Suddenly, Summer

Summer was sulking over cake, alone.

Felix had also been a bust. When she and Winter had approached the male sub Master, he had been in a conversation with Kevin. Winter had tried the same foursome line, which resulted in Kevin grabbing his boyfriend by the ear and pulling him aside to “talk about boundaries.” The bebunkered Master had politely declined, even after Summer offered actual sex instead of her pegging him.

So now, she sat and ate cake, watching the couples slow dancing to one of those sappy love songs the reception pops up after the reception events are done and the polycule wants to maybe sneak off for “first time married sex in private.” The dirty blonde dancing with Felix shot her a dirty look every time their eyes met. Kevin and Winter were both looking at each other; the size difference between her five foot tall (a few minutes) younger bratty brother and his seven foot tall boyfriend was amusing. Van looked awkward shuffling with some platinum blonde woman. Mama Scarlet was putting in some happy effort with Mama Tyalangan; Summer rarely saw her somber sea elf mom smile so brightly. Why can’t I have my own sexy husbando? Am I not pretty enough? What’s wrong with me?

Summer tried her best not to cry in public. It was unbecoming for royalty to ruin the mood of an event like this by selfishly giving in to sorrow. And, despite how far down the line of succession she was, she was a princess, damnit!

Another mouthful of cake distracted her temporarily. Some mood enhancement magic in it, in all likelihood. Still, the effect faded quickly. Stupid charm magic resistance!

Michael had been at the reception for five hours and he had stopped asking questions.

He had asked three, early. The first was to the seven-foot man with the horns, who answered him kindly, at length, and in a way that produced only more questions. The second was to a woman with six arms, one of the brides, who was very nice about it. The third he asked Sam, and Sam had looked at him a half-second too long and said, “Open bar's that way, Mikey,” and he had decided that was the answer.

So now he had a system. The system was: great show, incredible budget, don't touch anything.

He got a corner of the terrace and a cup he had made himself. The identical caterers had brought a machine they clearly did not know how to operate, and Michael had found it forty minutes into the reception the way a dowsing rod finds water. He'd pulled about thirty shots since. Somebody's grandmother had asked him for a flat white and he was pretty sure had cried a little when she had drank it. Not because of the coffee. Probably.

Out on the floor, Andy was dancing with — Michael couldn't remember the name of the green-skinned bride, but he was happy about the wedding. Genuinely. He was happy for Coop, he had been happy for Coop all day, and he had also spent most of the afternoon doing math he didn't like the results of.

Also for the record, and to nobody: he had asked to be put on the list. Behind his own counter. He had been told the show was ending.

Their father was not there. Their mother was not there. Michael had checked that fact roughly every twenty minutes since the ceremony, the way you press a bruise. That was a blessing, and not a small one. The man would have found something wrong with the chairs. Would’ve had a whole thing about the chairs, all the while gearing up for a talking-to to his daughter and possibly a scene at the end of the wedding, and Sam would’ve held it together right up until the toast. Anyway. Great chairs. Best chairs Michael’s ever sat in.

His sister got married last night. He was so proud of her. He couldn’t wait to properly meet the wife, and to hang out with both of them. Sam deserved all the happiness she could get.

Then he saw the girl near the cake table.

Sure, she was purple. Michael had already decided not to have an opinion about that. She was in a pretty dress that really flattered her figure, white hair, ankles crossed, alone at a table built for eight. And she was eating cake in the specific way people ate things at his counter when they didn’t want anybody to see their face: fast, head down, one hand flat on the table like the table might leave.

Six years across a slab of reclaimed maple. He knew that one. There were tons of people at this wedding and as far as Michael could tell every single one of them could do something. She was sitting by herself anyway.

She was also, and he’d have liked to be honest with himself since no one else was available for the job, extremely hot. So Mike did what he did best. He went back to the machine.

Michael set the cup down across from her, not next to her, and stood standing.

“Okay, so, up front — I don’t know the etiquette here,” he said. “Where I’m from, when somebody’s eating cake like it owes them money, you bring them a coffee and you don’t ask about it. If that’s rude on your end, say so and I’ll go stand somewhere else. I’ve got a whole spot picked out.”

