Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 980(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 980(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
“Five minutes.” My father’s voice booms around the makeshift camp we’ve set up on an empty scrap of wooded land, behind where the fair will be going on for another day after today, then we’ll be gone. “If you want lunch, I suggest you put a bit more effort into today than you did yesterday.”
“Yes, Papa,” I answer, setting my hands on my hips just below where the corset is cutting into my flesh, the gnawing in my belly making me feel nauseous.
The last thing I do before following the trail of others out into the crowd, their violins, guitars and flutes ready for the show, is look up at the sky, asking as I do each and every day for answers.
Who am I?
Someday, I hope I will know.
CHAPTER 3
MERRICK
The scent of smoked turkey legs and Guinness beer drifts to my nostrils, my ears filled with the chatter of the crowd. There’s a long line of adventurers—or victims—waiting in line to experience what looks like a death trap of a wooden-style boat, being swung between two trellises by two pirate characters shouting insults.
I work my way down the dirt path, past booths selling kilts, incense, leather vests and replica swords. Two girls sit next to each other on pillows, getting henna tattoos in a tent.
This is the first year the Medieval Fair has stopped in Millington, but I’m familiar with the whole deal. These groups move around the country, stopping in different towns, setting up their shows and wares like modern-day nomads.
There’s lots of dreadlocks and codpieces. Corsets that threaten a nipple to spring forth at any moment.
I’m a red-blooded American male. I should be thrilled at the prospect of an errant nipple sighting.
But, I’m not. It’s just another call. Another job. And I look at the guidepost sign when I get to a junction in the dirt paths where hand-painted wooden arrows toward the gallows, the dunking booth, the pub…the stage.
I work my way in the direction of the stage as, the music coming from that direction begins to drift on the warming summer wind.
I recognize a few faces in the crowds, but for the most part, I’m getting sidelong glances and a few dirty looks from the more anarchist attendees, but I feel no danger.
As I come around a corner between a juggler and two actors acting all hoity dressed as a King and Queen, my stomach drops. I see the smile first—toothy, with lips that look like they’ve been plumped with a tire pump—then I hear the voice.
“Merrick! OH. MY. GOD. What the ever-loving good luck are you doing here?” Patsy Leeland speeds her steps away from a few other ladies that are watching the royal production and toward me, my nerves already on edge.
“Hi, Patsy.” I nod, keeping my voice as disinterested as possible without being rude.
She’s chomping purple gum holding a tall paper cup of dark beer.
We went to school together and she’s been making herself available to me for the better part of twenty years. I give her an A for effort but an E in understanding, because I’ve never returned her interest.
The music is closer now, and I’m assuming it’s from the stage, but I can’t see anything yet except for Patsy’s black tank top with ‘I like power between my legs’ emblazoned over a Harley logo.
“You here alone?” She asks barely hiding her glance at my crotch.
I clear my throat looking over her head in the direction of the music, I answer, “Yes. Alone. I’m working.”
“Oh.” She snaps her gum, looking me up and down and reaching out to run a finger over my badge. “You have time for a drink?”
Of course I don’t have time for a drink. I’m working, I said. And you shouldn’t be drinking either if you’re going to get on your motorcycle and drive home…God, people are stupid.
“No,” I answer, flat and cold. “Just checking on some petty thefts that have been reported.”
She nods, tilting her head and running her tongue over her teeth, which have obscenely bright pink lipstick stuck to the front of them.
“Ahh. Yeah, I heard someone got their wallet lifted yesterday. I come every day.”
I look at my watch, then back toward the music.
“Be careful. Get a ride home if you’re drinking.”
I sidestep and move forward as she runs a hand through her burgundy hair, watching me go.
“See you around,” she calls, and I raise a hand over my head to wave, never breaking my stride.
These sort of fairs have never been my thing.
I’m not much for any sort of fun, it seems. Not for a long time. I always had an odd discomfort with human touch, outside of hugging my parents.
My dad once told me I was too old for my age, and I didn’t bother to remind him it was a man-to-man talk from him that started that for me. I don’t resent it, God knows they had their own issues to deal with when my mom lost the baby a few weeks later, but it was that talk that had me growing up fast.