Honeybun in a Loin Cloth

CHAPTER TWO-1

CHAPTER TWO

“DINI! YOU’RE OVER THERE, with the other mollies.”

Andy’s voice was calm as usual, but the edges of his calm were starting to fray as he tried to get the first day of practice underway. The French soldiers and the British soldiers had gotten drunk on fire water the night before and the event had degenerated into fisticuffs as they tried to determine whose cannons were bigger. His own headache reminded him that he’d had a bit of the old firewater himself.

He turned as Godric and Dolfe walked up. “You’re not in costume yet!”

Dolfe slapped him on the back. “We’ve been tryin’ to find a shooter, old dog.”

Andy expelled a breath. “Yeah. Right. I forgot for a few, wonderful minutes that somebody tried to kill the pork chop wench.” He lifted an eyebrow at Dolfe. “Thanks for reminding me, old dog.”

Dolfe laughed. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, musket in hand.”

Andy watched the six-foot-five-inch blond man start toward the tents and then turned a slightly frantic brown gaze toward Godric, lifting a bushy, black eyebrow in silent question.

Godric raised his hands and nodded. “I’m off to become an Indian. Do I have to use the skin dye?”

Andy glared at him.

“It’s just practice, Andy.”

The glare deepened. “We discussed this, Godric. You need to feel the part...become the natural American...walk in his, er, moccasins for a few days. This is war play, ’Dric. You need to look like you’re going to war.”

“Alright, alright. One hacked off original American coming up. But I’m pretty sure the red paint would be considered racist in some circles,” Godric grumbled. He headed toward his tent as quickly as the steep slope leading up from the reenactment arena would allow.

Behind him, a burst of music induced Andy’s calm voice to cut through the chaos on the field. “No cell phones allowed, people. You, fife, take that thing back to your tent. That goes for anybody carrying a cell!”

Godric ducked inside the low-slung white canvas tent and dropped to his knees so he wouldn’t have to stand in a bent position while dressing.

Spotting his leather leggings and breechclout neatly folded in the corner, he grabbed the clothing and looked for the can of red-tinted spray tan. He found it tucked inside his moccasins and quickly sprayed his face, neck, arms, and chest. While it dried he slicked his long, dark red hair back and tied it into a short ponytail with a leather shoelace. He stuck feathers into the hair above the leather and then dropped his jeans and boxers, reaching for his leggings. He stared at the leather contraption for a minute, then looked at the skimpy loin cloth, and thought that something was missing. Then he realized what it was. The soft, cotton pants that kept his butt from hanging out were missing. He growled.

Sticking his head out of the tent, Godric bellowed his cousin’s name. “Dolfe!”

A tall, cocky British Ranger sauntered out of his tent and started toward the arena, chuckling darkly. “Hurry up God, you don’t want to keep the ladies waiting.”

“I’ll kick your butt, Dolfe!”

The sound of his cousin’s laughter drifted upward as he and his musket made their way toward the waiting re-enactors.

“Dangit!” Godric briefly wondered if Andy would suffer apoplexy if he wore his jeans under his Indian getup. Deciding his anal friend would most likely stroke out, Godric turned back to his scanty clothing with revenge in his heart.

###