4. Wisteria

After that awful group session, the need to escape feels as if it's pressing in on me from all sides. The city seems louder and more oppressive than ever, my magic even harder to access.

I need to leave. A quick inventory of my savings reveals that I have enough to break my lease, rent a car, and spend a few nights in a hotel until the keys to my aunt's house can be turned over to me and the monetary part of my inheritance released. It feels like a terrifying leap–if anything goes wrong, I'll be stranded with very little money and no home to go back to. The smarter thing to do would be to go to the meeting with Mr. Screed and then think it over again, but I have the distinct feeling that if I don't go now, I might not go at all.

Instead of goingto the group session on Monday, I sit in my nearly empty apartment, my white noise machine working overtime to drown out the sounds of the city. I sprinkle jasmine petals in a circle–my aunt always told me that they were good for calm–and sit in the center of it, burning a rose-scented incense as I focus on a spell for good luck from my grandmother's book. Carefully, in slow, methodical movements, I take out sprigs of rosemary, mint, and chamomile and put them in the stone bowl that's been passed down from mother to daughter in my family. It's blackened in spots, chipped in others, but I was always told that it was important to use this one. Touching it, I can feel the magic that has seeped into the very stone, can hear the whispered words of my mother and grandmother and her mother before her, speaking these same incantations as they ground the herbs.

Gently, I set a piece of green aventurine in the middle of it, as I reach for a piece of flint. That's another thing I was always taught–to make the spark of the fire for the spell myself, as close to the basest parts of nature as I can manage, rather than relying on a match or a lighter. Some witches can truly produce that flame themselves–with a word of magic and a gesture–but I've never been that sort of witch, and neither has anyone in my family. That kind of power is something I've never had.

The spark catches the herbs, and they start to burn. I took the batteries out of my smoke alarm for exactly this reason, and cracked the window just a little, so it won't set anything off out in the hall. The smoke drifts up, filled with the green, herbal scent that makes my chest ache with longing to be closer to the woods, to nature, to the earth.

Soon. I breathe it in, and I feel the calm settle over me. I've made the right choice.I can do this. I repeat it over and over, and as I do, I could swear I hear the soft sound of my aunt's voice in my ear, repeating those same words with me.

The magic of speaking with the dead is another sort that I don't possess, but I'm not sure in that moment that it matters. Whether it's real or only my imagination, that calm persists, the soft voice wrapping it around me until I feel the fear slipping away.

I just hope I can hang onto it until I make it to Bayton.

—

Halfway there, I feel the spell wear off. I feel grateful it lasted as long as it did–I've never been able to cast so well in the city, and I feel sure that it must have been my aunt there with me somehow, helping me. But halfway to Bayton, I feel the fear and the nerves start to crowd in again.

Why are you doing this?

You've left everything behind on a whim.

You're going to fail.

You don't know anything about running a business.

I hear that last in Miriam's voice–my boss was quite upset that I was putting my notice. She said almost exactly that–that I've been a sales associate for all of my "career," not even a manager, that there's no possible way I could manage to run a shop on my own, that this was doomed to fail. I know that most of her rancor and the cruel way she said it was out of her own desire not to lose me–but it certainly didn't make me want to stay.

It also didn't make me feel at all confident that I'm going to succeed.

It'slate afternoon by the time I get into Bayton. I put the windows down as I pass into the city limits, and I immediately get a lungful of brisk, chilly salt air. I feel my cheeks flush, a small hint of real excitement filling me, and I look around curiously as I drive down the main street towards my hotel. I feel like one of the tourists who frequent this place–but this is going to be my home.

It looks exactly like what's always been described to me–a quaint, seaside tourist town. There's a boardwalk near the water lined with food stands offering both savory and sweet, an arcade, a Ferris wheel and a carousel, and then to my left I see a row of small shops. The hotel–a bed and breakfast, really–that I chose is near the water, and I pull into the small parking lot, looking up at the white-shingled and blue-shuttered building. Here goes nothing, I think as I suck in another breath of the salty air, walking into the lobby.

