Chapter Sixteen

Stephanie

This day has been a whirlwind of emotions. Terror at the front gate, being a bit overwhelmed as we walked through the Zone. Like Dorothy Gale in the Wizard of Oz, I encountered creatures that I’d only seen in storybooks. But in only a few minutes, it just seemed normal to see wiry wolven, mammoth orcs, and shimmering nagas.

Since the moment they joined me, the human women chatted like we were old friends. They bent my ear about the people and customs of the Zone. Married, or as they call it mated, to orc firefighters here in the Zone, these women shared their experiences with me. By their wide smiles and enthusiasm, it appears they couldn’t be happier.

“You two will have to come back. I assume you wouldn’t want to move here from the other side of the country, but you could visit. Your mate could get a taste of his culture.” Marissa had said. She’s Brokka, the fire chief’s, mate.

“He’s not my mate. I’m his personal assistant.”

“Um hmm,” pregnant redhead Emma said with a knowing glance. “We can see the way he looks at you. These guys, no matter what species, get possessive as hell.”

I quickly changed the subject, preferring to ask what it was like to move from their homes in L.A. to inside the Zone. They confirmed my suspicions that the protestors never stop. “We call it SSDD. Same signs, different dipshits.”

We had a laugh at that.

One of the hunky orcs on stage is Emma’s mate, Kam. He has a guitar and also a khu’rinn at his side.

“Do you want him to get this gig?” I’d inquired. “What if you give birth when he’s halfway across the globe?”

Though I’ve never had a boyfriend long enough to think about getting pregnant, I can’t imagine going through labor without a partner.

“I have the best biological family nearby, and the best friends here in the Zone. I’d never stand in the way of Kam’s dreams.” She flashed me a wide, genuine smile. “Things have a way of working out. Kam and I are living proof.”

She moved a few seats away so Alfie could cram himself into the seat next to me. When this place was built, which, by the look of it, was in the early 1900s, I don’t think they had minotaurs in mind. He’s so close I can feel the heat pouring off him. I’d noticed shortly after I came to work for him that this is his natural state. He just runs hot.

And he smells so good. The scent of the frou-frou soap from our hotel has long since dissipated. Now it’s just him—masculine minotaur musk. I have to force from my mind the intrusive image of licking the column of his neck.

Now that the musicians are playing, I have to mentally arm wrestle myself to keep from gripping Alfie’s hand in mine. Finally, my raging libido settles down and I enjoy the music. The first few songs are disappointingly human. Cover renditions of pop songs.

It takes only a glance to see that it’s not thrilling Alfie either. Perhaps it was planned that way, just to get over their own jitters of playing in front of the most famous Other on the planet.

Now, they’re playing Labyrinth songs. These are some of his early tunes, the ones he produced before he created real instruments made in Other fashion. Perhaps it’s the acoustics in this grand, old theater, but I think it’s the realism of the instruments themselves that make these songs sound richer, more beautiful than the high-quality masters Alfie produces on his computer.

This big male sitting next to me seems completely transported. He’s humming so quietly no one can hear him but me. He’s smiling and seems more comfortable than he has been since we started this trip.

“Ah.” I don’t think he meant to say anything, but I know what pulled that excited sound from his mouth. The group on stage is improvising. “Fucking perfect,” he says to himself. “Better than my original.”

Alfie is many things, but modest is not a word I’d use to describe him. For him to think they’ve improved on his composition is high praise indeed.

The Others work together well, wordlessly allowing everyone on stage to have a short solo. It’s a thoughtful idea, so that Alfie doesn’t have to single anyone out.

Once he’s come back from wherever the music transported him, he begins to scribble notes next to the names. Some are paragraphs, some only one word. It’s too dark in here for me to read what he’s written.

After an hour of this, Bechtel sets down his guitar and an instrument that looks like glass wind chimes, approaches Alfie, and kneels to whisper, “Heard enough? Want anyone to perform another solo?”

“I’m good, thanks. I’ve seen and heard enough.” He folds the paper in half as he says, “I’d like to give some feedback, if I may.”

Bechtel interrupts after the current song and invites Alfie on stage. Graciously, Alfie thanks them all. Praises fall from his lips so generously you’d think he’d practiced for a week, then he addresses each one individually.

It’s only now I realize that the people with the copious amounts of notes weren’t the ones he wants to hire, but the ones he’s letting down. He has this wonderful formula that consists of heavy praise, then clear, concise, and specific suggestions for improvement, then another healthy dose of praise. Did his politician father teach him that, or is he just a natural at letting people down easy?

Bechtel asked those who he’d released to step into the audience, so now there are six Others besides Alfie and Bechtel on stage. By the wide smile on her face, Emma is thrilled that Kam made the cut.

“Every one of you is an excellent musician. I’d like to hire you and take you all on the road. I’m prepared to offer everyone on stage the gig that Bechtel explained to you when he invited you to attend.”

Bechtel gives him a questioning look, and I realize he doesn’t know if he’s been included or not.

“Yes, this means you, my friend.” Alfie reassures him. “The rest of you are free to stay if you want as we jam for a while. Let me reintroduce my amazing assistant, Stephanie Taylor. Stand up Steph.”

Is it a play of light, or the angle he’s at since he’s up on stage? There’s something about the way he’s looking at me so fondly that seems different from before.

“She’s going to help coordinate our long-distance practices as well as getting everyone papers to leave the country. I don’t envy her that job. The red tape alone would kill a better male than me, but this woman is up for the task.”

I don’t like the spotlight. Well, hate might be a more accurate word. But as I take my seat, I’m relieved to realize that wasn’t so bad. Perhaps it’s because everyone has gone out of their way to make me feel at ease.

I settle back in my seat as the seven males and one female on stage discuss what to play, then watch as several of the musicians loan Alfie their instruments. It looks as though one of everything is sitting in front of him: a human guitar, a stringed khu’rinn which is like a guitar with a much longer neck and a triangular box, a wooden flute played to the front like a clarinet instead of to the side like a metal flute, chimes like Bechtel played, and a few drums of various sizes.

I’ve never seen Alfie play. He does his composing in the back cottage. Within a few minutes, I have to make certain to close my mouth because it’s a wonder it isn’t hanging open.

Alfie’s handsome. I quit trying to hide it from myself weeks ago. But there’s no denying that he’s a huge, muscular, furry male with sharp horns that might terrify someone who wasn’t familiar with his species.

Watching him play, though, he’s like a different person. The look on his face is as though he’s been transported to another place and time. If the building caught on fire, I wonder if he’d notice or if he’d need to be carried out. When he’s playing, it seems the world as he knows it just disappears.

And his fingers, normally so masculine and blunt, you’d never imagine they could be so graceful as they skip along the holes of the flute or strum the strings of the khu’rinn.

After I’m done being amazed at how talented he is, I realize something else. I’m aroused. So heated that my mouth is dry. I want this male. How could any woman watch him play and not wonder what those supple, talented fingers would feel like stroking her hair, plucking her nipples, or fingering her most intimate spaces?

All my resolve over the last few weeks vanishes in a puff of smoke. No. A puff of lust. I read a quote once, “people are just animals wearing clothes.” Well, truer words were never spoken, because right at this moment, this animal doesn’t care if we have a one-day affair and then he decides it was a terrible mistake and fires me from the best job I’ve ever had.

Done holding back, I refuse to worry about what-ifs and the judgments of others. I’m tired of fearing that I’ll lose my job.

I want Alphonse Foster.

Still, I’m no femme fatale. I can’t exactly tackle him and force myself on the talented minotaur. But I can let him know, as unsubtly as I can manage, that I’m interested.