“How do toes look cold?”
“I don’t know!” He squawks, clearly confused himself. “I just feel like they’re fucking cold. Like my ancient side is telling me that they’re cold. That I need to get you some socks, so that they won’t be so fucking cold anymore!”
The disorientation and distress in his tone are oddly adorable.
“And I can get you any type you want. Silk. Fuzzy. Knee-highs. Do you want some knee-highs?”
I give my chipped polished toes I let my oldest niece paint a teasing wiggle before reaching for the bottle he’s clutching. “I want to know how a person gets tied to this realm and why me – of all the fucking people on this planet – is one of them.”
“This is quickly becoming more of a Leprechaun’s Breath conversation than vodka.”
“Grab a bottle of that then.”
Shock sends his eyebrows to the ceiling.
“I know how to drink with the big boys.”
Amusement sparks his smirk. “You think so?”
“I’ve got six brothers.” An arrogant grin is given on a wink. “I fucking know so.”
“Fuck,” he grunts at the same time he rises to his feet, “six?!”
“Yup. And I’m the only girl.”
“And the Goddess of Fate continues to prove just how much she hates me,” A.D. murmurs on a defeated headshake.
I simply snicker at his comment, move the liquor as well as the candy bag to the floor, and enjoy the view of him crossing over to the other side of the room.
Putting on pause his possible need to be committed to a psych ward based on the bizarre shit he’s saying, the man – um dragon? – is other worldly sexy. Significantly taller than me – an impressive thing since I’m five ten, which in itself is above average for most men in this country – and stacked like this multi-million-dollar estate he resides in. There’s nothing to him but angles sharp enough to break a tooth on and endless stretches of warm golden, sandy-colored skin. Under normal circumstances, that firm, plump ass of his he’s shielding in matching gold bottoms to mine would be the star of my fantasies for at least a month, with cameo appearances in the ones that followed it.
However, these aren’t normal circumstances.
I truthfully don’t even really know what these circumstances are.
Everything somehow simultaneously feels unbelievable yet right.
Insane but real.
Like something I’ve always unconsciously suspected has finally been proven while disproving every fiber of my entire existence.
So many people say “seeing is believing” which if that’s the case, then I should be fucking singing the Gospel of “Bat Shit Crazy” because in less than twelve hours I’ve seen elves, a genie, a dragon, and magically scored my first tattoo – a marking I swore to my youngest brother we’d get to honor our dad together.
The thought of my siblings pushes me to ask, “How many brothers do you have?”
“Two.” A.D. grips the edge of what I thought was a decorative gold mirror and opens it like a fridge door, releasing a gust of cold air from the confined space. “Zilveren or Z, who you met – well, saw – is my younger brother. Ptur or P, who you will eventually meet, is my older brother.” He grabs a bottle from between two stacks of vegetables. “Both are also Ancient Elementals, except Z is Silver and P is Platinum.”
“Is there meaning or reasoning behind your metal names?”
“We can produce the liquid element from inside ourselves. It runs through our blood.”
He shuts the door to his hidden icebox as I investigate further. “Is that why your dragon scales are that color?”
“Yeah.” Heading my direction, he adds, “And our dragon’s name is our element. So, my dragon – who you tried to run over with your car – is Gold. Lucky for you, he’s not holding a fucking grudge about that.”
He’s flashed a snarky smirk. “He shouldn’t. I did what any normal person would do in that fucking situation.”
“Not sure that’s true.”
I wait until he’s settled back on the couch beside me to request more information. “How many different types of dragons are there?”
“A lot.” He uses his teeth to bite off the cork of the bottle containing a neon green mixture. “And it’s Draak custom to keep a bottle of Leprechaun’s Breath hidden in your room for emergency situations.”
“Now, there’s a custom I absolutely fucking get.”
Another intrigued gaze is shot my direction.
“My mom – who was Russian – had two types of vodka always on hand. The medicinal kind – in the medicine cabinet – and the toasting variety – located on a top shelf in the kitchen. And then my dad – who was black, Haitian, and French Canadian – always had a bottle of Canadian whiskey tucked away under the bed claiming it was how he stayed close to his roots. Mrs. Hounsou – she lived two apartments down and taught me everything I needed to know about hair care – always had at least one African beer somewhere in her house. Now whether it was store bought or homebrewed by a friend was never really clear, but I always wondered because the bottle never had a label. And of course, I can’t forget to mention Mrs. Vasquez, the ridiculously pretty upstairs neighbor whose daughters my brothers were not supposed to date yet somehow ended up taking their virginities like Monopoly properties. She kept a bottle of tequila under the bathroom sink next to a bottle of Nair claiming it was only there as a ‘pain reliever’. It was always unclear if it was a pain reliever for Nair use or just an in general type of thing.”
Seeing his mouth agape gets me giggling again.
“My point is, liquor customs are pretty universal. Most individuals probably don’t even realize it. Whether it’s champagne on New Year’s Eve or spiked eggnog at Christmas or a margarita on Cinco De Mayo, most people have at least one ritual tied to alcohol.”
“You sound like you know a lot of shit about different types of your own kind.”
“I do. And not just their drinking habits.”
A.D. lightly chuckles at the joke.
“I love being versed in various cultures and traditions.”
“Mother of Dragons, I’d love for you to become versed in mine.”
His statement slides so easily off his tongue that it catches us both by surprise.
Matching red tints cake our faces as we momentarily look away in opposite directions.
Holy shit, is he… flirting with me?