by Misha Bell
“I don’t know, Marcus,” I say, putting special emphasis on the formal name. “I’ve only been around you for two minutes, and I’m already feeling homicidal.” I deliver the insult with a ladylike, Grandma-approved smile, and dumping my purse in the corner of my booth seat, I pick up the menu without bothering to take off my coat.
The sooner we eat, the sooner I can get out of here.
A deep chuckle startles me into looking up. To my shock, the jerk is grinning, his teeth flashing white in his lightly bronzed face. No freckles for him, I note with jealousy; his skin is perfectly even-toned, without so much as an extra mole on his cheek. He’s not classically handsome—his features are too bold to be described that way—but he’s shockingly good-looking, in a potent, purely masculine way.
To my dismay, a curl of heat licks at my core, making my inner muscles clench.
No. No way. This asshole is not turning me on. I can barely stand to sit across the table from him.
Gritting my teeth, I look down at my menu, noting with relief that the prices in this place are actually reasonable. I always insist on paying for my own food on dates, and now that I’ve met Mark—excuse me, Marcus—I wouldn’t put it past him to drag me to some ritzy place where a glass of tap water costs more than a shot of Patrón. How could I have been so wrong about the guy? Clearly, he’d lied about working in a bookstore and being a student. To what end, I don’t know, but everything about the man in front of me screams wealth and power. His pinstriped suit hugs his broad-shouldered frame like it was tailor-made for him, his blue shirt is crisply starched, and I’m pretty sure his subtly checkered tie is some designer brand that makes Chanel seem like a Walmart label.
As all of these details register, a new suspicion occurs to me. Could someone be playing a joke on me? Kendall, perhaps? Or Janie? They both know my taste in guys. Maybe one of them decided to lure me on a date this way—though why they’d set me up with him, and he’d agree to it, is a huge mystery.
Frowning, I look up from the menu and study the man in front of me. He’s stopped grinning and is perusing the menu, his forehead creased in a frown that makes him look older than the twenty-seven years listed on his profile.
That part must’ve also been a lie.
My anger intensifies. “So, Marcus, why did you write to me?” Dropping the menu on the table, I glare at him. “Do you even own cats?”
He looks up, his frown deepening. “Cats? No, of course not.”
The derision in his tone makes me want to forget all about Grandma’s disapproval and slap him straight across his lean, hard face. “Is this some kind of a prank for you? Who put you up to this?”
“Excuse me?” His thick eyebrows rise in an arrogant arch.
“Oh, stop playing innocent. You lied in your message to me, and you have the gall to say I’m not what you expected?” I can practically feel the steam coming out of my ears. “You messaged me, and I was entirely truthful on my profile. How old are you? Thirty-two? Thirty-three?”
“I’m thirty-five,” he says slowly, his frown returning. “Emma, what are you talking—”
“That’s it.” Grabbing my purse by one strap, I slide out of the booth and jump to my feet. Grandma’s teachings or not, I’m not going to have a meal with a jerk who’s admitted to deceiving me. I have no idea what would make a guy like that want to toy with me, but I’m not going to be the butt of some joke.
“Enjoy your meal,” I snarl, spinning around, and stride to the exit before he can block my way again.
I’m in such a rush to leave I almost knock over a tall, slender brunette approaching the café and the short, pudgy guy following her.
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Excerpt from The Girl Who Sees by Dima Zales
I’m an illusionist, not a psychic.
Going on TV is supposed to advance my career, but things go wrong.
Like vampires and zombies kind of wrong.
My name is Sasha Urban, and this is how I learned what I am.
“I’m not a psychic,” I say to the makeup girl. “What I’m about to do is mentalism.”
“Like that dreamy guy on the TV show?” The makeup girl adds another dash of foundation to my cheekbones. “I always wanted to do his makeup. Can you also hypnotize and read people?”
