Copyright © 2015 Hearts Collective
All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.
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SOMETHING WICKED
By
Jillian Sterling
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
The Hermit.
Shit.
Not the card I wanted to draw.
I glanced up at Tara through my overgrown black hair, which fell into my face while I drew the cards. She hadn't noticed the card yet, too busy casting her critical eye around my cramped magic shop, The Witchery. I followed her gaze to her friend Melinda, who was poking through a selection of necklaces.
Her sudden gasp told me that she finally looked at the card. With a toss of her beautiful hair—golden blond and stick straight, not by genetics, but definitely by design—and stared at me accusingly.
"That's my card? A wrinkly old man?"
Her voice was shrill, a sonic shock considering her stunning appearance.
"The hermit," I corrected her calmly. This wasn't going well.
"Hermit?" Her voice climbed up another octave, creating a whole new high note.
"It's a great card for you" I lied. "Based on your spread, he means wisdom."
Her response was simply an epic glare.
"And impartial love," I added quickly, nervously fanning the remaining cards of the tarot deck in my hands.
She pursed her lips. "Impartial love?"
I nodded and looked down, pretending to read her full spread. A little white lie wouldn't hurt. "Yup, the entire spread is all about love. You know, about finding love. It's going to be a good year. A great year."
My mega-watt smile withered at her ice-queen glare.
"It better be. It's my senior year..."
"Final year," her friend Melinda interjected on her way over to check out the tarot spread on the table. "You're on your fifth year, so technically you're a Senior Senior. Like that old dude."
She giggled and tried to pick up the card, but Tara slapped her hand away. "Don't touch my cards."
"It's okay, we're done." I jumped up and gathered the cards from the table. "I need to check on your potion. It should be just about ready."
A defeated Melinda scuttled back to the jewelry. Desperate to get away from Tara's skulking, I was just a few paces behind her.
"See anything you like?" I asked, tucking the cards back into their silk pouch. "I think this would be perfect for you."
I slipped a delicate silver pendent off the necklace tree.
She took it gingerly. "It's pretty. What is it?"
"It's a Celtic tree," I explained. "The Celts believe you can enter the fairy realm through certain trees. Look closely and you can see the 'wee folk' hiding in the design."
She pulled it up to her eyes for closer examination before squealing with delight. "I am part Irish you know."
It took every ounce of my willpower to keep my eyes from rolling. Instead, I simply smiled.
"Amanda, can you ring them up?" I called over to my best friend and housemate, who sat on a stool behind the register with her nose buried in a book.
"A reading and a potion. Can't you do a deal?" I heard Tara whine as I walked into the potion room.
Amanda punched numbers into my ancient cash register. "This isn't used car dealership." Her voice matched her sardonic expression.
Since The Witchery was attached to my house, the "potion room" just an impressive name for my kitchen. I grabbed a coffee filter and the two amber bottles sitting on the butcher block counter and got to work filtering the macerated herbs.
Two sets of footsteps—one light one heavy—pounded on the old wood floors above me. I scowled for a minute at the noise. How could I focus positive energy with Finn and his girlfriend-for-a-day parading around up stairs?
Their footsteps descended the stairs. I hoped they were dressed. The last thing I needed were naked people running around the house when I had business in the store.
The sudden slam of the front door made me jump, and I spilled the oil. It spread out, tinting the worn wood butcher block slightly yellow.
Finn walked into the kitchen, grunting out a "sorry" on his way to the fridge.
I snatched a dishtowel to keep the scented jojoba from dripping onto the floor. Finn pulled out a chocolate milk carton, leaned against the counter, and chugged straight out of the container, fridge door still open. He eyed me while I mopped up the mess.
"You need something?" I asked, not masking my exasperation.
He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Nope."
"Then could you close the door to the fridge, please? You're wasting electricity."
I rubbed at the oil with the towel, careful not to get any on my skin. Then I gingerly gripped the glass jar to finish filling up Tara's bottle. The smell of vanilla and jasmine lingered in the air.
Finn kicked the fridge door closed with the toe of his work boot. I peeked at him through my overgrown bangs. A shame he was so damn infuriating.
Finn's olive skin was tanned to a late summer deep brown. His dark brown curls flopped messily around his face. Tattoos snaked up both of his muscled arms, leading to wide, muscular shoulders. Standing in the late morning sun in his faded jeans, t-shirt clinging to his muscled torso, Finn looked like a fitness model instead of a college bar bouncer. My heart beat a little faster as more than the summer heat worked its way down to my lady bits. Got milk, indeed.
"Where's girlfriend-for-a-day?" I asked, reminding myself that Finn was a player, bringing home a different co-ed several nights a week. Sounds of sex carried in an old house. Based on the high-pitched squeals that echoed through the heating vents, it was an area he excelled.
"She had to take off," he said nonchalantly. "Things to do."