Summer eyed the coffee a little suspiciously. Not because of the hot guy, of course. She’d just been burned too many times by Mama Daphne bringing her a cup of “mermaid approved” coffee.

“A certain naked shark-toothed lady only a bit taller than me… no… never mind. Thank you.”

She sipped. It was good. Real good. Mama Tyalangan would have teased about it being a silly coffee flavored milk drink, but the creamier, less sugary fancy cow milk helped to enhance instead of overwhelm the espresso. A touch of vanilla, not too heavy. A dusting of nutmeg on top, maybe?

“Thank you, really. You wanna sit a spell? I could use some good company.”

Michael didn’t need to be asked twice. “Thank you, I’d love to.”

He grinned and took a seat close enough to talk and show interest, but not so close as to crowd the girl. He was not sure whether she was from a place where they shake hands, but what was the worst that could happen?

He offered her his hand. “Mike. Mike Collins. I’m the Best Woman’s brother.” He paused for the girl to introduce herself.

“You want the full title or just a name?” She took his hand and kissed it while she waited for him to answer.

Michael’s hand stood where she left it for a second longer than it needed to. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. For the record, I offered a handshake and what I got back was significantly better, so I’m going to need a second to catch up.” He did not look at his hand. He was extremely aware of his hand. “Also, I owe you an apology, because whatever you just kissed probably smells like four hours of espresso and frothed milk. Occupational hazard. I’d have washed my hands before approaching, if I’d known the day was going that direction.”

He shifted in the chair, and the questions came out faster than he meant them to. “Is that a standard thing here, or — do I do that back? Is there a version I’m supposed to do? Because I’ll do it, I just need somebody to tell me the rules once. I’ve been guessing all night and I’m running about fifty percent.”

Then, without hesitating: “Full title.” He set his cup down, turned his chair a few degrees so he’d squared up to her, and folded his arms on the table the way he did at his own counter when a regular started a story worth hearing. “The whole thing. Every word. And if there’s a part where I’m supposed to stand up, say so and I’ll stand up.” He tipped his chin at her, waiting. “Take your time. Nowhere to be. Everybody I know at this wedding got married today.”

“Well, if you want the full title…” She slipped onto his lap, one arm wrapped around his neck, enjoying the feel on him under her, “…you shall have it. I will not be offended if a certain part of you starts to stand. Princess Urinlaire Copse-Wood, sixth in line for the Copse-Wood throne, eldest daughter of the pairing of Tyalangan, 48th Queen of Nimlith Grove, and her first wife Silmerana, certified rope-binder and member of the Royal Order of the Dildo Harness. Or, if that is too much of a mouthful, you could just call me Summer.”

She leaned in to murmur in his ear, finger tracing little shapes on his chest, “Now, how could I have missed such a delectable morsel like you in all of the pomp and circumstance of this day?”

Michael didn’t skip past it this time. “Sixth in line,” he repeated, and there was no punchline loaded under it — just genuine interest, like he was filing away something worth having. “That’s a real title. Mine’s ‘the guy who knows the code to the walk-in toilet.’ Different scale, I’ll grant you, but I take mine just as seriously.” He paused. “Royal Order of the Dildo Harness,” he said next, “I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole, but out of restraint, not fear. I’ve got a whole list of follow-up questions, and otherwise we would be here all night.”

Her hand was still moving on his chest. He caught it, not to stop it, just to press it flat against him for a second so she could feel exactly what it was doing to his pulse, then let it go again. “And as for how could you have missed me...” He said, and there was no scramble in it now, no apology loaded underneath — just a grin, close enough that he could watch her decide whether to believe it. “Easy. You were looking for somebody who’d fit in here. I was just the guy behind the espresso machine. By choice, mind you. But I know why I did it. Takes one to know one — and you’ve been sitting alone at a table for eight, and you’re the first person I’ve seen here worth knowing, I think.”

He reached up, tucked a lock of white hair back from her face, unhurried about it, like he’d done it before and expected to do it again. “You want to dance,” he said, “or you want to stay right here and make me work for it a little longer? Either way I’m not going anywhere. I already told you — everybody I know at this wedding got married today. I’ve got nowhere else to be and nobody waiting on me.” He tipped his head, just enough to close some of the distance between them, and waited to see which way she leaned.

