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“Hush,” Mac says.
“Bert and I are good friends.”
“Seriously?” Mac splashes through the creek toward the enormous boulder.
“How do I know you aren’t just saying that?” the woman shouts.
“Believe me,” I yell back. “You haven’t really had cock until you’ve had Bigfoot cock.”
“Really?” The woman sounds like she’s genuinely interested and no longer terrified I’m about to be sacrificed to Bigfoot’s furry god.
“Oh, yeah,” I yell back. “He’s—”
“Please, for the love of all that’s holy—” Mac says.
“-also amazing with his tongue.”
“Kill me now.” Mac picks up his pace to head uphill, presumably to the other side of the boulder and out of sight of the woman.
“Think he’s into threesomes?” the woman asks.
I smother my laughter against Mac’s furry chest.
“Does all that fur get in the way?”
Finally behind the boulder, Mac drops me to my feet and slaps a furry paw over my mouth. “Not another word. Or I’m feeding you to the forest monsters.”
I freeze, all the laughter dying in my throat.
“Shit, you’re seriously terrified.” He takes his paw from my mouth. “I would never do that to you, Honey. Just please don’t encourage them. I don’t want to be captured as some woman’s love pet.”
That’s a funny picture, but I’ve looked down and realized I’m ankle deep in dead leaves. I start to shake. I need to calm down or I’m going to have to ask Mac to carry me on his back like a human backpack everywhere we go.
“Lost. I was so outside myself I couldn’t find my way back in,” I sing softly. It’s a song I wrote for me and my sisters. From a time I was even more scared than I am at this moment.
“What was that?” Mac bends down, putting one furry ear closer to my mouth.
Admitting I’m terrified of dead leaves is worse than Mac hearing my horrible singing, so I keep going. “I thought I’d found the answer in your eyes, but you told only lies. You told me you knew the way, but you twisted me up, and left me lost. So lost I believed you when you said the answer was in the bottom of a cup.”
“What is that song?”
I breathe in deep and steady myself. I’ve fought through worse. I can get through this. “Nothing. Just a stupid song I wrote.”
“You wrote that?” The awe in Mac’s voice finally drags my eyes away from my feet buried in leaves and dead things.
People who have no artistic ability are often easily impressed by even the worst examples of creativity. “It’s nothing. Just a hobby.”
“That might be a hobby,” Mac says. “But it’s not nothing.”
It occurs to me, for the first time, that I don’t actually know if he’s creative. "What did you say you teach?” He told me he teaches music and, if he was telling the truth, he’ll get more specific. If he’s not, I’ll catch him out. Win, win.
He’s peeping around the side of the boulder, probably looking for the woman who now believes Bigfoot kidnaps women and has amazing sex with them. “Teach?”
“Isn’t that what professors do? Or are you one of those research professors who just writes books?”
He comes back over to stand in front of me. “She’s gone. We should start looking for the treasure.”
“Sure. But what do you teach?”
