by Gina LaManna
“You don’t have to explain anything, Luke,” I said. “It’s none of Mr. Clark’s business why you’re here.”
“I should’ve just called and asked you out last night, but I figured it would be easier face to face,” Luke said. “Anyway, I apologize. And since it looks like Mr. Clark here has you all sorted out, I should be going.”
“Luke, wait—”
He gave me a forced smile. “I’ll see you later, Lo.”
I watched as Luke left, unable to stop him. The door had barely swung shut before my gaze landed on Dane. “Look what you’ve done!”
Confusion wrinkled his beautiful forehead. “Fixed your faucet?”
“You ran away the first prospect of a date I’ve had in over a year!”
“It’s been a year since you’ve had sex?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said it’s been a year since—”
“I know what I said! It’s none of your business. Why are you even here right now? I don’t remember inviting you.”
“You invited me.”
I paused; he was right. I knew the second those words had come out of my mouth they weren’t true. I was just hot-headed and wanting to be right, so I continued with a stubborn lift of my chin. “Fine. But you didn’t have to come back.”
“I wanted to know if you’d signed the contract yet.”
“No.”
“Why not? Is something wrong with it?”
I shifted my weight from one leg to the next. “I’m not sure yet. My lawyer is reviewing it as we speak.”
“You’re lying.” Dane surveyed me for a long minute. “You’ve signed it.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The ink on your hand, the crumpled corner of my company’s paper sticking out of what appears to be your kitchen junk drawer where I see you keep only the essentials, such as old gum wrappers, three-year-old post office receipts, and important legal documents. I can see the Clark watermark. Not to mention, you looked away when denying that you signed the document, a clear indication that you were lying.”
I tilted my chin higher. So, maybe I had signed it…but just to test the waters. To see what it felt like. What the weight of my signature on the document would mean. I’d done it late last night after a big glass of wine and a long, hard look at Dotty’s prophecy. I’d never meant to do anything with it until Babs gave me the all clear on the rest of the contract.
“Does that mean I can count on you?”
I hesitated. The money, the figure written on the line above my signature, called to me like a siren’s song—dangerous, beautiful, and irresistible. One hundred twenty thousand dollars scribbled on the line in my handwriting. All mine.
I could keep Psychic in Pink and restore it to its former glory. I could tack on a coffee counter and a sunglasses boutique and I’d be in business.
“I’m still thinking.”
“Will this help?” Mr. Clark reached into his pocket, the movement stiff yet fluid all at the same time, and withdrew a narrow slip of paper that could only mean one thing. “You may cash it now if you need an advance.”
I accepted the check after a long minute of staring at his hands. The money was there, all of it. “But…shouldn’t you give me half? Or…I don’t know, pay me after? What if you give this to me and I run away, never to be heard from again?”
“I’m hoping this will convince you, and that’s worth the risk.” He gave me a flicker of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes before reaching down and whisking away the signed page. “You’ll start tomorrow. Nine o’clock sharp.”
“Where?”
“Castlewood, of course.”
“Hey,” I called, as he turned on his heel and strode toward the front door. When he turned around, I blurted out the first question that popped into my head, waving the check at him. “Aren’t you going to tell me what it is I’m supposed to find in order to earn this?”
“You’ll be briefed tomorrow.”
“Mr. Clark,” I mumbled to those brilliant blue eyes. “Did I just sell you my soul?”
“It’s temporary, Miss Pink.” He turned and rested a hand on the doorframe before speaking again. “Also, I would highly advise you to read over the terms of the contract before tonight. From the first page to the last.”
“But—”
“I like the sunglasses from yesterday better,” he said in a way that ended the conversation. “Oddly enough, neon green suits you.”
“This is your second emergency meeting in two days.” Babs gave me a knowing stare. “That hasn’t happened since you were fourteen and thought you might be pregnant from holding hands.”