“What kind of dance? The kind where we join the others in the throng over there or the kind where I pick a lock to a coat closet somewhere and we find some privacy? Regardless…” She slipped out of his lap, smirking in satisfaction at the effect she had had on him. She leaned forward, once again mildly annoyed at how prudish her dress was but not letting that show on her face. She held out a hand to help him up. “…I will take you up on that offer, Mr. Collins.”

Michael took her hand and let her pull him up, then didn’t bother pretending the standing part had been graceful. It hadn’t. He reached instinctively to adjust his jacket, then remembered there was no jacket. He had left his on his chair somewhere. “You noticed,” he said, covering. “Good. I wasn’t gonna lie about it if you asked.”

He didn’t let go of her hand. Turned it over instead, laced his fingers through hers, and started walking before she could, so it looked like his idea. “Okay, so throng first,” he said. “Purely tactical. I want everybody at this wedding to watch the coffee guy walk off with the prettiest girl at this wedding, and then I want us to vanish ten minutes later and let everybody write their own ending. Way better story than whatever actually happens in the closet.”

He glanced sideways at her, grinning. “Also I don’t know any of your dances. I know how to sway and pretend I meant to. If that’s not up to royal standard, you’ve got about thirty seconds to lower your expectations.” He stopped at the edge of the floor, turned to face her, offered his other hand palm-up. “So — teach me something, or let me embarrass myself? I’m equally into both options.”

“I will spare you the courtly dance lesson. A couple of my moms made sure I understood how to dance like a human.” She pulled him onto the dance floor, unapologetically taking the lead position. Her hands were firm, her instructions offered in husky purrs. She was light on her feet, able to adapt as she deftly avoided having her feet trod upon. It took a song or two, but Michael found the steps manageable enough. Summer felt safe enough to point at Michael behind his back and mouth, “Look at this hottie” to Winter when they passed each other. Her brother flashed her a cheeky grin and a thumbs up.

They talked, about coffee and court life and everything between. She flirted. He flirted back. By the time the band called for a break, she had her legs wrapped around his hips, an arm holding onto where his shoulder met neck and her other hand wrapped up in his hair. Their lips crashed together. She pulled back when she decided that she’d pass out without a breath. Foreheads pressed together, she panted, “So, did I do better than the third bridesmaid?”

Michael pulled back an inch, forehead still nearly touching hers, catching his breath. “The third — “ He stopped. Replayed it. “Sorry, I don’t know what that means. I haven’t talked to a bridesmaid all day,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve talked to anybody at this wedding who isn’t you, Sam, Coop, Sam’s wife, or some of the brides. Or the creepy maid pouring drinks. Should I know what that means? Is that a thing I missed? Because I’ve missed a lot of things tonight, that’s kind of been the whole day for me, but I feel like I’d remember that one.” He was still holding her, still catching his breath, but there was a real question underneath the joke now. “Who’s the third bridesmaid?”

“Oh, sorry. Guess it’s a bit of an inside joke? Some of my moms would joke about how the third bridesmaid was always the best lay. I still chuckle at them scrambling to claim ‘third bridesmaid’ for Mama Nyadia’s wedding to Queen Mama. Might have been a bit tasteless, in retrospect, considering both your now sister-in-law and my birth mom are two of the bridesmaids today…”

She gazed down into Michael’s eyes, biting her lower lip. She squeezed tighter around his waist. She wanted… more. She hoped she hadn’t screwed it up. But Michael didn’t flinch, didn’t scramble. He just started laughing — real laughing, the kind that shook both of them a little, forehead still against hers. “So somewhere in this hotel,” he said, “you’ve got a whole extended family who turned bridal party assignments into a competitive sport, and the historical record includes actual scrambling. I respect that. That’s commitment.”

He felt her tense at the second half of what she had said — Liesa, Skye — and he didn’t let it sit long enough to become a problem. That was not how he operated. He caught her chin with two fingers, tipped it up so she was looking at him and not at the middle distance where the awkward math was happening.