I take a deep, calming breath. It doesn’t help much. The tiny dressing room smells like hairspray went to war with nail polish remover, won, and took some fumes prisoner.
“Not exactly,” I say when I have my anxiety and subsequent irritation under control. Even with Valium in my blood, the knowledge of what’s about to come keeps me on the edge of sanity. “A mentalist is a type of stage magician whose illusions deal with the mind. If it were up to me, I’d just go by ‘mental illusionist.’”
“That’s not a very good name.” She blinds me with her lamp and carefully examines my eyebrows.
I mentally cringe; the last time she looked at me this way, I ended up getting tortured with tweezers.
She must like what she sees now, though, because she turns the light away from my face. “‘Mental illusionist’ sounds like a psychotic magician,” she continues.
“That’s why I simply call myself an illusionist.” I smile and prepare for the makeup to fall off, like a mask, but it stays put. “Are you almost done?”
“Let’s see,” she says, waving over a camera guy.
The guy makes me stand up, and the lights on his camera come on.
“This is it.” The makeup girl points at the nearby LCD screen, where I have avoided looking until now because it’s playing the ongoing show—the source of my panic.
The camera guy does whatever he needs to do, and the anxiety-inducing show is gone from the screen, replaced by an image of our tiny room.
The girl on the screen vaguely resembles me. The heels make my usual five feet, six inches seem much taller, as does the dark leather outfit I’m wearing. Without heavy makeup, my face is symmetric enough, but my sharp cheekbones put me closer to handsome than pretty—an effect my strong chin enhances. The makeup, however, softens my features, bringing out the blue color of my eyes and highlighting the contrast with my black hair.
The makeup girl went overboard with it—you’d think I’m about to step into a shampoo commercial. I’m not a big fan of long hair, but I keep it that way because when I had it short, people used to mistake me for a teenage boy.
That’s a mistake no one would make tonight.
“I like it,” I say. “Let’s be done. Please.”
The TV guy switches the screen back to the live feed of the show. I can’t help but glance there, and my already high blood pressure spikes.
The makeup girl looks me up and down and wrinkles her nose minutely. “You insist on that outfit, right?”
The really cool (in my opinion) borderline-dominatrix getup I’ve donned today is a means to add mystique to my onstage persona. Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin, the famous nineteenth-century French conjuror who inspired Houdini’s stage name, once said, “A magician is an actor playing the part of a magician.” When I saw Criss Angel on TV, back in elementary school, my opinion of what a magician should look like was formed, and I’m not too proud to admit that I see influences of his goth rock star look in my own outfit, especially the leather jacket.
“How marvelous,” says a familiar voice with a sexy British accent. “You didn’t look like this at the restaurant.”
Pivoting on my high heels, I come face to face with Darian, the man I met two weeks ago at the restaurant where I do table-to-table magic—and where I’d impressed him enough to make this unimaginable opportunity a reality.
A senior producer on the popular Evening with Kacie show, Darian Rutledge is a lean, sharply dressed man who reminds me of a hybrid between a butler and James Bond. Despite his senior role at the studio and the frown lines that crisscross his forehead, I’d estimate his age to be late twenties—though that could be wishful thinking, given that I’m only twenty-
four. Not that he’s traditionally handsome or anything, but he does have a certain appeal. For one thing, with his strong nose, he’s the rare guy who can pull off a goatee.
“I wear Doc Martens at the restaurant,” I tell him. The extra inches of my footwear lift me to his eye level, and I can’t help but get lost in those green depths. “The makeup was forced on me,” I finish awkwardly.
He smiles and hands me a glass he’s been holding. “And the result is lovely. Cheers.” He then looks at the makeup girl and the camera guy. “I’d like to speak with Sasha in private.” His tone is polite, yet it carries an unmistakable air of imperiousness.
The staff bolt out of the room. Darian must be an even bigger shot than I thought.
On autopilot, I take a gulp of the drink he handed to me and wince at the bitterness.