The receptionist is a pretty elven woman with long pointed ears and chestnut hair that she has up in a high ponytail. Her skin looks perfectly clear without even a bit of makeup, and she smiles at me with a sort of practiced cheerfulness that makes me realize that she definitely thinks I'm a tourist.

"Welcome to Bayton! How can I help you this afternoon? Are you here to check in?"

"I am." I push my driver's license across the counter towards her. "I have a reservation for Wisteria Avon?"

Her eyes go round instantly. "Avon? Are you–Eleanora's niece?"

I feel that pang of guilt again, the realization that my aunt had talked about me to people here, that she really had missed me. That I missed out on a connection that I can't ever get back now. I nod, feeling my throat close over with emotion. "I am," I say softly, and I see a hint of sadness cross the girl's face.

"She was a lovely woman, your aunt. That shop she ran was so wonderful. She used to sell me herb blends for my anxiety–it always worked so well! And she would give me a discount. Never gave discounts to the tourists, though." The girl laughs, a high, musical sound. "I think that's how she managed to stay in business. Are you taking it over?"

"I–" I hesitate. "I might be. But I think I might be–making it into something different."

"Oh." The disappointment in the girl's face is evident. "There's no other apothecary in town. But there is a shop one town over–they don't like paranormals, though. Anyone who goes there has to be careful."

"Well–" I bite my lip. "I don't know if I want to run an apothecary. But I am a hedge witch, like my aunt was. I can still try to make some of the same blends–if that would help? It just wouldn't be the focus of the shop. And I'll have teas–"

I realize, with a shock that goes down to my toes, that it's the first time I've ever stood in a place like this–a public building, in front of a stranger–and said who and what I am out loud. A hedge witch. It came out with such confidence, too–without a question. And the offer of the herbs–that I felt confident about, too.

Maybe my aunt was right. Maybe Bayton is what I need.

"I love tea! If you're still willing to make the blends, well, I don't think it has to be the whole focus of the shop." The girl's face instantly brightens, and I feel a warm sensation in my chest at the realization that I can help her. I can do something to make her happy, to make her life better.

Thisis the sort of thing that my family has always done. This is what my magic was meant to do.

"Oh, I'm so sorry." The girl taps away at the keyboard, reaching for a thin blue and white card. "Here's your key. I'm holding you up, aren't I? You must want to get settled in."

"Where's a good place to get a drink?" I don't drink all that often–the noise pollution of the city seemed to hurt even more when I got tipsy, but here I don't think I need to worry about that. "Maybe dinner, too?"

"Oh there's so many places." The girl purses her lips, considering. "There's the Dripping Vine, the Salty Pearl, the–oh, the Howling Moon is nice! A bit busy, this time of year, but if the owner is there he's really something to look at." She winks at me, grinning. "And I hear he hired a new bartender that's just delicious."

"I'll take that into consideration," I tell her with a laugh, taking the complementary things-to-do pamphlet that she hands me and heading for the spiral staircase that leads up to the upper floors. There's no elevator, and even though it means lugging my suitcase up two flights of stairs, I find that I don't mind it. Instead of metal and musty carpet as I go up, I smell freshly waxed wood and the faint hint of new paint, the fresh salty smell that seems to permeate everything on this side of town filling my nose. I feel lighter than I have in a long time, and happier.

I have the rest of the evening to do as I please–my appointment isn't until tomorrow afternoon. I strip off the leggings and long flannel shirt I wore for the drive, and wander into the bathroom, eager for a shower. I can't remember the last time I stayed in a hotel–hell, the last time I went on vacation–and even if this isn't exactly that…

I've left my old life behind. Whether this fresh start works out or not, this is a break from the monotony that was slowly pulling me down over the past years like a steady quicksand. I mull over what I want to do with an evening that's entirely mine as I luxuriate in the shower, enjoying the steady spray of hot water and the luxurious jasmine and cedar scented bath products. The shower in my old apartment never seemed to stay hot for longer than fifteen minutes, and I stay under the water until my fingers start to wrinkle.

