I skim through the volume to page 302 because that’s where I stopped reading last night when the urge to go out and play with Jack set in. Scooting deeper into the cushions, I pull up my knees and lean the book against my thighs, starting with the first paragraph on that page. Oh, Harry, what kind of trouble did you get yourself into this time?
After the second paragraph, I close the book and put it back on the coffee table. The early afternoon sun shines like a bright smile through the window, right into my face. I get up and carefully pack a bottle of red wine and a marble cake into my neat, woven basket. An embroidered doily goes over it to cover the items from nosy birds or other hungry animals in the forest.
Slamming my shoes together outside helps shake off most of the dried dirt from earlier. I slip them back on, strap my bow and quiver to my back, close the door, and walk off along the narrow path through the trees that leads to Granny’s. All the way, I hum a sweet tune from my childhood. Only when I start skipping, happily swinging the basket beside me, do I suddenly feel like I’ve done this all before and realize what the hell is going on.
Skittering to a stop, I lift my face to the sky and shout at the treetops, “Are you kidding me?!” Holy storybook, it hasn’t even been twelve hours since I last walked that way and started the tale with Jack and Granny. They can’t be serious, expecting me to act it out a second time today.
That I didn’t notice what was happening straightaway isn’t unusual. When the familiar pull of the story sets in, it’s always hard to tell which are my real thoughts and which belong to the tale. There was one time I didn’t figure out I was in the game until Jack snapped at me from Granny’s bed and almost ripped my cloak apart.
That was a bit of a rude awakening.
Because the call is so very intense, the only thing I can do is keep walking. But, dang it, I refuse to hum the stupid song and decide to meet Jack with a sinister expression instead. I know where to find him. Right down this path at the crossroads. He’ll be leaning against the signpost, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, one leg angled, and his foot flat against the pole. His dark eyes will glint through the wild, multihued strands of black and brown hair falling over his forehead as he watches me draw closer. He’ll wait a few seconds, and then he’ll crack a tiny, lopsided smile. Because he always does. He’s done so for as long as I can remember.
Chapter 2
Jack
I like the music in this pub. It’s the reason I come here so often. For the band, the scotch, and to play pool with Phil and Sebastian.
My feet resting on the low bar of the stool, I bounce my right leg to the rhythm of the Town Musicians of Bremen, who perform their rock songs on a small stage at the back. The food’s mostly a turn-off here, but they make good fries. I love fries. Wish I’d had some to go with Granny Redcoat this morning. With a bucket of ketchup. The old bag tastes like castor oil and porridge. Always a battle to stuff her down my throat.
I pick a fry from the basket on the bar that Tweedledee—or was it Tweedledum?—placed in front of me. Heck, I can never tell those two apart. Between a breath of the cigarette smoke and the stale odor of beer in the dimly lit place, I bite off the end of my fry.
“Whiskey and fries for breakfast?” The throaty laughter that follows accompanies a royal hand swiping some of my food. “Looks like you had a tough night.”
I half turn my head to greet Phillip with a growl and then eat a little faster because I know he’ll keep reaching into the basket until it’s empty. Normally, I don’t mind sharing, but today, I’m starving. “Get your own food, you son of a king.”
“Can’t. I’m used to being fed,” he retorts insolently, grinning around the stick in his mouth as he grabs a few more fries.
I push the basket to the other side, out of his reach. “Then go back to Castle Grove and have your girl cook you something nice.”
My jacket draped over the bar stool next to me kept him a free seat. He tosses the leather on the counter then pulls the stool noisily closer and sits down. “My girl’s hanging out with your girl at Jason’s castle right now, and I don’t think she can even make scrambled eggs.”
An alarmed gasp makes us both turn around to a frozen Humpty with two glasses of Chardonnay in his pale hands. His eyes and mouth are three big Os.
It’s funny how color always rises in Phillip’s face when he accidentally treads on someone’s toes. Tough guy or not, one’s true fairy-tale traits are hard to shake off. “Sorry,” my pal mumbles an apology to the flamboyant egg, rubbing his neck as we watch Humpty Dumpty flitter away with the drinks. As he takes a seat in a booth by the door with Christopher the Tooth Fairy, I return my focus to my meal.
“The regular princess meeting again?” I pick up the subject of earlier when Phil said something about our girls. Sure, Riley isn’t really my girl. Not in the romantic sense. But officially, she is. Fairy tale law binds us closer together than a superficial ring on her finger ever could.
“Gossip girls, I’d rather call them.” Phil snorts a chuckle and runs a hand through his fair hair before he orders a beer and then turns back to me. “They’re undoubtedly trashing us from the first second ‘til the last.”
My teeth catching Riley’s behind this morning is certainly something that she will bring up in front of her friends. I normally don’t act out of my role. She was in such a cheeky mood today, though, permanently taunting me with her favorite name for me, that I couldn’t resist reminding her what a nice set of fangs her puppy dog actually has.
A secretive sneer tugs at my lips. She really has a fine ass. I would love to get my teeth on it without her cloak in the way for once. I bet I could make her yip like a wolf.
I finish my fries, leaving three in the basket and pushing them in front of Phillip. While he scarves them down, I dilute the salty taste on my tongue with a draught from the scotch and then wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my black T.M.o.B. band t-shirt. What can I say, I really dig these guys. Elbowing my friend, I point a thumb over to the pool table. “Care for a game?”
He nods, licking his fingers free of salt. We slide from our stools, head over, and I pull the release lever. A familiar rumble sounds from inside the table as the balls quickly roll down one after another into the removal window. Phillip sets them up in the black plastic triangle. In the meantime, I pick up a cue and rub the blue chalk over its tip. With a high toss, I throw the other cue at the prince.
He catches it one-handed and chalks it, too, when the sound of a well-known voice draws both of our gazes to the door. At long last, Sebastian comes into the pub with a half-dreamy, half-crazed look. The clock above the door says ten-thirty. Phillip steps in front of me with a mean smirk on his clean-shaven face as he rolls the sleeves of his red shirt up to the elbows. “Loser has to bring Sebastian home today.”
That triggers my laugh. If Prince Sebastian joins us this late on a Sunday morning, it means his own story of The Little Mermaid held him up. The curse the Sea Witch casts on him shortly before the end of his tale badgers him so much that he usually gets wasted afterward to flush every remaining ounce of it from his body.
I take my half-empty glass from the bar and place it on the edge of the pool table. Then I lean down with a grin and aim for my first shot. “Deal.”
The balls scatter, the red one disappearing into the left corner pocket. Red is always the first one I dunk.
“Nice shot,” Sebastian says in greeting and slumps onto the wooden chair by the small, round table close to us. He pours himself a glass of red wine from the bottle he picked up at the bar on his way over and knocks down the first half. Then he refills it, tips back with the chair, and stacks his booted feet on the table, swaying the glass in our direction. “Cheers.”