“Annalise is the one who told me that could happen!” My face turned red, and I purposefully hid behind a set of bright pink sunglasses reminiscent of Legally Blonde. “And it’s not like I wanted to hold hands. Rob just sort of grabbed my fingers and squeezed. I was being precautious.”
“I’ll say.” Babs blew out a breath. Then she leaned over and swiped the sunglasses off my face. “I want to see your eyes for this news—I’m seriously glad you called. This contract is completely bogus.”
My body temperature dropped twenty degrees. “What?”
Babs fanned herself, scanning over the legalese. “I mean it’s a valid legal document—an expertly formed one—but I think your Mr. Clark failed to mention a few stipulations when he told you about the gig.”
I swallowed, trying to focus on the circus before me. Babs and I were sitting up high in the big tent. Annalise and her co-performers flipped and twirled, and blew fire like dragons. The ringmaster stood center stage, waving a stick as if it was a magic wand. Maybe it had special powers because the lion jumping through hoops seemed to listen.
When I’d called the emergency meeting, I had told the girls to meet at the water tower again. However, Annalise’s practice was scheduled for the same time, and she demanded we meet somewhere closer—somewhere she could pop in between somersaults and get the news.
“Oh, no.” Babs looked at me. Her blonde hair had expanded since yesterday, all fluffy and curly and sex-kitten-esque. She’d stained her lips blood red and rimmed her blue eyes with heavy liner. Those blue eyes had a look of horror in them. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t sign it.”
“Um.”
“Lola! I texted you last night asking for the missing page. You ignored me!”
“My phone wasn’t working… okay, fine. I ignored you. But it was an accident.”
She pursed her lips and gave me her best frown. “Your fingers accidentally became possessed by the demon of the Clark Company and picked up Dotty’s old feather pen and scrawled the name Lola Pink across the signature line? Really.”
“He was very persuasive!”
“He came back? Girl, you have to tell me the full story. How can I act as your legal expert if you leave out the important bits? Like, what was he wearing?”
“How does that help with the contract?”
“Well, if he’s hot enough, you might end up loving the contract.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugged. “Who knows? You don’t listen to your legal advisor anyway.”
“I’m sorry! Fine, he was wearing a really expensive suit, and he looked incredible. He also embarrassed me in front of Luke.”
“Mmm-mmmm…” She made a noise that sounded like me after the first bite of Mrs. Fredericks’ freshly baked cookies. “Now there’s a man who’s a safe bet. Why don’t you go out with Luke? He has an honest job, a great body, and he fixes stuff. That’s very manly.”
“What about Dane? Get back to the contract, please.”
“The middle part—the part which you didn’t even read, I’m sure—specifies that by accepting this contract, you’ll live with him in Castlewood for the duration of the project.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish.” She pointed one blood-red talon at page sixteen of the document. “Read that paragraph.”
I read it, and then I read it again. “Translate, please.”
Babs hemmed and hawed for a minute, and then she parroted in a monotone voice. “The contractor—that would be you—shall act as my Personal Assistant for the duration of the project. They shall live on the premises and should advise the employer—that’s Mr. Clark—of any pre-made plans that shall require an absence from the Castlewood grounds.” She paused, fanned herself with the papers. “Basically, he owns you, babe. For however long it takes you to find his thingamajig.”
“I didn’t mean for him to take it! He plucked it out of the junk drawer.”
“Your junk drawer? Even I can’t find anything in there.”
“Exactly,” I moped. “What does this mean?”
“This is a legal and binding contract. Did he take the signed page with him?”
I nodded and, though my heart was racing and a part of me couldn’t believe what I’d done, I found myself wondering if maybe it was a blessing in disguise. Or worse, what if I had wanted him to find the document?
Babs dragged out a long sigh. “Why couldn’t you just wait?”
“What’d I miss?” Annalise bounced up the steps, looking adorable with her hair in two sleek braids. “Lola looks hysterical. Babs, why does she look hysterical?”