By the time I get out, digging out a pair of dark jeans and a green long-sleeved shirt, I've decided to check out the Howling Moon. I didn't go out much in Seattle–without any real friends and no real shot at meeting anyone, what was the point? I definitely wasn't going to flirt with a hot bartender when there wasn't a chance it could go anywhere. I've never been the type to do one-night-stands or hookups, and when you can't tell the truth about yourself, it can't really be anything more than that.

I don't expect that I'm going to find anything lasting here, either. Bayton is a tourist town, so I expect anyone I meet is either going to be only here for a little while, or someone who enjoys sampling the variety that comes through. But at least in this scenario, it doesn't feel like such a disappointment to at least enjoy the scenery.

Maybe even flirt a little, if I'm feeling brave.

It's not too cold yet, and so even though the Howling Moon is on the other side of town, I grab my old thrifted leather jacket and decide to walk. I immediately see that what I've heard about Bayton is true–it doesn't really seem to have an "off season." I would never have ordinarily thought of coming to a beach town in the fall, but there's a bustle of tourists everywhere I look. I see a group of girls that look as if they're barely out of high school, holding caramel apples on sticks and giggling with each other.

"--does it hurt when they shift, do you think?" one of them asks, licking sticky caramel off of her lips, and her friend's eyes go round.

"I want to watch. It would be such a cool thing to see! They should offer that as like–an experience or something."

I wrinkle my nose, picking up my pace as I walk past the girls. I'd be the first one to admit there's something sexy about the idea of shifters–something a little animalistic and more dangerous–but I've never objectified anyone like that. The thought of reducing someone's natural impulses down to a show for entertainment makes my skin crawl, and I wonder just how much patience I'm going to have with the tourists here. Surely they can't all be that bad, I tell myself as I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, dipping my head as the wind picks up. The moon is nearly full in the clear sky, and there's a crisp bite to the air, giving the night a noticeably autumnal feel.

By the time I get to the Howling Moon, a rustic-looking bar with a distinct tavern aesthetic, I can feel that my cheeks are red and a little numb. I hurry inside, rubbing my palms together as I look around. There's no hostess–it seems to be self-seated tonight–and a lot of the tables look full. I go towards the bar instead, finding an empty leather stool and hoisting myself onto it as I look down the length of burnished pine to the man standing at the end, wiping off a glass.

My heart instantly leaps into my throat. Delicious, the girl at the hotel said–and she wasn't wrong. I'm not sure I've ever seen a more attractive man in my life. He's tall, with shaggy dark hair pushed away from his face, and a strong jaw dusted with black stubble. He's wearing a deep blue henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing thick forearms dusted with more dark hair, and when he turns to pour a beer, I get a perfect view of his perfect ass encased in black jeans.

I can feel my mouth go dry, and I realize that I'm staring. I honestly don't know what's come over me–I've never been the type to stare at a man. I always feel a little guilty ogling anyone–I don't like being looked at like that, so why would I do it to anyone else? But it feels as if I can't take my eyes off of him. My pulse is fluttering in my throat, and I feel flushed and hot, my thighs squeezing together. I realize, with a dim sort of shock and a little embarrassment, that I'm wet. I can feel the cotton of the plain black panties that I threw on when I got out of the shower clinging between my legs, and my cheeks flush for an entirely different reason.

The bartender turns towards me, and another flush of heat goes through me. He has blue-grey eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes too beautiful for a man, and he's looking right at me. My head swims a little, and I press one hand to my forehead, taking a breath. I've never felt like this. I've never wanted like this.

He looks at me curiously, and when his eyes meet mine, I see them darken a little. For one brief moment, I could swear they shift in color, going a deeper, almost gunmetal grey. His lips purse, his forehead furrows–and then his face goes pleasantly blank again as he makes his way down the bar towards me.

"You alright there, darlin'?" His voice has an easy drawl to it, his accent something not quite from here, and I feel my mouth go dry all over again. My heart is beating so hard it hurts.