“That’s a Sea Breeze.” He gives me a megaton smile. “The barman must’ve gone heavy on the grapefruit juice.”
I take a polite second sip and put the drink on the vanity behind me, worried that the combination of vodka and Valium might make me woozier than I already am. I have no idea why Darian wants to speak to me alone; anxiety has already turned my brain to mush.
Darian regards me in silence for a moment, then pulls out a phone from his tight jeans’ pocket. “There’s a bit of unpleasantness we must discuss,” he says, swiping across the screen of the phone before handing it to me.
I take the phone from him, gripping it tight so it doesn’t slip out of my sweaty palms.
On the phone is a video.
I watch it in stunned silence, a wave of dread washing over me despite the medication.
The video reveals my secret—the hidden method behind the impossible feat I’m about to perform on Evening with Kacie.
I’m so screwed.
“Why are you showing me this?” I manage to say after I regain control of my paralyzed vocal cords.
Darian gently takes the phone back from my shaking hands. “You know that thing you went on about at the restaurant? How you’re just pretending to be a psychic and that it’s all tricks?”
“Right.” I frown in confusion. “I never said I do anything for real. If this is about exposing me as a fraud—”
“You misunderstand.” Darian grabs my discarded drink and takes a long, yet somehow elegant sip. “I have no intention of showing that video to anyone. Quite the contrary.”
I blink at him, my brain clearly overheated from the adrenaline and lack of sleep.
“I know that as a magician, you don’t like your methods known.” His smile turns oddly predatory.
“Right,” I say, wondering if he’s about to make a blackmail-style indecent proposal. If he did, I would reject it, of course—but on principle, not because doing something indecent with a guy like Darian is unthinkable.
When you haven’t gotten any for as long as I haven’t, all sorts of crazy scenarios swirl through your head on a regular basis.
Darian’s green gaze turns distant, as though he’s trying to look through the nearby wall all the way into the horizon. “I know what you’re planning on saying after the big reveal,” he says, focusing back on me. In an eerie parody of my voice, he enunciates, “‘I’m not a prophet. I use my five senses, principles of deception, and showmanship to create the illusion of being one.’”
My eyebrows rise so high my heavy makeup is in danger of chipping. He didn’t approximate what I was about to say—he nailed it word for word, even copying the intonation I’ve practiced.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised.” He places the now-empty glass back on the vanity dresser. “You said that exact thing at the restaurant.”
I nod, still in shock. Did I actually tell him this before? I don’t remember, but I must have. Otherwise, how would he know?
“I paraphrased something another mentalist says,” I blurt out. “Is this about giving him credit?”
“Not at all,” Darian says. “I simply want you to omit that nonsense.”
“Oh.” I stare at him. “Why?”
Darian leans against the vanity and crosses his legs at the ankles. “What fun is it to have a fake psychic on the show? Nobody wants to see a fake.”
“So you want me to act like a fraud? Pretend to be for real?” Between the stage fright, the video, and now this unreasonable demand, I’m just about ready to turn tail and run, even if I end up regretting it for the rest of my life.
He must sense that I’m about to lose it, because the predatory edge leaves his smile. “No, Sasha.” His tone is exaggeratedly patient, as though he’s talking to a small child. “I just want you to not say anything. Don’t claim to be a psychic, but don’t deny it either. Just avoid that topic altogether. Surely you can be comfortable with that.”
“And if I’m not, you would show people the video? Reveal my method?”
The very idea outrages me. I might not want people to think I’m a psychic, but like most magicians, I work hard on the secret methods for my illusions, and I intend to take them to my grave—or write a book for magicians only, to be published posthumously.
“I’m sure it wouldn’t come to that.” Darian takes a step toward me, and the bergamot scent of his cologne teases my flaring nostrils. “We want the same thing, you and I. We want people to be enthralled by you. Just don’t make any claims one way or another—that’s all I ask.”
