He was quiet a moment, and then said, "Alright. Wait here."
"Why?" I asked.
He turned away, calling over his shoulder, "I'll be right back."
He strode to his bike, climbed on, and fired it up. I watched in stunned disbelief as he roared toward me, jumped the curb and pulled up on the grass right next to me.
I almost laughed. "You didn't have to do that."
"Not true." He handed me the helmet. "Where to?"
"You can drop me off at my mom's store. It's just a few streets away."
"It's still open?" he said.
"Not really," I said. "But she sort of lives there."
Sometimes, she camped out in a sleeping bag. Other times, she crashed on a sofa in the book room. Either way, I knew where she wasn't sleeping – with my Dad, thanks to their recent divorce.
Unlike my three younger siblings, I lived mostly with her. Her odd living situation aside, the other kids hadn't wanted to switch schools, and I couldn't really blame them. As for me, I'd just graduated from high school, so the school thing wasn't really a factor.
Besides, Crystal wasn't just my mom. She was my employer too. Together, we'd been working like crazy on her store, painting it inside and out, building shelves, and learning how to operate some used espresso machine that she'd picked up at a foreclosure auction.
After months of this, the work was finally paying off. Every day, we gained a few new customers, and the place was looking ten times better than it had when she bought it.
Still, for some reason, I felt my cheeks grow warm as Bishop pulled the bike up to the shop. On our front window, the neon fortune telling sign was still blinking, casting that eerie pulsing glow over the darkened street.
"Hang on," he called.
Instinctively, I clutched him tighter. "For what?"
And then, he jumped his bike onto the sidewalk, pulling right up to the store's main entrance.
When he cut the engine, I clung to him just a shade longer than necessary, wanting to soak in every little detail – the feel of his abs, the scent of his jacket, the sensation of my thighs pressed against his hips.
Finally, I climbed off the bike and stood barefoot within easy reach of the shop's front door. Silently, I returned his helmet, along with his jacket.
His gaze shifted to the sign, blinking slowly against the darkened window. He made no comment.
I stood back and gave him a little wave. "Thanks for the ride," I said.
"Thanks for the story."
"Some story, huh?" I forced out a laugh. "I bet you want your money back."
It was, of course, an entirely stupid thing to say. There was no money. There was only me, a stupid girl he couldn't wait to get rid of. Time to cut my losses. With a final wave, I reached for the door handle.
But then, he spoke. "What I really want is to know," he said in a cool, quiet voice, "is your name."
Hadn't I told him? No. I guess I hadn't. Still, something made me ask, "Why?"
He flicked his head toward the store and said, "So when I stop by, I'll know who to ask for."
I felt myself smile. "You're planning to stop by?"
From somewhere above us, a woman's voice called out, "Selena! Is that you?"
I stifled a groan. My mom, the queen of bad timing, was calling from an upstairs window.
I didn't look up. Instead, I called out vaguely in that direction. "Yeah! Can you unlock the door?"
"It's already open!" she called.
I wasn't surprised. She kept it unlocked way too often. She always had some reason. She was unloading her car. She was expecting a delivery. She was painting the trim and didn't want to get locked out. None of them seemed like particularly good reasons to me, but Crystal could be kind of stubborn when it came to her methods.
I turned to Bishop. "I'd better go."
"Selena," he said, more to himself than to me. "I like it." Then, he fired up his bike. A moment later, he was gone.
Chapter 9
Back then, my apartment didn't even exist. Neither did Crystal's. The upstairs had been empty warehouse space, all high ceilings and vast wooden floors.
Now, seven years later, we'd transformed the area into a home of sorts – fulltime for Crystal, halftime for me.
Sometimes, I felt like I had two homes – one in Alabama and another in Michigan. I loved them both, and hated them both, just like I loved and hated Bishop, even after all these years.
Distracted by the trip down memory lane, I tossed and turned in my freezing apartment, listening to snow pellets pummel the window panes.
After a fitful night, I woke at the crack of dawn, an unimpressive eight o'clock in the heart of a Michigan winter. I lay in bed and groaned. Outside, the snow hadn't let up. Under my covers, it was warm and toasty.
With a whimper, I dragged myself out of bed and peered out my bedroom window. A vision of snow and ice greeted me. And soon, I’d be heading to the frozen river.
Just great.
I closed the blinds and dug through my closet. Other than my ski jacket, I was woefully unprepared. I had no hat, gloves or decent boots. I fished around in the kitchenette and found an old Food-Planet grocery bag. I wrapped the plastic bag around my head and secured it with a bunch of bobby pins.
I threw on two extra pairs of socks, one for my feet and another for my hands. I made a mental note to go shopping.
The river was twelve blocks from the coffee shop. Technically, it was walking distance. I stepped outside. The wind, peppered with ice pellets, made a thwackety noise against the bag covering my head.
Suddenly, twelve blocks seemed like a long way. I spotted my Mustang, parked in the alley. I decided to save the walk for later, maybe summer.
After a slick drive through the small downtown area, I parked my car near the riverbank and set out on foot. Stepping onto the frozen river, I looked around, taking in the familiar sight of fishermen and their gear.
Manning the fishing holes were two types of fishermen – those who embraced the cold and those who outsmarted it. Those who embraced it bundled themselves in snowmobile suits or parkas, manning their fishing holes without shelter. For those fishermen, windburn and Walleye went hand-in-hand.