I am not alright. Don't act like an idiot. It's all I can think as he stops a few inches from me, and I can smell his soap and cologne. He smells like juniper, sandalwood, and spice–and I have a sudden, insane desire to strip him naked and rub myself against his bare skin like a cat.

Something is wrong with me. I swallow hard, and he gives me another curious look.

"Just a long day," I manage to squeak, my voice coming out in a sort of cracked pitch that makes my cheeks flush. His full lips twitch in a smirk, and I want to fall out of my chair and sink into the knotted pine floor below me. He can obviously tell what he's doing to me, and he obviously finds it amusing.

"Well, nothin' a stiff drink can't take the edge off, I'm sure." There's a slight emphasis on the word stiff–or maybe I'm just imagining it. I feel as flushed as if I have a fever, but if anything, my skin was slightly chilly when I touched my forehead. "What's your poison, darlin'?"

If he calls me that one more time, I'm going to combust. I swallow hard again, desperate to work up an answer. "I–I don't drink much. Maybe a beer?"

"Beer's an acquired taste. Well–so are most things. Let me make you somethin'." He gives me a wink, and I feel that flush go through me all the way down to my toes. "Give me a second?"

I'd give him a second. I'd give him an hour. All day, all week. I'd–I close my eyes for a brief second, trying to will away a flurry of filthy thoughts that have never, ever entered my mind before. I'm not sure if half the things I'm imagining are possible. I'm not sure if they're normal. But whatever this man is making me feel right now does not feel normal.

He turns away, giving me another view of that perfect ass and muscled thighs. He moves with a sort of languid ease that suggests he's never in a hurry about much, and that thought conjures up another barrage of absolutely filthy imagery. That handsome face, lingering between my legs with that same sure slowness. That black stubble, scraping across the soft flesh of my inner thigh. His tongue, tracing patterns without a hint of hurry, teasing me until he finds out what makes me gasp and moan, wet and hot and–

I don't remember the last time I got laid. I don't remember the last time anyone turned me on. Honestly, for the last year or so, I feel like I've barely even touched myself. I have a few toys that I kept tucked away in a drawer–one of those rose vibrators that everyone online says is better than a man's mouth…and maybe it is, I've definitely never had a man make me come like that…and a standard dildo that came in handy every now and then. I packed them with everything else when I got ready to move, but I can't remember the last time I used them. After a while, relying on my own hand and some toys bought online felt a little sad.

What I've missed isn't so much sex, or pleasure, but being held. Having strong arms around me, a warm body to sink into, that warm masculine smell that clings to skin and sheets long after the breathless moments have passed. Sex has never been all that great, in my opinion. I like what comes before and after the most–the making out, the fevered touching, and then the cuddling. But while I've had the former a few times, the latter is almost impossible to come by when a relationship is off the table.

The throbbing pressure between my legs intensifies, and I bite my lip before I can let out a small mewl of need. I've never been so horny in my life. My hips shift forward without meaning to, and I squeeze my thighs together again, wanting, needing friction. It almost feels like I could come right here, right now, without ever being touched.

How badly do I need to get laid, that one hot bartender makes me feel like this?

He turns back to where I'm sitting, a smoky grey tumbler in his hand. The color of the glass makes it hard to see what liquor is inside, but I catch a whiff of whiskey as he hands it to me.

"Whiskey, honey syrup, and lemon," he says. "Learned how to make it in a bar down in Cali. Called the Gold Rush. Sweet enough not to bite, but with a little spice still." Another wink, and I feel myself melting from the inside.

"Try it," he urges, and I lift the glass to my lips. I've never liked whiskey in the past, but when the first sip touches my tongue, I realize that I must have just never had good whiskey before. This does burn a little, despite his reassurance, but the honeyed sweetness softens it just enough, and when I swallow, I taste vanilla on the back of my tongue.

I wonder if that's what he tastes like. As soon as the thought goes through my head, I feel absolutely idiotic. Of course he doesn't taste like that. No man does. But those blue-grey eyes are still fixed on me as I set the glass down, and I can feel my hands trembling.

