Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“Hey,” Fiora said. “The gig tonight got pushed up an hour. The caterer wants more help setting up. We need to get to Olympus Manor now.”
I glanced down at my hands coated in fish guts. “Now?”
“I don’t know why you work this stupid job.” Fiora eyed me up from head to toe. “I can get you enough serving gigs to make up for this one easily.”
“I like to diversify.” I gave her a smile and wink.
“Yeah, well, you and I both know there are other ways of making more money too,” she began.
“Fiora…” I warned. “Not this again.”
I knew she was referring to The Hunt. It was a seasonal, pagan-like ritual that happened on Heathens Hollow after the Harvest Moon where rich assholes dressed up in stag masks of bone and chased women into the woods to fuck them. The Harvest Moon kickstarted the hunts, but then they occurred every weekend after and consumed the island.
Crazy sounding would be an understatement.
Did it sound barbaric? That was because it was.
The payout was good if you agreed to be one of the hunted, although I didn’t want to know just how good, for fear I’d be tempted to be part of the depravity. And every weekend, around this time, Fiora would try to convince me that it was the answer to all my financial woes. I had heard all of the justifications by not just her but everyone ever since I had become of the age where I could actually be part of the ‘festivities’:
It’s just one night.
You don’t know who the person fucking you is, so it’s not like you have to face them again.
It’s just part of a long-standing tradition.
Everyone on Heathens Hollow has done it at least once.
You get a basket full of jewels, expensive shoes, money, and other gifts on your front porch as a reward for your part in the chase.
It’s not being a whore. It’s just having a little fun.
It’s what makes Heathens Hollow, Heathens Hollow.
None of her reasoning worked on me, however. I had no intention of ever being part of this wicked game. Tradition or not, I was never going to be hunted by a man in a mask and fucked just so I could get a basket of goodies that may or may not pay my rent that month.
Or at least that was what I told myself. Although the temptation and the curiosity grew each day, I’d never admit as much.
“You’re being a prude,” she snapped back. “Seriously, one night a month, and you’d never have to gut a fish again. And they don’t hold it during the winter. Just from the Harvest Moon and the weekends before the first snow flies. So you’re about to lose your window if you don’t act fast.”
“We aren’t going to discuss it.”
“We should,” she pressed.
“Let’s get to the legit job, okay? I think I’ll stick with the fish guts for now.”
My best friend and I had had this discussion over and over, and it always ended the same way.
Me smelling like fish.
Fiora rolled her eyes. “Suit yourself. Just hurry and clean up. We don’t want to keep the caterer waiting. I’ll drive while you try to clean your stinky ass.”
I shook my head, grabbing a rag to wipe what I could off my hands. I quickly packed up my stall, changed, and followed Fiora through the crowded market, the stench of salt and fish fading as we made our way to the opulent mansion on the outskirts of town.
We rushed to Olympus Manor, the sound of our heels clacking on the pavement filling the quiet night air. As we approached the grand entrance, the imposing gates creaked open, revealing the sprawling mansion that lay beyond. The wealthy guests who would soon fill the halls of the manor lived a life I wanted no part of. Not really.
My father had wanted it. He had promised me that one day…
But my father had died trying to reach the impossible. His dreams were his demise.
I was a realist. And a survivor because of it.
We were quickly ushered in by one of the many hired staff members, and I made my way to the kitchen to join the other servers. The caterer, a small woman with a sharp tongue and even sharper knife skills, barked orders at us as we rushed to set up tables and prepare hors d’oeuvres.
The guests began to arrive, each one more ostentatious than the last. The smell of saltwater mixed with the scent of expensive perfumes and colognes as we made our way through the grand halls adorned with priceless artwork and opulent furnishings became my evening norm.
“Storee,” the caterer said with a curt nod, handing me a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Get these out to the guests, and make sure the champagne glasses are never empty. We’re expected to provide exceptional service. Even more so since all the Godwins are present tonight.”