Chapter 2 Chicken Shit
Chicken Shit
Cluckingham Palace smelled like hay, fertilizer, and chicken shit. Granted, fertilizer and chicken shit smelled pretty damn similar, but after three years working in the farm supply store, I could tell the difference by scent alone.
That was how I knew that the fertilizer had been delivered and Margie hadn’t bothered to put it away. Sighing, I stashed my purse in the back, grabbed a random nametag, and clocked in on the computer.
“Morning, Margie!” I hollered, taking a moment to clean up all the little scraps of papers and granola bar wrappers she’d accumulated since opening.
I didn’t mind cleaning up. Her aunt and uncle owned the store, and she was eager to please them.
But she was a bit of a mess—not just in a practical sense.
Three divorces and back living at home, Margie was chaotic but lovable.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” Margie yelled. “I can’t find the keys to the forklift.”
Shaking my head, I jogged to the rolling doors and promptly found the keys.
“You’re the best, Autie!” Her hot pink lipstick clashed with her orange curls, and electric violet flashed on her nails as she accepted the keychain and squished the stress-ball pig attached to it, causing its eyes to bulge and poo to protrude from its butthole.
Shaking my head, I stepped back and let her steer the machine and lift up a pallet of dark green bags with pictures of gleaming tomatoes and cucumbers emblazoned on the front.
Stocking the new deliveries took about an hour, and then Margie sat down in the back to work on office tasks, her nails clicking away at the keyboard merrily while I gathered cleaning supplies and headed to the front.
The soft cheeps of baby chicks grew louder as I reached the steel troughs we kept them in. Heat lamps clipped to the edges kept the little fuzzballs warm.
Reaching down with gloved hands, I removed their food and water containers and got to work scraping out their poop. Oddly enough, it was one of my favorite tasks.
A little chick rushed up and pecked my wrist, causing me to giggle in surprise. Bending over at the waist, I wiggled my fingers, scratching its tiny chest as it fluffed up its wings. Tail feathers shaking, it pecked my fingers.
“Watch it, you fuzzy little nugget!”
Someone made a choking sound, and I shot up to see two men standing in the shop. My cheeks flushed. I’d been bent almost in half to reach the chicks, putting my ass on display for the strangers.
Talk about a peep show.
The two men stood there, staring at me.
One was slim and tall with a tangle of black hair falling over pale skin and eerie gray eyes. A hoodie covered part of his head, throwing shadows across sharp cheekbones. He hunched as if he didn’t want to be that tall, his eyes darting around the shop.
The man beside him let out a cough, and I suspected he was the one who made the noise that startled me.
My stomach turned a weird somersault. He had tan skin and reddish-brown hair a few shades lighter than mine and dark, stormy eyes.
His gaze held me tight, so intense it took a moment for me to remember how to talk.
“Hey guys,” I said lamely, waving a hand only to realize I had chicken shit-smeared gloves on. Cringing, I tugged them off, moving to toss them in the trash by the register.
“Welcome to Cluckingham Palace, the place for all your farm supply needs. Can I help you with anything?”
When I looked up, the stranger was still in the same spot, like his feet had sprouted roots.
His jaw ticked as he watched me, and my anxiety spiked, wondering if he was upset about something.
It couldn’t be the spectacular view of my ass he’d gotten when they walked in. He should be thanking me for that.
“Um, we’re good,” he said, his voice a deep rumble that instantly had me thinking of how he’d sound moaning.
Damn. Too bad I’d never know.
“Okay, well I’ll be here if you need me, and I can check you out when you’re ready,” I said, using my best customer service voice. My cheeks flushed at my choice of words.
He strode forward, joining me at the counter, and I cocked my head. Those raincloud eyes caught mine again, and I deliberately looked down at the counter, unable to take the intensity of his attention.
“Bessie?” he asked.
Self-consciously, I fiddled with the nametag. “Oh, no, that’s not my name. It’s just a joke. Yesterday, I was Buttercup, and sometimes I’m Henifer.”
“Henifer?” he said, that mouth pulling up on one side.
“Yeah, like a chicken name,” I said. “The owners are pretty funny.”
Nodding, he raked a hand through his hair. “So what is your name?”
“Autumn,” I answered easily.
“Autumn,” he repeated, letting the name roll around his tongue. “I’m Thorne, and that’s Cole.”
His friend, Cole, reappeared at his side, and closer up, I could see dark smudges under his eyes. He handed a package of eggs to Thorne. “Here, get these.”
I frowned, wondering why he wasn’t handing the eggs directly to me. Thorne cradled the carton for an awkward moment.
“These are just normal eggs, right?”
“Um, yeah,” I said.
His throat worked. “They’re not, you know, fertilized or anything?”
The world’s most awkward few seconds passed before I blurted, “Um, no, just regular non-fertilized chicken eggs here!”
“Cool,” he said, his warm skin looking a bit ruddy. Swallowing, he held the carton out.
As I accepted it, my fingers brushed his.
A jolt shot up my arm like I’d been electrocuted. All the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stood on end. My breathing stuttered, and I struggled to draw in more air.
Swaying on my feet, I let the carton fall so I could grasp the edge of the checkout counter to steady myself. The eggs rattled in their cups.
The man stood rigid, his eyes wide and glowing a pale blue. They were darker earlier, and now they looked like an animal caught in headlights.
I’m hallucinating. Fantastic.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, his outstretched hand flexing into a fist and then opening, like he wanted to reach for me.
That shock of electricity doubled back, flowing through my veins and concentrating in my core. I could feel my pulse beating everywhere, my blood rushing in my ears and throbbing between my legs.
What the fuck was happening to me?
I wanted Thorne to reach for me. I wanted him to grab me and kiss me and stick his hands down my pants and strip me bare while we writhed on the floor—what?
My breathing shortened into pants, my mouth going dry.
I had to get out of there.
“I’ll be right back,” I lied, shoving myself away from the counter and dashing wildly for the back of the store. Tumbling through the staff door, I clutched my chest.
A wave of nausea rolled over me, and I fought the urge to sink to the ground. What was wrong with me? Was it food poisoning from the muffin this morning? Or did Thorne do something to me? Maybe he was some sort of poison dart frog and touching his skin poisoned me.
Margie leaped up, rubbing comforting circles into my upper back while bracing my upper arm with her other hand. Her voice sounded far away.
“Autumn, are you okay? Did something happen?”
My thoughts swirled, and I struggled to find the words to answer. Everything in me was screaming to go back to the front of the shop to Thorne, but that was insane.
I was sick, and I couldn’t puke in front of customers.
“I— They— There are guests. Something’s wrong with me. A panic attack, I think?”
Margie’s brows wrinkled. “Why don’t you go sit down? I’ll take care of the customers.”
My entire body shook. Somehow, I didn’t think sitting down and doing some deep breathing was going to help. I needed distance.
“I gotta go home. I’m gonna throw up.”
Without waiting for Margie to reply, I snagged my purse and snuck out the back rolling doors, across the small parking lot and the empty field to avoid the front of the store and Thorne’s relentless gaze.