"How's it taste?" he asks, his voice a low rasp, and I lick my lips, rubbing my sweating palms against my thighs.

"It's really good," I whisper, and that smirk twitches over his mouth again.

I can't stand it a second longer. I can't look at him. The desire is burning me up like a fever, and I take another hasty sip of the drink, expecting him to walk away. But when I look up again, his brow is furrowed, and I see that his eyes have darkened once more.

I have the sudden, insane desire for him to walk around the bar, bend me over this stool, and fuck me like I've never been fucked before in my life.

"Excuse me," I squeak, slipping off the stool and looking around desperately for the ladies' room. I notice it towards the back, and catch one more glimpse of the bartender–his jaw tight now with what looks like frustration–talking to a blond man in a red flannel who has just joined him behind the bar. It only registers with me for a moment before I make a beeline for the ladies', my heart pounding in my chest.

I'm not thinking about what I'm doing when I lock myself in a stall, my back pressed to the door as I lean my head back against the wood and try to catch my breath. Every inch of me is throbbing, my skin tight and hot, and I would have almost thought there was something in my drink–except I felt like this from the moment I walked in. Something in the air, maybe? Some pheromone oil in a diffuser or something, to spice up business? But surely this isn't good for business. I'm not at the bar, buying a drink. I'm fumbling with the button of my jeans, slipping my hand into my panties, pressing my other hand against my mouth to muffle my gasp as my fingertips slide over my clit.

A jolt of pleasure sharper than anything I've ever felt shoots through me the moment I have the slightest friction. I've never felt my clit so hard and swollen before, the slightest touch making me writhe against my hand. I've never been so wet. I'm almost too slippery, my fingers struggling to find purchase, but it doesn't matter. I'm on the verge of orgasming from the moment my hand slides between my thighs.

I need something inside of me, desperately. I don't dare take my hand away from my mouth–I can't be quiet. It feels too good, every brush of skin on skin making me gasp and whimper, gritting my teeth against the anguished moans that I want to let out. I've never needed to be fucked so badly, and I slide my hand further down, pushing two fingers into my soaking wet pussy as I grind the heel of my hand against my clit.

I nearly scream as the climax hits me, buckling my knees and forcing me to turn into the corner of the stall to stay upright. The moment my two fingers slip inside, I start to orgasm, the force of it stronger than anything I've ever felt. I can feel my clit throbbing against my hand, my pussy clenching around my fingers, and nothing has ever felt so good–and at the same time, so desperately not enough. I want to be filled up, devoured, fucked harder than I've ever been in my life. I feel half-crazed with it, bucking against my hand, forgetting where I am and what I'm doing as the orgasm pulses through me.

As it ebbs and I slowly come back to myself, I blink, sliding my hand out of my panties. What the hell? My hand is drenched, sticky, and I can't believe what I just did. I'm the kind of girl who feels a little embarrassed masturbating at home, in the privacy of my own room. The kind who clears her browser history every time she looks up something even vaguely pornographic to get off to, just in case someone happens to see my phone.

I am definitely not the kind of girl who fingers herself in a public bathroom, no matter how nice it is.

I have to get out of here.I can't imagine facing the bartender again. I can't imagine facing anyone. There's a back door to the bar, and I slip out of the bathroom as quickly as I can after washing my hands, my face flushed red. A handful of patrons turn to look at me as I hurry past, and I don't think much of it at first–until I remember that this is a town populated by supernaturals.

Which means some of them can smell me. Some of them could probably hear me, no matter how hard I tried to keep quiet.

The thought makes me want to sink into the floor and disappear all over again. Could he? That thought is even worse. There's a wrought-iron fence around the courtyard behind the bar, fringed with trees, and I slip out of the side gate. I'm desperate to get back to the safety of my hotel, to think clearly, to sort this out and put this entire strange night behind me. I never actually got far enough to order dinner, but that's the last thing on my mind right now.

I'm halfway back to my hotel before I realize I left my credit card at the bar.

Which means, much to my dismay, that sooner rather than later–I'm going to have to go back.