One
Most nights, I park my food truck within walking distance of Phoenix’s premier BDSM dungeon. The first time I claimed a space on this curb, I figured my crowd would consist of drunk partiers spilling out of the nearby dance clubs.
I was right. But I didn’t factor in the other clientele. I should have, seeing as how Harley Byrne was the woman to suggest I try parking Cactus Crepes in this downtown location.
My shoulders ache as I hand a freshly made crepe out the ordering window. I don’t mind the twinge. The muscle cramp means I’ve had a busy night, and a busy night is good for business.
“Thanks!” The woman shoves a bill in my tip jar and strolls away, street lights glinting off her skin-tight sequin dress.
Now that the line of hungry customers has finally dissipated, I sink onto the small stool I allow myself in the tight space of my mobile kitchen.
Despite the limited square footage, I still made room for decorations, draping a string of lights around the window that gently flicker like candles, and pining bundles of pine in the corners of the truck.
Their crisp, earthy scent lingers just below the smell of cooking dough.
Small touches that pair well with the dropping temperature outside my warm truck.
Not that Arizona gets particularly chilly even at the end of December.
Digging my fingers into the tense muscles of my neck, I let out an inappropriately loud groan.
“Happy to see me, Terra darling?” A sultry voice calls out.
I grin even as I roll my eyes. “Of course. You’re my favorite customer.” When I slide off my stool and glance out the window, I see a set of fiery curls. They sit on top of the head of a fiery woman.
“You say that to everyone, you food truck hussy.” Harley pretends to glare at me as she rests her fists on the outward curve of her leather corset. “But I don’t care because I need your sweet dough in my mouth. Immediately.”
“Can I get a please?”
She sneers at me, like manners are beneath her.
I tut with a click of my tongue. “I’m not one of your subs, Mistress Volcano Vagina.”
Harley barks out a laugh. “That is delicious. Might have to use it. Has more creativity than Mistress Ruby.”
“Too late. I’m trademarking it.”
As my friend and I trade quips, I pour a thin layer of batter on the hot, flat crepe-maker and spread the liquid to the edges of the circle. The crepe cooks in less than a minute, and then I’m filling the dough with my seasonal concoction of goat cheese paired with a drizzle of cranberry sauce.
Harley always comes to Cactus Crepes to satisfy her sweet tooth.
Once I fold everything together and slide the delectable creation into a sleeve, I pass the crepe through the window.
“You are the Earth Goddess incarnate,” Harley moans just before she takes a bite and closes her eyes in ecstasy.
“That’s blasphemous. You’re going to get my truck blown up in some godly wrath.”
Harley merely shrugs with an evil smirk that looks not-at-all intimidating, with her cheeks full of food.
She’s lucky the gods haven’t visited the planet in centuries.
Even though the Earth Goddess is my great-great-great-a few more hundred greats grandmother, I doubt the deity would be jazzed about a mere earth elemental claiming to be divine.
Mortality with a dash of plant magic is fine by me.
I swipe the credit card Harley left on the windowsill, then hand it back. She sticks the plastic between her cleavage as she swallows. “I have a special tip for you. A gift, you might say.”
“I’m not fishing it from between your boobs if that’s what you’re offering.”
“You would be so lucky. People pay me for that. Good money, too.” The redhead waves me off when I open my mouth to respond. “Something almost as good as that. Here.” Harley slips a piece of paper out of a pocket of her leather pants. “Happy Solstice!” She hands the supposed gift over.
I’m surprised that any item, even one this thin, could fit in her pocket with how the material clings to her.
“Is this an invitation?” The ivory paper has the heft of a wedding save the date.
“More like a coupon. Designed it myself!”
I squint at the curving script.
This card is valid for one wild session with…
Master Slate
“Oh, goddess.” I re-read the words once. Then again. “What is this?”
Harley shimmies her shoulders as she takes an even larger bite, leaving me in limbo until she’s done chewing. “Thought it was self-explanatory.”
“You’re wrong. This requires a lot of explanation.”
“Maybe I can help with that.” The deep voice precedes the man as he steps from the shadows.
Slate.
A shiver traces across my skin at the sight and sound of him, just like every other time he’s stopped by my truck.
The man runs fingers through electric blue hair; the color setting off the many silver piercings weaved through his skin.
His outfit is half leather, half chain mail, all wet dream.
The man exudes sexual confidence. Which must be why he’s such a successful Dom at The Underworld, the dungeon he and Harley work at.
It is a place I’ve never visited, but thought of plenty.
Most often my mind drifts to the dungeon when Slate comes to order food at the end of his shift.
He saunters up to my window now as Harley steps aside.
The redhead sports a wicked grin as she watches me try not to turn into a puddle in front of the gorgeous man.
Luckily, I’ve had months of practice not turning into liquid around Slate, so tonight should be no problem.
Except for the suggestive coupon.
“Hey, Slate. You hungry?” Oh no. I think I just purred. From the way Harley winks, I’m betting some of my dirty thoughts leaked into my voice.
“I’ll take the house special.” And like he always does, Slate crosses his arms, sets them on my windowsill, rests his chin on their metal-covered pillow, and watches me work.
The first few times, I felt self-conscious, wondering if I looked like a frantic hen in a coop, grabbing all my different ingredients and piling them into a crepe as fast as possible.
But eventually I remembered I don’t have to look like some sexy club goer for my job.
I’m here to make delicious food, not seduce my customers.
I’ll leave that to the dungeon and club workers who are miles better at it anyway.
No one cares about my messy bun or stained apron when I’m handing them the most delicious food truck meal they’ve ever sampled.
Tonight though, my normal detachment burns away with the presence of that naughty coupon sitting on the counter where I left it. Curiosity pricks over my skin until I can’t keep quiet any longer.
“So, do you know what Harley’s on about with the coupon?” As my hands move through the familiar task, I glance up to meet Slate’s eyes. His focus remains on my food prep, watching as I cover the cooked crepe with my signature mixture of spices and nopales, also known as cactus.
“She’s gifting me. To you.” The man’s sinful mouth curves in a half smile.
“I…” Even as words fail me, my body continues working through the food-making motions, finishing the crepe and accepting Slate’s cash. When I hand his change back, he stuffs the bills in my tip jar, then slides the cap off the pen people use to sign their receipts.
Slate flips Harley’s ridiculous coupon over and scrawls a set of digits across the back.
“Call me.” Slate re-offers the card to me, waiting until I take it. My skin tingles where our fingers brush.
“My schedule’s busy,” I mutter in a dazed state. This shouldn’t throw me off. I get propositioned all the time.
But never like this. Never by him.
Slate steps back, away from the streetlight. The shadows appear to consume him.
“I do house calls,” he says.
Then the blue-haired dungeon worker takes a massive bite of my crepe. His crepe. Because how can anything exist near Slate and not be owned by him? He just has that overwhelming energy.
Even as the man strolls away, the mark of his presence sits on my skin.
“You’re welcome,” Harley sings as she struts down the sidewalk after him, finger waving over her shoulder at me, taunting me with every flick.
Alone in my truck, I stare down at Slate’s phone number.
What would it be like? To be with a man like him?
Warmth spreads in my chest at the fantasy.
As my excitement grows, so do the herbs sitting in their squat planters beside my prep area.
Even in the tight space, I make room for a handful of living plants.
As an earth elemental, I find their presence comforting when busy days or mean customers stress me out.
Before things get out of hand, I exert control over my natural magic. The power often seeps out on its own when I’m happy. I need to get home to my greenhouse and let off this giddy energy there.
Every flower I own will bloom tonight.
And me along with them.