"By the sound of that slam, she was awfully mad," I continued. "I didn't see a car in the driveway. How's she getting home?"
Finn shrugged. "Bus, I guess. I gave her directions to the stop."
"How gallant of you," I didn't bother masking my sarcasm. "No wonder she slammed the door. That was shitty."
"She'll get over me," he said, adding with a grin, "Eventually."
"Your ego is outrageous," I grumbled, refocusing my attention on the potion in front of me.
"What kind of crap are you making now?"
I bristled. Typical Finn. Sexy as hell but he wa
s a first class ass.
"It's for a customer."
He nodded towards the shop. "That sorority bitch out there?"
Tara's nasal complaints carried into the kitchen, and I followed his gaze through the partially opened door that leaded to the shop. Trim and toned from Zumba, or whatever fitness fad the rich girls on campus do together, she was clad head-to-toe in summer white—little white denim Daisy Dukes, white spaghetti strap tank, white sandals with heels so high I wondered how she walked. Her bronze skin complemented the crisp, stain-free white of her clothes. Her fake blond hair was stick straight, nothing out of place.
I turned towards him, potion bottle in one hand. "What's it to you?"
He shrugged; his eyes slowly work their way over me. Withering under his appraisal, I tugged anxiously at the edges of my tank top. My faded, frayed second hand boy jeans hung sloppily at my hips, held up with a belt I improvised from one of my grandmother's old colorful scarves. Amanda called my look (as it were) "carefree bohemian chic." Really, it's culled from the racks at the Salvation Army down the street.
Amanda thought my particular style was good for business—said I looked the part of a young witch. Amanda was getting her MBA in marketing.
I needed to get a cork stopper for the bottle, which necessitated squeezing past Finn, whose sinewy body was now stretched between the fridge and the island in the middle of the kitchen. I considered giving the potion to Tara uncorked, but telling her to "be careful" on the ride home probably wouldn't fly, especially considering her pristine outfit.
"Suck it up, Izzy," I groused silently to myself. "It's just Finn, a smelly boy."
Actually, Finn wasn't smelly at all. There wasn't that tell tale moldy "guy" scent that permeated the dorm rooms and Frat houses on campus that I cleaned for a part time job. That was one of the (very few) reasons why he still lived here.
As I negotiated around his muscular limbs, I caught his scent. Very masculine— slightly sweaty with hints of sandalwood soap, not at all unpleasant. Today a muted floral perfume mixed with it reminding me that he was a cad.
Retrieving the cork, I scooted past him again, but this time my arm brushed against his midsection. I pulled my hand back quickly. Did I just rub up against his crotch? Did I just feel an erection? And did I just find it impressive?
"Well, I'm just going to get back to it." I choked out, nodding towards the shop and looking everywhere but at Finn.
"I've got to shower before my shift at Huskies. You think you can keep your hands off the dishwasher or toilet flush for the next 20 minutes?"
"Right," I sighed, turning to the butcher block to cork the bottle. My ancient hot water heater folds under the pressures of modern living, and Finn always bore the brunt of it. He once threatened to hold back on rent if I didn't stop flushing while he was in the shower. As if I did it on purpose. (Okay, maybe once. Or twice.)
This time Finn shimmied past me, brushing his body against my backside. I froze when I felt him reach around my body, pinning my arms. He took the bottle from my hands.
"You're better than this, Izzy," he whispered, his breath soft on my left ear. "This is bullshit and you know it."
I snatched the bottle and turned to face him. Our faces were mere inches apart.
"This pays the bills, and keeps the hot water on," I shot back at him. "You may think it's bullshit, but you're not exactly an enlightened thinker."
My voice was ice, even though a wave of heat was still sitting in my lower regions. He was invading my personal space. Why did it feel so good?
"Maybe you're the one that needs to open your mind a bit," he responded, bumping my arm as he stalked away. It was just enough of a jolt for some potion to leak over the top, a few drops slid down my thumb, settling on my wrist and forearm.
"Damn you, Finn," I shouted, rushing to the sink. "You just doused me!"
Thrusting my hand into the cold running water, I rinsed the spilled potion off my arm. Shutting off the water, I turned to give him a piece of my mind, but he was already out of the kitchen. His heavy footfalls clomped up the stairs.
"You better apologize," I shouted up after him. He answered with a slam of the bathroom door.
Finn didn't believe in magic. He never masked his annoyance at my potion making, always throwing out one comment or another about it. It was usually about how I was better than this. I guess he meant better than being a snake oil salesman. Typical for a nonbeliever.
I still needed to deal with the Princess Tara. Great. Finn made me grumpy, not the best mood for facing her. I took a breath, plastered a fake smile on my face, and walked back into the store. Amanda, Tara and Melinda all stared at me.
"What the hell was that about?" Amanda broke the weird silence.
"Nothing," I said brightly. "Just Finn."
She smirked. "Do we need to carve another notch?