“Hey. It’s okay.” Flat, certain, no hedge on it. “You told me an old family joke, found out halfway through it lands weird today, and kept going anyway instead of bailing. That’s not a foul. That’s just what happens when you’ve got a big family and a wedding on the same day — everything’s tangled up with everybody.” He shrugged, easy. “Trust me, I run a coffee shop that’s basically a group therapy session with pastries. I’ve heard worse. I’ve told worse.”

He didn’t bring up Liesa by name again, didn’t linger on it — that was a door he was closing on purpose, same as he would have done behind his own counter. Instead he tightened his arms around her, grinned, and went for the reset. “For the record,” he said, “I wasn’t scoring you against anybody’s family superstition. I was scoring you against every other person at this wedding, and you won that one before you sat down.” A beat, eyebrow up. “So. You still want that coat closet, or did I lose my window being a menace about a hundred-year-old inside joke?”

She pulled a lock picking kit and 50 feet of silken rope out of her Inventory. Queen Mama had always emphasized being prepared. “Lead the way, Melindo.” Michael didn’t quite get that reference, either.

The closet was smaller than either of them expected and neither of them cared.

Michael got the door shut, got the rope off his shoulder, and didn’t fumble it. There was a coat rod running the width of the room, sturdy, iron, exactly the kind of thing you would have hung forty pounds of winter coats on, and he got a bight of silk looped and cinched around it before Summer had finished lighting the little ward-lamp she pulled from somewhere he was not going to ask about.

She turned around to find him already working. “You know what this is,” she said. Not quite a question. She’d planned on teaching.

“I know what it’s for,” Michael said, not looking up from the knot. “I don’t know your version of it. But I’ve spent six years tying off fifty-pound sacks of green coffee one-handed because the other hand’s always full, and about four thousand mornings tying an apron behind my own back before the shop opens. Rope’s rope.” He tugged it, tested it, satisfied. “You’re going to have to tell me if I’m doing this wrong. I’m not going to pretend I won’t get it wrong. I just don’t think I will.”

Summer opened her mouth to correct him and didn’t get the chance, because he was already crossing to her, and there was no hesitation in it — no “can I,” no checking-in stammer, no cover joke to hide behind. He just put a hand at her jaw, tipped her face up, and kissed her like he already knew the answer to the question he wouldn’t bother asking.

She melted into the kiss, all thoughts about the fact that she was supposed to tie him up forgotten. There was only the mingling of limbs and tongues and saliva. Her dress was pulled back into her Inventory before they broke initial contact. She, like any reasonable woman going to a party, had worn nothing underneath.

She shuddered in excitement as she felt the first coils of rope around her bare skin. He needed much less correction here than on the dance floor. Quicker than she would have imagined, she was properly trussed up, wet and panting. Mama Skye would have been proud. “Take your prize, Melindo. You have earned it.”

Michael didn’t say anything clever back. For once, there wasn’t a joke standing between him and what’s actually happening, and he let that be true. He looked at her — properly looked, the way he hadn’t let himself all night, not since the cake table — trussed and bare and waiting, and something in his chest went very quiet and very certain. “Yeah,” he said, rough at the edges. “I did.”

He didn’t rush it. Six years of reading a room told him when to slow down, and he slowed down, hands finding her like he’d already memorized the map, patient in a way that had nothing to do with hesitation. He had no Inventory, so he quickly took off his jacket, pulled down his pants and underwear, feeling his blood boil at the sight of this pretty little lilac-skinned girl, trussed up and eager to have some fun.

Summer’s eyes widened when she saw his cock. Fuck that thing is huge! It’s one thing when it’s a toy and you are controlling it yourself. It’s quite another thing when it’s real and only half hard and throbbing and… FUCK!!!!

When he finally, finally gave her what she’d been trussed up waiting for, Summer’s whole body went rigid, a sound tearing out of her that had no court polish left in it at all. He didn’t speak the language, but he could pick up on the tone. She was pleading for him to get inside her.

