3. Oz
Oz
The morning after The Troll Incident, Ginger and I are at BrewHaHa Beans the literal moment they open.
The pixie owner, Meggan, shoots us a wry look as she unlocks the door.
It’s so cold, my breath makes fog against the front windows, and Ginger huddles at my feet despite the adorable hot pink sweater I bought for her.
I skate through the door before Meggan pulls it all the way open, Ginger on my heels.
She darts to the back and hops up onto the bench seat of my table, ready to go.
Meggan chuckles. “Guess you don’t want that hot troll snatching up your table today, huh? Now Ginger’s in on the fight?”
I spin and walk backward, careful not to bump into any of the tables. “Listen, Meg, we almost had a standoff yesterday, I can’t let it happen again. It’s my table, and we all know it.”
She rolls her eyes and closes the door, then leans over and begins opening the blinds.
Outside, monsters walk briskly along Main Street, huddled against the chill.
It’ll be slammed in here within a quarter hour, and I want to be firmly ensconced at my table with a hot cocoa, my dog, and my notebook.
Hours later, I’m shocked but relieved that the big troll hasn’t shown up.
Although, a tiny little niggling part of me wants to see the look on his face when he comes in and sees me in the spot he stole yesterday.
Ginger’s asleep on the bench beside me, coffee cake crumbs still stuck to her floppy lips.
She kicks her legs as she sleeps with her head on my thigh.
Rubbing her soft cheeks, I smile down at the notebook where my thoughts are coming into clear focus.
Since I’ll have to build the spa from the ground up, I can literally do anything I want.
I’m inspired by my friend Lemon, so I’d like the front of the building to resemble an old saloon but upscale.
Very chic. Very expensive-looking. Inside I’m thinking tufted velvet chairs and a bar on one side for folks to get a drink while they await their treatments—hair, makeup, massages.
Everything monsters need to feel and look good.
Pine Gulch helped me find myself. It was the place I started taking care of my skin and body and mind again. All of that helped me break out of a shitty cycle with my ex. I want to make other monsters feel as good as I do now.
Around lunchtime, the coffee shop door swings open, and the green male saunters through, cheeks dark from the cold air outside.
The odd snowflake drifts through the door after him.
He smiles at a woman near the door who looks up at him, then runs both hands through his pale hair as he looks toward the back. Toward me.
I smirk at having the table today, shooting the most pleased-looking smile I can summon.
He glares back, saying nothing as he chooses a table near the door and takes a seat.
Today he wears thigh-hugging jeans and a leather belt with a giant belt buckle announcing him as a winner of some bicentennial rodeo.
Thankfully, my gargoyle senses are keen, and I barely have to stare to read the tiny writing on the silver surface. Makes for easy people watching without seeming too interested, a useful thing for a gay gargoyle who loves monster watching.
A bull rider, then. That’s unfortunately sexy.
He’s just as brutally handsome as he was yesterday. He moves around the room with confident steps, rolling his shirt sleeves up as he grabs a latte from the pickup counter. Faint scars crisscross over his skin. Probably from getting bucked off too many times. Hmmph.
A cleft dots his chin, making him look like one of those Marlboro men from the human ads in the eighties. I’ve seen a few of them in magazines Bluebell’s father collected during his time growing up outside the haven system.
An hour goes by, and my archnemesis pays me no mind.
I’d tease him a bit, but I’m lost in the planning, nearly ready to move to writing my business proposal so I can go request a loan at the bank, which is an exciting move.
I can’t spend all of my time doodling the interior design portion, as much fun as that is.
The double shifts at Whiskey Business Saloon and odd pickups at Betty’s Burger Bar will be in my rearview mirror soon, and that’s a good thing.
I’m not actually a night owl, and late nights at Whiskey Biz have me yawning more than I’d like, even though I love the building herself, sweet and spicy thing that she is.
I pack my bag and head for the door mid-afternoon, batting my lashes at the big green male as I pass his table.
Bright emerald eyes flick up to me and narrow as he takes a deep sip of espresso.
Lifting the tiny cup highlights the veins running beneath a hair-covered forearm that’d have me drooling if I hadn’t already decided to hate him for the table infraction.
“Tata for now,” I say with a smirk, waggling my fingers in a teasing goodbye. I just couldn’t help myself.
By the time I’m out the door, I’m feeling warm and fuzzy from having won this round and shown him who’s boss.
