My house looked the same as it did before I left—was kidnapped.

Climbing the four steps to the large wrap-around porch, I noticed first, there were no newspapers, someone had cleared the porch, and second, my front door was standing wide open. Windows, too, open, as if someone was inside purposely airing out my house for my arrival. The someone in question worried me enough for me to drag myself to the porch swing and sit, worrying the edge of a plumped, frilly pillow, too exhausted to face an intruder if there was one. Not curious enough to see which man waited for me, if not an intruder.

“Girl! Get yourself in here! I see you out there—don’t you think I don’t.”

Jackie. Garrett’s best friend and my newly entrusted confidante. She awed me the very first time I met her. She wasn’t what I expected, but then I could never have been prepared for her in all her glory. I knew immediately that she was a man, or had been a man at one time, I think. I’ve never really been brave enough to ask, just accepting Jackie for who Jackie is.

Oh hell and thank God passed through my brain simultaneously.

She opened the screen door, holding it open for me, looking me up and down as I approached. “You look a little worse for wear. I sent the boys to the market for a few things. Lord have mercy, your refrigerator was empty! I say we start with a glass of my famous Southern Lemonade, if it doesn’t cure what ails ya’, it’ll sure make ya’ forget the pain!” She laughed, pulling me in for a big hug, towering over me, well over six-and-a-half feet tall, probably closer to seven feet with the spikes she always wears, her natural beauty overwhelming, dark-skinned, a pure, deep russet, with almond-shaped brown eyes, made even larger and more dramatic by her always-present false eyelashes. Her full, sensual lips were artistically lined and filled with a slick, glossy lipstick. Her wig was a multitude of long, burgundy braids caught and bound in a loose knot, a more casual look than I’d ever seen on Jackie, but a hairstyle that complemented the exotic, brightly colored caftan that reached to her brightly painted toes.

She wrapped around me, cradling me, making me feel six again, held like my mother held me when I’d skin my knee and I’d run to her crying and she would grab me and hold me tight, my face buried against her breasts. Then, a kiss and a Band-Aid were a miracle cure.

Hugged, pulled into the house, with a very strong, heavily spiked lemonade in hand, I felt better, not great, but definitely better. At least until she demanded, “Now, before they get back, I want you to tell me just what in the hell is going on! Why on earth would you agree to let Lord Fyre master you? Are you insane, girl? Lord, lord, whatever were you thinking. Sit and spill.”