Chapter 2
Chloe
My tits had never been stickier, though, as a gold-star lesbian, that wasn’t saying much.
I grinned like an absolute fool, honey mead dripping down my cleavage and pooling against the fabric of my yellow corset.
I stumbled away from the bar, half because of the several meads I’d consumed, half in gay panic, and another half for good measure because my black lace-up boots were a size too big.
The naughty wenches had been everything I’d dreamt they would be and more.
We’d come all the way from the UK to Southern California for this specific Renaissance Faire.
I’d convinced my friends by telling them it was the best one, and the SoCal climate was so nice in winter, blah blah blah, but really it was because they had the infamous wenches who uttered filthy nothings whilst pouring mead directly down your throat.
It had been worth every penny of the plane ticket.
The blonde busty wench had told me I had “the most delectable little mouth” she’d seen all day, and I knew I’d be riding that high all weekend.
Sure, most of the mead had ended up on my chest rather than in said delectable mouth, but that was half the fun, wasn’t it?
And god, the mead was delicious. I’d once tried my hand at making my own, but it had turned out so badly I was afraid I’d poisoned my friends. No, it was much better leaving the mead-making to the pros, and the mead distribution to the wenches.
I grabbed one of the fabric scraps that made up my handmade skirt and dabbed at the sticky mess between my breasts, trying to salvage some sort of dignity before I found my friends.
The skirt had been a labour of love – or of desperation, at least – sewn together from dozens of different yellow and black fabric scraps I’d pilfered from Phil’s collection for my bee outfit.
Once our overworked costume manager, he’d finally put his foot down last year and made us all source our own outfits instead of leaning on him to craft them.
But once I’d proven my ineptitude at choosing appropriate materials, he’d had mercy on me and let me raid his scrap stash for my skirt, showing me how to stitch them together onto a makeshift waistband.
It wasn’t perfect, but it sufficiently read “honeybee” – or an anthropomorphised version of one, at least. Combined with my favourite yellow corset top and a pair of wings I’d bought online, I looked like a slightly dishevelled but enthusiastic hive member.
Though, looking down at the bee graphic on the can of mead I held, I began to question the anatomical accuracy of the wings. Maybe they were more dragonfly than bee…
I spotted my friends clustered around a wooden bench near the jousting arena, and my heart did that warm, fuzzy thing it always did when I saw my favourite people all together.
My best friend Jack was resplendent in full knight regalia, complete with a foam sword that he kept dramatically unsheathing at random intervals.
His girlfriend, Morgan, had gone for a more pared-back approach with a simple medieval dress in deep green, though she’d let me braid flowers into her dark curls that morning.
Jack’s little sister, Amy, wore an intricate fairy costume that made her look like she’d stepped out of a fantasy novel, making me suspect that Phil had stepped in to help her.
They’d been dating for a while now – apparently it hadn’t always been the real deal, but I’d given up trying to parse out their particular relationship timeline.
Fatima had outdone herself with an elaborate druid costume, complete with a staff she’d carved herself and enough nature-themed accessories that she’d be labelled as a forest on a map if she stood still long enough.
She looked absolutely breathtaking, which was perfect, since I’d convinced her to let me take her new dating profile photos.
She was finally ready to get back out there after a big break-up a year and a half ago, and I was determined to make sure the dating apps knew exactly what a catch she was.
As I slipped into the circle my friends were making, I caught the tail end of a debate about which of us would survive longest in an actual medieval society.
“I don’t think Chloe makes it more than a week,” Grey said pointedly, peering over the rim of their pewter mug at me.
They’d dyed their usually colourful buzz cut in a hypnotic spiral pattern to match their steampunk outfit.
It made me dizzy to look at it, though perhaps that was all the mead.
“Our little chaos gremlin would trip over a tree root and get trampled by a stray goat.”
“Untrue,” I protested, crossing my arms, remembering the stickiness only as my arms practically adhered to my chest. “I have the nimbleness of a fox and the keen survival instincts of … of…” I racked my brain for another medieval-sounding animal. “Of a stoat.”
“Do you even know what a stoat is?” Jack asked. I shrugged.
“It’s like a mole, right? Or a badger?”
His laugh confirmed my suspicion that I was dead wrong.
Phil snorted. “Come off it. You’d get banished from the village for seducing all the baker’s daughters, then burned at the stake for heresy.”
That sounded about right. “And what a way to go.”
A heavy drop of mead traced a cold path down my sternum and pooled in the divot of my collarbone.
I grabbed a piece of my skirt again and blotted at it, earning a beleaguered look from Phil that turned to pure agony when the piece of fabric came off in my hand.
That was what I got for cutting corners and using hot glue on the last few strips, I supposed.
But at least the slit the gap created was conveniently positioned over my leg.
So I tied the scrap around the end of the braid holding up half my hair and tried to avoid Phil’s judgmental gaze.
“Did the naughty wenches go easy on you?” Amy asked, leaning in with a smirk.
“The first two pours, they were gentle. The third time, she basically waterboarded me.”
“Don’t you usually pay extra for that sort of thing?” Morgan asked.
“No, no, that’s emotional torture I’m into, not literal. Close, though.” I looked over at Fatima. “You about ready for your close-up?”
Fatima made a great show of rolling her eyes, but we all knew she was actually quite keen.
She’d tested some of her dating app prompt answers on us at D like I was a constant reminder of the aimlessness they’d dodged in favour of their bright futures and their happy-ever-after relation-ships.
The breeze kicked up sepia dust, which stuck to my chest and reminded me of the lifelong dream I’d just fulfilled of being objectified by busty wenches in corsets.
So I swallowed the feeling like I always did and forced a smile as I zig-zagged my way across the fairway, dodging LARPers, stilt walkers, and merry festivalgoers.
I scanned the area for the best spot for a mini photoshoot; Fatima had gone the nature route with her costume, so I wanted some greenery.
The problem was, there was just a solitary tree on the fairway as far as I could tell, and it was surrounded by people.
If I wanted something picturesque – fantastical, even – I’d need to go off the beaten path.
I spotted a copse of trees behind the bar I’d just come from and ducked past a “cast members only” sign pinned to a piece of thick canvas between two stalls, figuring I could just play dumb if I got caught.
I’d have to convince straitlaced Fatima that I’d gotten permission or something, but that was fine. I’d figure something out.