Nymphs and Satyrs
I shouldn’t have come out tonight.
The moment we enter Dionysus’s club, the music so loud it vibrates through you, I scan the crowd. It’s hard to focus on individual faces as everyone undulates and grinds to the beat, but I still find him. Shit.
“Hey, Echo,” I call out behind me.
I turn around, but she’s already halfway across the club trailing behind a ridiculously toned blond. At least she waited until we had drinks; Cynosura and Ida ditched “girl’s night” at the first sniff of satyr sweat.
I take a sip of my wine, trying to still the slight tremor of my hand. It’s fruity and strong and sends a delicious stream of warmth through me. I take another, deeper drink. I look over the crowd again. There must be someone else I know, but my eyes keep darting back to the same spot, a dampened-til-see-through linen chiton pressed tight against a muscled chest, a delicate hand caressing a horn peeking out of bronze curls. I take another drink.
At the rate I’m going, I’ll probably need a jug instead of a cup. I turn to head back toward the bar, but instead I meet a wall of red-haired haunch. The wine from my cup sloshes down my chiton and buries itself in the soft wool. I have to tilt my head back to see the smirk on the centaur’s face as he looks me over.
“Watch it, nymph,” he brays.