“Basically, she signed her soul away to Mr. Clark before conferring with her legal counsel. Now she’s set herself up to be murdered in a Castlewood closet and neither of us can do anything about it.”
Annalise put her hand on her hip and gave a disappointed shake of her head. She fixed her stare on me. “Didn’t I tell you this would happen? I warned you against this, Lola. I’ve gotta get back to practice, but we are not done talking about this young lady!”
“Gotta’s not a real word in the English language!” I shouted after her.
Babs just stared at me.
“What?” I shrugged. “I’m about to be murdered by a crazy billionaire. I’m stressed, and that was the best retort I had.”
“Oh, honey,” Babs said.
I stood up. “I’m feeling sad.”
“One last thing.” Babs stood and squished me to her side. “Can I adjust your will before you start working? I’ve had my eye on these new pink shades, and I think they’d really fit my face.”
No matter how many times I flipped to the pages holding the first prophecies, they were both long gone. I checked under the light, in the darkness, by candlelight and even by flashlight. I sat in her chair, I spread it on the floor, and I brought it in bed as I drank three cups of tea. It was empty.
A knock on the door distracted me from my quest to find the prophecy. I hadn’t been expecting anyone, and I definitely hadn’t been expecting anyone at nine p.m.
I climbed out of bed and ran a comb through my hair. I debated swiping on mascara so I wouldn’t look like I’d been dragged out of bed at nine on a Sunday night—I was twenty-five for crying out loud. I should probably be out doing things with friends or…whatever it was young, cool people did.
However, my laziness won. I’d already washed my face so mascara was out of the question. I grabbed Dotty’s journal and thudded downstairs, crossing the line between apartment and psychic shop as I leapt to the landing. Once I’d tucked the book out of sight, I situated myself behind the door. “Who is it?”
“Me.” The voice was low, familiar. “I’m sorry it’s so late. I just finished a job.”
Forgetting all about my lack of mascara, lack of sunglasses, lack of pretty much everything, I flung the door open and smiled a hello at Luke. “Hey, you.”
His expression faltered for a moment, his eyes lingering below my head until I realized that my pajamas were hardly respectable for sleeping, let alone opening the door. I wore Superman boy shorts and a black tank top. Bras were the first thing to go when I was home in my comfy clothes, so that was another crucial item missing. If they weren’t so damn restrictive, maybe I would’ve had one on.
“Oh, sorry.” I leapt behind the door and fumbled through the coat rack until I found Dotty’s knock-off fur coat. The thing was something Cruella De Ville might’ve worn—long, puffy, and about four sizes too big. Dotty Pink had been a big woman full of love, and my much more mediocre curves drowned in her jacket. “That was embarrassing.”
Luke forced a smile, his eyes scanning my new attire. “Is it rude of me to admit I prefer the last version to this new one?”
I glanced down at the coat hanging to my knees and shrugged. “I think you have to take a girl out to dinner before you can say things like that to a lady. Not that I’m a lady, but... well, I mean I am, but…never mind.”
Thankfully, Luke laughed. “I was feeling awkward until you opened the door.”
“Yeah, well, I’m glad I could be of service. Did you need something?”
“Actually, I came by to apologize.”
“For what? I should be the one apologizing. You didn’t need to see any of this business. These shorts would scare most men, women, and children away.”
“For breaking your sink.”
“When’d you break my sink?”
“Well, yesterday I loosened it up a little. I was just trying to get the nerve up to ask you out, and I figured maybe if I came back and spent a little more time around you…maybe you’d see that I was a nice guy and it would help you say yes when I asked.”
“Well, you can pay me back with dinner.”
His grin broadened. “Tomorrow night?”
I hesitated. “I’m sort of starting a new job tomorrow. Maybe the day after?”
“Tuesday sounds great. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Great! I’ll see you then.” I moved to shut the door, figuring I might try out that seductive finger wave that some women make look so elegant. “And next time, don’t break my pipes. Just ask, okay, Luke?”
