Chapter 4
Hyacinth
When Lily hangs up the landline phone—how retro!
—she looks confused. I pat the sofa next to me and she flops herself down.
It doesn’t look like much, in fact all of the furniture is very simplistic, but incredibly comfortable.
Before I can ask, she puts her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands.
I rest my hand on her back and wait, studying Sting’s abode and ignoring how blistery red her back is.
It looks like adobe construction, right out of some Western lifestyle magazine.
Smooth stucco walls, rough hewn beams along the ceiling.
Stunning sketches and paintings adorn each wall.
The one across from where I’m sitting is abstract, full of grays and blues, a little green.
With every inhale and exhale, I notice little details, each one making me feel sadness.
Not for myself, but a yearning and resignation that the artist inserted into their work.
Without getting up to look at the signature, I know in my bones that Sting painted this.
It takes effort to drag my eyes away from the painting.
Paned windows are inset into the thick walls, letting in the orange light of sunset.
One window is not clear glass but blue circles inlaid into the stucco, a kind of modern stained-glass feel.
It’s stunning. The kitchen is small but efficient.
And clean, which surprises me. I guess I didn’t think scorpion-men did a lot of cleaning.
Well, I suppose I don’t know what scorpion men do a lot or little of.
Speaking of, after showing Lily the phone and bringing us a large pitcher of iced water and two glasses, he disappeared.
Our pitcher is almost empty. I gave myself a brain freeze guzzling the water so fast while Lily was on the phone.
Leaning forward, I refill Lily’s glass and hand it to her, nudging her hand with the glass.
I still can’t believe we spent all afternoon stranded in the desert.
Even the tops of our hands are painfully red with sunburn.
On the edge of my awareness, I can sense Sting. It’s a weird sensation—as if his shadow lingers here next to me. I’ve never sensed another person before like this. Just thinking about him makes my spine tingle—in a curiously good way.
We rode on a scorpion-man’s backside. That sentence stops my heart every time I think it.
Which is a lot right now. He was fast, scarily so.
And didn’t complain once about the weight of us, or about the little sounds we both made at times.
Squeaks and “oof” as we bounced along. A scorpion man.
A shifter? I swear he only had two legs when he approached us originally. And no tail.
No one will believe our story, of this I’m confident.
Heck, I barely believe our story, and I was there.
Part of me wonders if we were hallucinating, being full of margaritas and dehydrated.
Then I pondered if James, our driver, possibly drugged us in some way.
Anything feels possible right now. Though what the purpose of that would be, I don’t know.
But the sofa and the iced water aren’t hallucinations. Behind me, I can now hear Sting moving around—maybe in the kitchen—but I keep my attention on Lily.
“He isn’t coming,” Lily says, finally sitting up.
Her face is stoic. No red blotchy eyes or streaked cheeks—the faces of Lily I’m used to when she gets upset.
There’s something solid to her that I’ve never seen before; I’m impressed.
Even if it seems to take her a lot longer to come to the same conclusion that I knew as soon as we watched the limo fade into the distance.
“What do you mean?” I ask, keeping my voice as steady and gentle as possible. We’re both fragile right now.
“He has a meeting. But he said he’d send a taxi for us.
I’m supposed to call him back with the address.
I told him our rescuer was feeding the horses.
I couldn’t say I was rescued by a giant scorpion.
” She huffs out and leans back, sinking into the sofa, then sits back up wincing at the fabric against her back.
Our sunburns are ones for the record book.
“I’m not sure how comfortable I am with his taxi,” I say carefully. Lilly nods. Then shakes her head. Then her head is doing circles—possibly a yoga move, possibly just trying not to explode from the day. I refill her glass with the last of the water from the pitcher.
“I know. It’s wild. Hy, the weirdest part of the conversation is how surprised he sounded when I said my name. Like he didn’t expect to hear from me.”
We sit in silence, contemplating that. Sting appears, slowly, no weird extra legs or tails visible, and sets down a fresh pitcher of cold water and a plate of cucumbers and fruit.
“Thank you,” we say in unison. When I look at him, I’m taken aback by his gaze.
His eyes are the color of honey—bright and intense.
And they are looking at me. Not us. Just me.
That same spine tingle is back. More intense.
“I can arrange a car for you. Or you can sleep here and I will drive you to the city tomorrow.” His voice is deep and soothing, makes me feel warm and safe. As soon as he says the word ‘sleep,’ I feel my body relax. Yes, that is what I want.
“We’d like to go to the hotel now,” Lily says, standing, uneasy on her feet, and my heart plummets into my belly. I shake my head and stand next to her.
“No. We need to rest. We stay here.” My heart thumps in my chest something awful. Why? I’m not afraid of my sister. I’m not afraid of Sting. But somehow, this show of demand feels dangerous to me.
Lily looks at me the way she used to when we were kids. Like I’m from another planet. “No. We go back. Patrick will fly in tomorrow and fix everything.”
Now I’m angry. “What? Your murder vibes fiancé is going to fix everything? What does that even mean? Why would you trust him?”
“What do you mean murder vibes?” I want to smack the raised eyebrow right off Lily’s face. The arrogance.
“Listen, I am here because of you. For you. I hate everything about this girls’ weekend trip, except the fact that we are together.
I have put up with all your ridiculous plans and antics—loud shows, gambling, drinking all hours, and now almost being killed in the desert.
Because of your fiancé! Now I am putting my foot down.
I don’t want to ride in a strange car at night and hope I end up back at the hotel.
And I am also not trusting Patrick to fix everything. No.”
I cross my arms and heave a breath. I stare into her eyes, so much like our dad’s.
She blinks, and then I don’t recognize her anymore.
“You’d rather put your trust in this monster, than a taxi driver?
” She whispers the word ‘monster,’ but I know Sting hears it.
And while I would normally expect a male to take offense, object, defend himself, Sting doesn’t. He is still as a statue.
My face heats, not in embarrassment of myself, but of my sister; my first best friend. The person I’ve spent most of my life with, trying to make happy. Shaking my head in disappointment in her, I turn to Sting, careful to look directly into his eyes.
“Yes,” I say, unable to decipher the look in his eyes. “May I use your restroom?”
He nods and points down the hallway. “There’s a towel, aloe, and clean clothes for you if you want to shower.” That generosity, in the midst of my spat with my sister, touches me. Again, I feel my shoulders relax of their own volition. Twice now, he has caused that—peace inside me.
“Thank you.” And with that, I leave them both to take refuge in the bathroom and cry in the shower.