Like most satyrs, Simon Farmer has expensive and varied taste. He’s not in the market for anything more than a few drinks and as many lovers as he can manage. When he catches the eyes of bartender, Peter Cowan, the tables turn and the hunter becomes the hunted. Will Simon be able to resist the mortal who wants to give him everything?
Simon Farmer polished his hooves to a sparkling sheen. The less the satyr had to change when he cast his glamour, the easier the illusion would be to maintain. He liked looking nice when he went out on the town. If his hooves resembled a pair of shiny expensive boots, that would help him to maintain the distinguished gentleman air he preferred, even if, as on this night, he was going out to perform at one of the many clubs he frequented. There were very few mortals or immortals who could resist the sound of a satyr’s music, even when he didn’t use his special magical pipes.
Once he was done with his hooves, he grabbed a brush and tamed his curly red hair into order, careful no locks curled up around his curved ram’s horns. When he created his glamour, he’d simply make the horns vanish and let the hair fill in, but if there were any hairs going up the horns, they would appear to be sticking up, and that wouldn’t do for his image. He didn’t bother doing anything to his goatee; that would be covered by the glamour. He’d spent most of his time the past few years in the mortal realm, and had thought more than once about just trimming the goatee off to make it easier to hide. But on those rare occasions when he was called into the fae court, he’d be frowned upon if he didn’t have it. He was too old to be beardless among his peers.
His cell phone chirped as he reached for the lightweight sports coat he was going to wear. Simon frowned as he reached for the device. Life had been so much easier when people couldn’t keep track of him at all hours. The tone coming from the phone was that of his good friend, Felicity. She was supposed to meet him at the club.
“Simon,” she started before he had a chance to say anything. “This place is filling up. You need to get here.”
He cradled the phone against his shoulder as he started to shrug on the sports coat. “About to leave,” he muttered. He grabbed the phone so he could get into the other side of the coat.
“You live fifteen minutes away, and it’s thirteen minutes until you’re supposed to be on stage.” She sounded uncharacteristically frantic.
With practiced ease, Simon wove his glamour as he opened the front door to his apartment. To any mortal who might happen to look at him, he was just a dapper gentleman out for a night on the town—not a satyr on the prowl for a hot piece of ass, hopefully with a large cock attached. He liked having a sizable handle to hold onto as he fucked a guy. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed his flute case from the table next to the door. “Then you better hope all the stop lights are working in my favor so I make it in twelve minutes, otherwise I’ll end up being fashionably late.”
“This isn’t the nineteen-twenties, Simon,” Felicity hissed. “Paul, the stage manager, is going nuts wondering where you are.”
Simon decided to use the stairs as opposed to the elevator, which would cut off the call. He managed to muffle the clop of his hooves as he trotted down the concrete steps. “Then let him know I’m on my way. You might even remind him I’m the biggest draw he’s got right now. If it weren’t for my flute, he wouldn’t have half the people he has in that dingy room.”
Felicity let out a loud sigh. “Castaways is hardly a dingy room. Remember how much they’re paying you.”
As he opened the door from the stairs into the lobby of his apartment building, Simon tsked. “Now, Felicity, you know better than to remind me of money. Just because you’re my friend—”
“Your business manager.”
“Whatever.” He waved to the doorman, who opened his way onto the busy sidewalk.
Oscar, the doorman, smiled and nodded quietly as he did every time Simon went through the doors and didn’t have time to speak to him. For as long as Simon had lived in the building, Oscar had opened those doors. Oscar, and most of the other members of the staff, just thought Simon had a very good plastic surgeon who kept him looking like he was in his mid-thirties. Little did any of them know he was well over thirty-five hundred. Like most of the older fae, he’d watched their world grow up around him.
“Don’t whatever me, goat boy,” Felicity snapped back before she dropped her voice. “I go through a lot of work to keep a bunch of us blending into the mortal world. Sometimes I think none of you older fae really appreciate all I have to do to keep you from heading Underhill for your own safety.”
Simon didn’t pause as he approached the street corner. The crosswalk light was green, not even counting down to the red hand that indicated he should stop his walk. “Who would’ve thought one of the Gorgons would become someone we all go to so we can stay integrated.” He laughed as he sped along the sidewalk. The evening crowds were a lot fewer than they would’ve been earlier, when the sun was still up. There was something primal and empowering about being out in the early evening air. Simon had always loved that time. In years past, this was when he found simple shepherds getting ready to bed down but eager for the entertainment he brought. Unlike so many of his brothers whose tastes ran toward dryads, he’d always preferred shepherds, artists, and their like. Sometimes the creative types were enough to keep him entranced for a few days. Over the course of the years he’d posed, both in glamour and out, for more than a few painters.