I nodded, my own smirk lighting on my face. Every time Finn hooked up, we notched a side of The Witchery's counter top. There were a lot of notches.
"Finn?" Tara asked, suddenly interested. "The hottie guy that works at Huskies?"
"That's Finn," I sighed.
"But I don't know that hottie is the description we'd use," Amanda snorted.
Tara shot her a dirty look, and then looked at me expectantly. "Is that the love potion?"
I handed her the bottle. "Yes it is."
She uncorked it gave it a sniff, wrinkling her nose. (Really, who hates the smell of vanilla and jasmine?) "So what do I do?"
"Just make sure to focus on projecting love on whoever you fancy when you dab it on," I explained.
She looked disappointed. "What about who I want to give love to me?"
I shook my head. "It doesn't quite work that way. The Craft is not about taking away someone's free will. If you focus on giving your love, you should receive it in return. But it may not be exactly what you expect, or from who you expect."
"What I expect," she started, the pitch of her voice raising with each word, "is the potion to work."
"Oh, it'll work," Amanda said flatly.
"Trust me, Tara," I sighed. "It will work, but you cannot bend someone's will to meet your own. Just keep an open mind, okay?"
I cringed slightly, realizing I just echoed Finn's sentiment.
"Okay," she said, still eyeing me suspiciously. "Did Melinda book you for the third week of September to come and read the new pledges' tarot cards?"
I shook my head. "Not yet."
She flipped her hair, clearly annoyed. "Do I have to do everything myself? She'll call you tomorrow to set it up. Right Melinda?"
"Tara, I had a lot going on with my class schedule—" Melinda started.
Tara cut her off abruptly. "You are never too busy to take care of the girls. Right?"
"Right," she gave in quickly. "It won't happen again. I'll set it up tomorrow. Promise."
"And those readings better be spot-on," Tara called over her shoulder to me as she stalked out the store, Melinda nipping at her heels. "I don't want my girls disappointed!"
The screen door slammed and Amanda exhaled a low whistle. "The original Mean Girl."
I dropped into my chair, kicking my feet up on the tarot reading table. "No kidding."
"You got to leave for work yet?" Amanda asked.
"I have a few minutes."
"Good because I've got to piss like a racehorse. Can you cover the store?"
I nodded and gave her a weary thumbs up then dropped my head onto the table. I wouldn't be able to keep the store open without Amanda, not since I had to pick up a job cleaning a frat house. The schedule was exhausting, and classes hadn't even started yet. I wanted to take a history class to finish up my core requirements, but it was looking less likely. I was just a few credits shy of graduating, but at this rate, I was on the 10-year plan.
I must have nodded off, because the sound of the toilet flush jerked me awake.
"Isadora!" Finn bellowed from the upstairs bathroom.
I forgot he was in the sh
ower.
"Whoops," Amanda said with a snicker, wiping her hands on her jeans as she came back into the store.
I scrambled out of my seat, tossing things into my book bag as I rushed around the store. "I think I'll go to campus early. Run some errands before my cleaning shift."
I scurried out of the store, hoping to avoid confrontation. But Finn tossed open the tiny window in the bathroom. His hair was covered in shampoo suds, and his expression was sour.
"I thought we had a deal," he yelled as I hoisted myself into my beat up Bronco.
"Sorry!" I called out, waving apologetically out of the open driver's side window. I pulled out of the small driveway-turned-parking-lot, and tore out onto Main Street.
Finn was going to kill me.
CHAPTER TWO
Finn
Finn's work boots thudded up the stairs, the final step at the top creaking for good measure. He stormed down the hallway to his room. Tara's whine carried all the way up the stairs. The old walls were certainly thin.
The second he stepped into his room, he striped out of his tee shirt, dropping it in the hamper. Sitting on the bed, he kicked off his boots and removed his socks, giving them a successful basketball toss into the laundry basket. It was tempting to lie back on his bed and close his eyes, but he had an afternoon meeting at Huskies before his shift. No rest for the wicked.
He got up from the bed and grabbed a towel and his shower caddy. He heard Tara's Mercedes turn over in the tiny parking lot outside of the store. He headed back into the hallway, relieved that he could make it to the bathroom without the aural assault of her voice.
The ancient pipes groaned as he turned the shower faucet on. While he waited for the water to heat up, he kicked off this jeans and boxers, still sporting a mini-erection from being in close proximity to Izzy. Damn if that girl didn't drive him crazy, in both senses of the word.
Stepping into the claw foot tub, he moved under the showerhead, tepid water spilling over his hair and down his face. As the water continued to heat up, he grabbed his soap and worked it into a thick lather. The bathroom filled with the scent of sandalwood, and his mind focused on Izzy, and how tight her body felt when she brushed past him in the kitchen. She definitely felt his wood, and he chuckled, remembering her shock. She moved her arm like she brushed against flames, not his denim covered crotch.
Something Wicked Page 1
