyebrows, calves, jawline, and how he needed to tan. The assault was cruel, especially after Schuyler had discussed his current body woes with his date during dinner, even happily taking the workout advice Rio Riaz offered up, only to be blindsided when the once enthusiastic lover proclaimed him all but a leper, unworthy of an ounce of kindness.
Fucking men.
“And what did you do about that, Monkey?” Beau asked with a smirk, confident he knew what happened next.
Schuyler shot his eyes to the ceiling and playfully whistled, “Well, I know I said no magic, and I meant it, but I may have, could have possibly—placed the Cojear Hex on him.”
Schuyler recalled the moment he stood in the bedroom, half dressed, being told in explicit detail about every part of himself that Fernando Rio Riaz found displeasing. His right hand had been behind his back, fingers tapping in the air as if playing an invisible piano, the tips of them glowing with blue energy. He’d been reciting the incantation in his head as Rio Riaz mansplained all the things Schuyler could do to improve himself that would put him back in the running to be with him again. And, if he worked hard enough, even get him featured in Fernando’s content.
“Condescending sonofabitch,” Marshall added, getting angry. “What’s the Cojear Hex? Make his dick fall off? I’ve half a mind to go over and-”
Schuyler smiled; it still warmed his jilted heart when Marshall or Beau became upset on his behalf, reinforcing how loved he was. “It’s a fun little spell from occultist J. E. Campbell; he wrotethe bookon sex magic,” Schuyler said in a sing-song voice. “And now, for the next four to five months, Señor Fernando Rio Riaz will be unable to reach orgasm without his thoughts turning to me and our time together.
“That’ll teach his ass aboutaesthetic.”
“I knew you’d come back to magic,” Beau said smugly, enjoying a victory cookie. “I believe you owe me ten dollars,” he glanced at Marshall, who grunted, reaching into his pocket.
“Wow, betting on me? And I’ve not come back to magic—I made a justifiable exception for a nightmare of a personwith good dick.” Schuyler reached for some Mike N Ike’s as he readied himself for the final dating disaster he cared to share.
“And that brings us to Country Boy Dylan. Over six feet of bearded, ruggedly handsome farmer. I found myself smitten even before the date. Just chatting with this guy was really easy, and fun, and fucking nasty when it got to that point. And I mean we’re talkin’ true country boy hotness with his weathered ball cap and dirty Wranglers. And among the other crops, he has a field devoted to cannabis. Holy hell, I felt like I’d hit the motherload.
“And the date started off well, vibes were vibing, laughs were genuine, his accent was hot as hell, not all fake sounding like yours, Beau.
