Dirty Lying Faeries

Chapter Three

Thea

"You're being too loud," Candace moaned from beneath the covers.

"I'm doing yoga, not playing the drums." I stretched my legs apart and my arms high in a warrior pose.

"You're doing it too loud."

I held my body in place for a long count, then relaxed and eased into a downward dog. "You could always join me."

She snorted.

"Suit yourself. Do you want me to get you anything before I leave? An aspirin for the hangover?"

"Candace Lewis does not get hangovers," she grumbled.

"Mm-hmm."

"I will allow you to bring me some water."

"Of course, your majesty." I dropped to the mat, and then hopped back up to go to the fridge, grabbed a water bottle from inside, and threw it at the lump of blankets.

She yelped and then popped her head out, squinting at me. "Rude!"

"You do realize it's almost noon?" I slipped on my shoes and grabbed my coat, still in the borrowed hoodie and sweatpants since my maxidress wasn't my first choice of December work attire.

"Afternoon shift?" She yawned.

"Half shift, one to five." I set some aspirin out on the counter anyway, despite her protests. "See you later."

The door was almost closed behind me when I heard her grumble, "Who the hell wrote on my arm?"

I looked around outside for the Mustang I'd seen last night, half wondering if I had imagined it. But if it had been there, it was now gone, along with the strange women. I had to scrape a layer of ice off my windshield, but at least the sky was clear and I was soon on the road, headed for work.

The drive was peaceful, even with the weekend traffic slowing everything down. At a particularly long red light I looked up and watched my school lanyard swaying from the rearview mirror, taunting me as I drove to my low-paying job that had nothing to do with the four years I'd spent earning a history degree. That only brought my mind back around to last night, talking to Devin in a gallery setting. It wasn't my dream museum, but damn it felt really good to talk to another academic for a while. My love for Candace was far-reaching, but I couldn't make her fawn over an old census book any more than she could get me to be enthusiastic about our New York Fashion Week sleepovers.

And Candie's bicep didn't strain under her coat sleeve.

Beeping behind me snapped my eyes to the now-green light, and I hit the gas pedal.

Pulling into the parking lot of the car wash, I turned off the engine and laid my head back against the seat. It was an automatic wash, so at least I wasn't getting messy—just taking care of the cash register and letting the guys at the other end do the detailing. Eventually, resigning myself to the next few hours in a booth, I slid out of my van.

"Sweatpants today, Floor Sign?" A redhead with a short beard and coveralls slid over my hood, leaning in a pretend-sexy pose. I laughed and headed toward the office.

"I told you I own more than leggings, Alan. And when are you going to stop calling me that?" I opened the door and the girl on shift before me practically ran past us, barely waving good-bye.

"Have a nice day, Beth," I mumbled, walking inside.

"I'll stop calling you that when you stop doing this." Alan dramatically performed his interpretation of the stick figure on the Caution: Wet Floor sign.