“You got it. And say—” Luke stuck his hand out, blocking the door. “Congrats on the new job.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really.”
“I’m sure you’re lying. Where are you working?”
“No, really, it’s nothing. And I can’t talk about it. NDA’s and all.”
“NDA?”
“Non-disclosure...applica—” I searched for the last word. “Never mind. It’s basically top secret.”
He winked. “I see. Goodnight, Agent Pink.”
“Agent Pink.” I closed the door, turning the name over in my mind. “I like it.”
“Agent Pink reporting for duty!” I leapt out of bed. “Crap!”
What happened next was unfortunate. As I flew from my bedroom down toward Psychic in Pink, my dumb foot missed the top step, and I tumbled halfway down the wooden staircase before regaining my balance.
When I finally pulled myself into some semblance of a standing position, I threw my shoulders back and tried to keep my chin up. It worked until I made it halfway across the room and realized the middle button on my sweater had popped off during my staircase slip and slide. I threw it to the floor, replacing one cardigan for another, almost identical, one.
The day was not off to a brilliant start. What did a secret agent wear? I’d settled on jeans and a tank top paired with ballet flats, and my now second-round button-up sweater. Casual enough in case I needed to blend in, but not sloppy.
I topped off the outfit with a matching pink clutch and chunky, retro sunglasses to match. I’d tried desperately to curl my hair, but it ended up looking like an Einstein photo shoot gone wrong, so I threw it into a ponytail and prayed for the frizziness to deflate.
It wasn’t that I’d woken up late. Quite the opposite. I’d been up at six thirty and dressed by seven. The hair-curling thing had been declared a failed experiment by seven fifteen; and by seven thirty, I’d finished off two Pop-Tarts and a mug of coffee. I had had an hour to spare.
The problem began when I climbed back in bed to rest—fully dressed—and ended up resting for a really, really long time. What had started as “letting my eyes nap” had turned into “snoring
like a lumberjack”. I’d blown past my alarms like they were nothing, and that was the reason I was shoving a helmet on my head and climbing onto my bike with only ten minutes to get to Castlewood.
“Pedal, dammit!” I cheered my legs on, pretending they belonged to Lance Armstrong. Lance in pretty, fuchsia sunglasses.
Cars honked as I veered in and out of traffic, but I kept my eye on the prize. Once I’d stabilized on two wheels, I fumbled in my pack for the “going away” present Babs and Annalise had given me last night when they swung by my house to wish me luck.
“Agent Pink is on the move.” I shouted into the tiny walkie-talkie. The girls had shoved it into my clutch, insisting I have a backup to my cell in case it stopped working at the manor. Also in case Dane Clark turned out to be an ax murderer. “Babs, do you read me?”
Unfortunately, no matter how hard I cheered, I couldn’t make my thighs go any faster. My arrival time at the manor’s front gates was precisely six minutes late. If the King of Castlewood had thought to build a downward ramp instead of an insanely huge hill into his driveway, maybe I could’ve made it in time.
As it was, I’d waved my white flag and given up halfway through the climb. I walked my bike to the front gates, my cheeks burning with a mixture of exertion and shame. I hated walking my bike up hills. But it was a really, really big hill.
Since I was already late, I borrowed an extra two seconds of time to call into the walkie to Babs and Annalise. When they’d gifted me the walkie-talkie, they’d also sat me down and made me promise to do things like “check in throughout the day” and “send pictures of any hot pool boys”. The latter request was Babs. The former, Annalise.
I snapped a picture of the front of the mansion and sent it along to Agent Bombshell and Agent Flipper. Then, I tucked my walkie-talkie—disguised to look like a tube of lipstick—into my bag. The Sunshine Shore had its fair share of joke shops, and they’d come in handy for this mission. Lipstick designed as a communication device, a set of fuzzy handcuffs (Babs’s choice, not mine), and disappearing ink. I was ready.
