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“Lost kid,” I grunt at them, handing him over. The young police officer smiles, taking his hand.
“What’s your name then?” she coos. Her eyes flicker over me. “Thanks. You did a good job bringing him here.”
“Not a problem, ma’am.”
Turning on my heel, I walk out of the stall to keep up my patrol.
“I bet all these people singing your praises haven’t been to one of your clubhouse parties.”
A melodic, pleasantly-pitched voice comes from my left, and I turn, looking down and blinking at the butterfly-painted face of a young woman with masses of dark hair. Like a little pixie.
She’s not wrong, but what the hell would a dainty little thing like this know about our clubhouse parties? My eyebrows shoot up as she smirks up at me.
“Do I know you, kid?” I rumble, trying to place her face. Can’t say there have been many painted-faced little pixies hanging around there. She giggles at my question.
“Nope.” Her lips pop on the ‘p.’ “Keep looking menacing, Merch. I think there’s a group of kids over there you haven’t scared yet.”
I scowl after her as she waves her hand dismissively at me and strolls off. I don’t look menacing. Wren says we have to look helpful and welcoming. I fucking nail that look. A kid catches sight of my face and hurries away. Shit. Well,nowI’m looking menacing because I’m scowling after my little pixie.
Also, how the hell does she know my name? I know it’s on my cut, but she was standing on my other side. Has she been following me around or something?
Trailing after her, I make sure to school my face into a ‘helpful and welcoming’ look. No other kids run away from me, so I guess it works.
My little pixie stops at the kids arts and crafts stall. Ducking her head, she walks through the crepe paper curtain at the entrance, tying a smock over her T-shirt and denim shorts. Taking a seat, she smiles at the three little children sitting in smocks and clutching paintbrushes.
Picking up her own paintbrush, she dips it in some paint and does something on the table, the kids copying her. I guess the face paint makes a lot more sense now.
I watch her paint with them for about half an hour. She laughs with her whole face, screwing it up and throwing her head back. It’s a good look on her and suits her whole pixie thing. As I watch, the kids switch with another group, and she starts the entire painting demonstration again.
Finally, the second group of kids stands, and my pixie stands with them, herding them out of the tent, clutching their paintings, into the expectant arms of their waiting parents. She collects some paint jars, moving out of the tent toward a water tap.
Coming to a halt beside her, I look down at where she’s crouched. All I can see is a messy bun of dark hair.
“What’s your name?”
She doesn’t jump, laughing and looking at me, squinting slightly in the sun.
“Shelley.” She stands, holding her clean, wet paint jars. “Excuse me.”
She brushes past me again dismissively, and I frown, my hand darting out and gripping her elbow, stopping her from walking away. Shelley stops immediately, tipping her head to look up at me. She’s not laughing anymore, her eyebrows raised.
“Yes?” she asks, sounding bored. Hell, there’s definitely something so damn familiar about her. I have no idea why and it’s scratching at my brain. A puzzle I can’t solve.
“I do know you,” I tell her, still frowning. “How do I know you?”
Laughing again, she leans closer, and I dip my head to hear her when she speaks in a lowered voice, full of amusement.
“I imagine I’m one ofmanywomen you’ve fucked at your clubhouse. Have a nice day, Merch.”
Tugging her elbow out of my grasp, Shelley flashes me a grin and strolls back to her art stall, setting up the paint area and turning with a beaming smile at the next group of kids ready to do art with her.
Staring after her, I cross my arms over my chest, searching my brain for any memory of her. When the hell did I fuck a pixie at the clubhouse. Pixie, pixie...motherfucking black ballerina pixie. That’s who she is. The tourist from last month who I fucked outside the clubhouse.
Smirking, I watch her laugh with the kids, showing them how to paint. My mind isn’t seeing a grown-up kid with butterflies down her face anymore. It’s seeing a black tutu and her shiny pink lips as her head tipped back, and she came on my dick.
It’s a fuckingnicememory. Huh. I guess I did see her again. What are the odds?
Chapter 8