It occurs to me then that I don’t actually know his name.
Snorting out a laugh, I head across the street toward the Whiskey Business Saloon.
I’ve got a long evening shift ahead of me and no time to think about that handsome a-hole.
“Howdy, Oz!” A big minotaur in a three-piece suit waves at me as I cross, and I wave back.
“Varek, how’s it going?”
He thrusts his hands in his pants pockets. “Can’t complain, friend, can’t complain.” He tips a big cowboy hat to me before disappearing into the Welcome Inn.
This is one of the things I love about Pine Gulch. I know almost everyone in this haven after having lived here for about eight months. Of course, going through the welcome scavenger hunt helped. I think I met most folks then… It’s how I met Bluebell and eventually our friend Lemon.
The night drags long, and the following morning, unfortunately for me, I arrive ten minutes after opening to find none other than Mister Green Butthole Himself standing beside my godsdamned table again, setting his things down on the glossy painted surface.
He must have arrived just before I did, because he’s still shrugging off a thick patterned coat with leather accents.
Tight jeans hug a bubbly ass I’d want to bite if we had that sort of vibe going on.
“He beat ya to it, Oz,” Meggan says with a snort as I stare at the damn troll.
He’s fashionable in a westerny sort of cowboy way, smirking at me as he turns and pulls his arms from the sleeves, which is about when I notice the shirt.
A thin white cotton tee hugs impressive pecs, his chest hair forming tiny bumps beneath the surface. And there’s giant black lettering in fancy gothic script on the front, reading “I Like to Win.”
My mouth drops open, my tail lashing side to side like the angry pussycat I am.
He didn’t, did he? Rubbing my eyes, I stare again.
He’s still wearing that godsdamned shirt, and now he grabs the hem, shuffling it side to side as he flashes me a shit-eating grin.
It transforms his face into something stunning.
How dare he be hot and rude? I’ve had enough of that to last my whole lifetime, which is probably why I’ve taken an immediate dislike to him.
When he pulls a second monitor out of his pack and unfolds it, plugging it into his laptop, I expire and rise right back up.
This isn’t a fricking home office! Next he’ll pull out a foot heater like a real asshole.
Before I can stop myself, I stalk to the back and tilt onto my toes to get right up in his face.
“This is war,” I snark, pointing a finger at him. “You hear me? Table stealer!”
He grabs my finger and twists it, jerking my arm behind my back, which forces my body up against his. The way he stares down at me is possessive and haughty, and so, so hot if I was into this sort of brash asshole.
Which I most definitely am not. Not anymore. Not since Saint Ashbourne.
Where the hells is Ginger when I need her?!
“Bring it on, princess,” he rumbles, his tone low and snarky.
Gasping, I yank my finger from his grip. He lets go as I flare my wings high and wide, pointing the sharp tips in a defensive way.
He doesn’t bother to look up at the literal daggers pointed at his face. No. Gods forbid he actually seem threatened by me.
“Have a great day, cutie pie.” That’s all he says before he thumps me on the nose just like the day we met. Snark delivered, he drops quietly into his seat and opens his computer.
A scream nearly erupts from me, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction. Game on. War on. Battle lines drawn. All the war-y things. I’m already thinking through my clothing options to continue this as I stalk across the cafe and find another open table. It’s getting busy already.
Meggan, the owner, shoots me a funny look, glancing between the big green male and me, scowling in the corner at a table that’s woefully insufficient for my needs.
I need space for four monsters on account of my size and the size of my notebook.
And Ginger when she joins me. Plus, I like to be below a heating vent so I can warm my wings.
Gargoyles run cooler than other monsters, but I’m cold-natured, and I like to be warmed like a pie.
Or a lizard.
After enough glowering, Meggan comes over and sets a latte on my tabletop. “Oz, we gonna have a problem? I can’t have you hassling the customers, and unfortunately he did pay, so…”
I grit my teeth and shake my head. “I’ll rein it in, maybe. Possibly.”
“He’s eaten two meals a day here every day, and he tips good!” She plants her hands on her hips. “Maybe just go say hello?”
When I scoff, she snaps her bar towel at me. “Then you two take this little war elsewhere.”
Several hours pass like molasses during winter as I try to get into my planning, glancing up to scowl at the male now and again. He doesn’t deign to look back. He knows he won this round.