She did not finish that thought. Mike pulled her close, kissed her neck ravenously, his rapidly hardening cock stroking Summer’s thighs, the feeling of her soft, smooth lilac skin driving him to greater heights of arousal. She ground herself along the top of his girth, completely sodden, coating him with her lubricant. Her pleads got more intense, more aggressive, as best he could tell, but they hitched. She did not finish several thoughts. Mike Collins, mundane barista, twenty-seven years old and entirely unaware he was ever supposed to be anything less than this, set a pace that had the princess of Nimlith Grove forgetting she was a princess, forgetting the dance floor, forgetting for one long, uninterrupted stretch of time that there was a world outside this closet at all.

The world reminded her.

The funereal toll didn’t register. The scream did, thin and distant through the wall, followed by a groan that runs through the whole building like the hotel itself was deciding whether it was still standing. Michael’s head came up first — instinct, the same one that had him behind the counter reaching for a fire extinguisher before he’d consciously smelled smoke.

The ropes disappeared and the girl stumbled onto her feet, trying to force herself into a defensive stance despite how noodly her legs were. Sword was out, wind roiling around her feet. She finally spoke some English, “Don’t know what the fuck that was, you?”

Michael was already moving — no scramble to it, just economy, the same forty-shots-an-hour efficiency that had gotten him through five hours of a wedding he didn’t understand. He got his one remaining shoe back on, got the door cracked an inch to check the hall, lights going out in the corridor, something howling in the distance, and only then looked back at her.

Sword out, wind doing something around her ankles that definitely wasn’t weather, legs still finding their footing under her — and she was asking him a question like he might actually have the answer. “No idea,” he said, flat and honest, no joke buried in it. “Never heard anything like that. I’ve had the fire alarm go off during an actual electrical storm and it didn’t sound like the building was reconsidering its whole existence.”

Another groan rolled through the walls, closer this time, and somewhere past it something that might have been screaming and might have been something worse.

“You good?” he said, nodding at the sword, at the wind, at all of it. Not a dumb question — he meant it. “Because I’ve got nothing. No weapon, no magic, can’t see the fairy lights, remember. Best I’ve got is I’m hard to startle and I make excellent coffee under pressure. If that’s useful, I’m right behind you. If it’s not, tell me where to stand so I’m not in your way.”

He didn’t reach for the door yet. He planted himself between her and it instead, which was not a strategic position for a man with no weapon and no magic, and he seemed to know that and do it anyway. “Whatever’s out there,” he said, “you’re not walking out alone while I—”

The light took him mid-word.

He hit his own apartment floor. Four in the morning, Yonkers, one working shoelace, no jacket, and no proof any of it had happened outside his own head. For two full seconds he didn’t move at all, because his body hadn’t caught up with the fact that the fight he was walking toward didn’t exist here anymore.

Then it did catch up, all at once.

“Summer,” he said, out loud, to an empty room, like saying it would do something. It didn’t. He was on his feet before he’d finished deciding to stand, at the door, wrenching it open onto his own dark, ordinary hallway, his own dead-bolted, unremarkable building, no ballroom, no wind, no sword-girl bleeding wind around her ankles somewhere he couldn’t reach.

His phone was on the kitchen counter where he had left it this morning, a whole lifetime ago. He got it in his hand before he’d registered crossing the room. Sam first — straight to voicemail, no ring, nothing, which had never once happened, not since she had gotten her first phone at thirteen. He called again anyway. Same nothing.

Coop next. He had had the number seven years, ever since Sam had made him put it in “in case I ever need you to drive out and vouch for the guy,” and he’d used it maybe ten times. It rang once, cut, dropped him straight to voicemail same as Sam’s had done — no signal trying and failing, just a flat wall.

He stood there in a dark hallway with nothing in his hands to prove any of it had been real, and did the math he had sworn off doing an hour ago. Except now it was not a missed opportunity to be on television and meet cute girls. It was his sister, and his new sister-in-law, and the friend he’d spent all night happy for, and every one of the women Coop was marrying, and a lilac girl with a sword who had looked like she’d fight harder for people she’d known one night than half the men Michael’s ever met would fight for anyone.

All of them still in that building. Whatever that building actually was. And he was here, in Yonkers, in a rented tux with one shoe, useless.

“Come on,” he said, to the phone, to Sam, to nobody who could hear him. “Pick up. Somebody pick up.”

It didn’t ring.