I take a step back, his proximity too much for my already shaky state of mind. “Fine. You have a deal.” I swallow thickly. “You never show the video, and I don’t make any claims.”
“There’s one more thing, actually,” he says, and I wonder if the indecent proposal is about to drop.
“What?” I dampen my lips nervously, then notice him looking and realize I’m just making an inappropriate pass at me that much more likely.
“How did you know what card my escort was thinking of?” he asks.
I smile, finally back in my element. He must be talking about my signature Queen of Hearts effect—the one that blew away everyone at his table. “That will cost you something extra.”
He arches an eyebrow in silent query.
“I want the video,” I say. “Email it to me, and I’ll give you a hint.”
Darian nods and swipes a few times on his phone.
“Done,” he says. “Do you have it?”
I take out my own phone and wince. It’s Sunday night, right before the biggest opportunity of my life, yet I have four messages from my boss.
Deciding to find out what the manipulative bastard wants later, I go into my personal email and verify that I have the video from Darian.
“Got it,” I say. “Now about the Queen of Hearts thing... If you’re as observant and clever as I think you are, you’ll be able to guess my method tonight. Before the main event, I’m going to perform that same effect for Kacie.”
“You sneaky minx.” His green eyes fill with mirth. “So you’re not going to tell me?”
“A magician must always be at least one step ahead of her audience.” I give him the aloof smile I’ve perfected over the years. “Do we have a deal or not?”
“Fine. You win.” He gracefully sits on the swivel chair where I went through my eyebrow torture. “Now, tell me, why did you look so spooked when I first came in?”
I hesitate, then decide it will do no harm to admit the truth. “It’s because of that.” I point at the screen where the live feed from the show is still rolling. At that precise moment, the camera pans to the large studio audience, all clapping at some nonsense the hostess said.
Darian looks amused. “Kacie? I didn’t think that Muppet could frighten anyone.”
“Not her.” I wipe my damp palms on my leather jacket and learn that it’s not the most absorbent of surfaces. “I’m afraid of speaking in front of people.”
“You are? But you said you want to be a TV magician, and you perform at the restaurant all the time.”
“The biggest audience at the restaurant is three or four people at a dinner table,” I say.
“In that studio over there, it’s about a hundred. The fear kicks in after the numbers get into the teens.”
Darian’s amusement seems to deepen. “What about the millions of people who’ll be watching you at home? Are you not worried about them?”
“I’m more worried about the studio audience, and yes, I understand the irony.” I do my best not to get defensive. “For my own TV show, I’d do street magic with a small camera crew—that wouldn’t trigger my fear too much.”
Fear is actually an understatement. My attitude toward public speaking confirms the many studies showing that this particular phobia tends to be more pervasive than the fear of death. Certainly, I’d rather be eaten by a shark than have to appear in front of a big crowd.
After Darian called me about this opportunity, I learned how big the show’s studio audience is, and I couldn’t sleep for three days straight—which is why I feel like a Guantanamo Bay detainee on her way to enhanced interrogation. It’s even worse than when I pulled a string of all-nighters for my stupid day job, and at the time, I thought it was the most stressful event of my life.
My roommate Ariel didn’t give me her Valium lightly; it took a ton of persuasion on my part, and she only gave in when she could no longer bear to look at my miserable face.
Darian distracts me from my thoughts by fiddling with his phone again.
“This should inspire you,” he says as soothing piano chords ring out of the tinny phone speaker. “It’s a song about a man in a similar situation to yours.”
It takes me a few moments to recognize the tune. Given that I last heard it when I was little, I up my estimate of Darian’s age by an extra few years. The song is “Lose Yourself,” from the 8 Mile movie, where Eminem’s character gets a chance to be a rapper. I guess my situation is similar enough, this being my big shot at what I want the most.
Unexpectedly, Darian begins to rap along with Eminem, and I fight an undignified giggle as some of the tension leaves my body. Do all British rappers sound as proper as the Queen?
