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I just wanted to suck on watermelon so I could breathe again. I didn’t care about the cost.
“Two dollars… each,” she winced. “So sorry.”
The waitress and whoever was running this festival were the only ones who could see the potential of what this event would be someday.
I gave the girl money for my brother and I, including the same tip I gave the parking attendant. She praised thanks as I rushed past her, absolutely starving for fruit.
There were no buildings. No rides. Only tables for homemade games and event booths that resembled rickety roofs held up by four rotting posts. The dance/festival of sorts resembled a huge barbecue put on by an ambitious, large family.
In disbelief, Piercer mumbled, “Have these people ever been to a real festival?”
Smiling and talking to one another, there were probably around a hundred ‘festival’ goers.
“Hi!” squeaked a woman from a drink stand to my right. “Would you gentlemen like the best watermelon wine in the county?”
“Pfft!” grumbled her older competitor in the next booth over.
“No thank you—” tried my brother until I practically shoved him out of the way to make a beeline to the woman, hoping her beverage would quench my unexplainable thirst. Piercer threw his hands into the air, joined me, and ordered one for himself. “Make that two, please.”
Walking away from the stand, we both took a long swig. “Delicious, ma’am,” he praised over his shoulder.
The juice was cool, refreshing, and sweet, but my tongue wasn’t satisfied. I cursed under my breath. I was ready to explode from … need.
“What is wrong with you?” asked Piercer, his nose scrunching in annoyance.
“Not saying. You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“Too late.”
Swiftly, my eyes searched our surroundings for anything that could cure me. I knew I was close, but I needed much closer. Right away.
While taking another sip of his drink, Piercer’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he scanned our surroundings. As he should be, he was on guard since his VP was losing his shit.
Gesturing to my beverage, I berated, “Get us more.”
Snarling, he insisted, “I’m not your servant, asshole.”
“Just get us another round,” I grunted as my eyes skimmed over the small crowd.
As he went back to the drink stands, I tilted my head when spotting a group of men pointing to something with much interest. Maybe it was primal male instinct but their intrigue intrigued me.
Not taking my sight from them, I downed the rest of my drink in two long gulps then tossed the paper cup in a trashcan.
The closer to the men, the louder the music.
The louder the music, the thirstier I became.
In fact, as I was almost to the gawkers, I started to lose control of my body. Without me giving out a command, my head turned to peer over some people to my left. Immediately, I recognized another array of outside lights collected in the air. They were crisscrossing over a makeshift dance floor that sat in front of a small stage with a four-man band and a female singer holding a tambourine. Into the microphone she sang a song that wasn’t the folk sounding music I expected. There was a keyboard, electric guitar, drums, and bass that was paying honor to the song “Tomorrow, Wendy” by Concrete Blonde. The haunting melody perfectly matched the paranormal dream state I’d been in and out of all night. The female’s eerie voice even made the sensations more intense.
Due to an enticement that was now owning me, my eyes searched the dance floor. Most people dancing were with partners and wearing jeans, T-shirts, and boots. Only one person was dancing alone. At least that is what it looked like to the naked eye, but in my bones, I knew she was dancing to something most couldn’t comprehend.
Appreciation of … freedom.
Something, I suddenly realized, I’d been desiring for some time.
I grabbed my chest as this truth sank in. Oh my god. It was like a curtain being pulled back to show how much I hated my life. I hated the numbness I’d created to survive the life I was forced to live.
On the dance floor that consisted of mud and trampled grass, there was a seductive woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties. Completely out of place, she was in a black silk nightgown, a strap hanging from her smooth, bare shoulder. Although everyone else was dry as if having hid in their cars during the recent rain, this woman appeared to have been born within the storm. Eyes closed, her long, dark, wet hair swayed along with her slow-moving body. The damp silk—the only apparel she had on—clung to her curves and stirred my own body to attention. Hands, with lingering intricate fingers, felt up and down the smooth material as if she was enjoying the feel of the cloth as much as the music.