Edgar Kreezak was not that type of fisherman. Inside his shanty, he pointed to a battery-operated blender perched atop an overturned bucket. "Pina colada?"
I glanced at my watch. It was nine in the morning. "No thanks," I said.
I marveled at his shanty. Inside and out, the thick plastic structure resembled a tropical hut, complete with faux bamboo strips lining the interior. The temperature matched the décor, decidedly tropical.
Before knocking on his shanty door, I’d removed the plastic bag, along with the gym socks, and stuffed them all into my pocket. There was, after all, no reason to scare the man.
"Any trouble finding me?" Edgar asked.
"Nope," I said. "It was easy, just like you said on the phone."
"Like I always say, look for Gilligan, and you can't go wrong."
"Gilligan?" I said. "Like the old TV show?"
"Hey, it's not that old," he said. His Hawaiian shirt, half open, revealed gray chest hair and a green plastic lei. Absently, he scratched his chest, dislodging stray crumbs.
I tried not to look. "You always fish this spot?"
"Yup. Thirty years now." He kept one eye on me and the other on the watery hole that dominated the shanty's center. "I'll be here every morning 'til the thaw."
He plunked his line into the hole. It made a small plop in the slushy water. A propane heater, turned to its highest setting, sat atop a small metal table in the corner. On a shelf below, reggae music drifted from an ancient cassette player.
"Thanks for seeing me," I said.
"Glad to help." He picked up his drink and took a long swig.
I said nothing, wondering how much help we'd get from a half-drunk Gilligan wannabee.
Edgar looked up. "Don't look so worried," he said. "I got nothing against fortune tel
lers."
"That's a relief," I said.
"Here's the thing," he said. "There's a lot of rotten stuff going on right now, things that have nothing to do with fortunes."
"Like what?" I asked.
"Like my favorite bait store," he said. "It's gone."
"Gone?"
"Out of business."
"Because of the economy?" I said.
He scowled. "That's just what they want you to think."
"Who?"
Edgar gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Doesn't matter who." He downed the rest of his drink. "The point is, you got boarded-up buildings where bait stores belong, old-ass laws coming back from the dead, and vultures pickin' at the carcasses. Shit, some of 'em are still quivering."
I eyed the blender. It didn't take a fortune teller to see he'd been drinking a while. His gaze bored into mine. "You be careful," he said, "or you'll be on their list too."
"Whose list?" I asked.
"Can't say."
"What list?"
"You don't want to know."
In the shanty's corner, the reggae clicked off. Edgar looked at the player. "Hey, flip the tape, will ya?"
I skirted the hole, flipped the tape, and hit play, wondering how long it had been since I'd seen an actual cassette player. The thing was practically an antique. So much for the digital revolution.
Reclaiming my spot opposite Edgar, I pulled a folded sheet of paper from my jeans pocket and handed it over. "Here's the notice," I said.
He gave it a quick read. "It says here you can't tell fortunes for money." He looked up and grinned. "But there's nothing about telling fortunes for free."
"Free?"
"Here's what you do," he said. "Go into your parking lot, grab a bunch of rocks."
"Rocks?"
"Call 'em fortune rocks," he said. "Then, what you gotta do, is sell those rocks for the price of a palm reading, or whatever."
I saw what he meant, a legal workaround. "So technically, we'd be selling the rocks, not the fortunes?"
"You got it."
"Think we could get away with it?"
"Not forever," he said. "But it'll buy you some time."
"Then what?" I said.
"Here's the deal," he said. "The council meets two days from now."
I grew hopeful. "You think you can change the law?"
"Maybe," he said. "There's a special provision to get rid of these old-ass laws."
"Like spitting on the sidewalk?"
"Yup," he said. "I'll propose we strike the fortune-telling ban from the books. If the rest of the council agrees, you're in the clear."
"And if they don't agree?"
"Then we gotta go through the regular channels," he said.
"How long would that take?"
"Hard to say," he said. "We've got a zoning debate that's been going since summer." Edgar scratched his belly. He pressed his chin to his chest and looked down. "Damn crumbs."
I thanked him for his advice and turned to leave.
"Oh, and Selena," he said.
"Hmm?"
"You attending the council meeting?"
"Definitely."
"A word of advice," he said. "Be professional. For Pete's sake, don't show up dressed as a fortune teller or anything."
"We won't," I assured him.
"You know what they say." He gave a loud burp. "Image is everything."
Exiting the shanty, the cold hit like an ice cube tray to the face. Shuddering, I rummaged through my pockets, where I found the shopping bag and gym socks.
Glancing around, I chose warmth over style. I re-secured the plastic bag back over my hair, slipped the socks over my hands, and set out toward my car.
When I saw the Mustang, I picked up the pace. Within stumbling distance, I lunged for the car door and pulled. Nothing happened. I pulled harder. "Oh crap," I muttered. "Crap, crap, crap." My doors were frozen shut.
I was marooned. And not for the first time either.
Inside the car, my cell phone taunted me from the passenger's seat. I couldn't even call for a ride. I looked around. A couple blocks over, Carmen's Coffee and Tea, with its cheerful open sign beckoned.
I pulled the bag over my ears and pressed forward. I'd use Carmen's phone to call Crystal. I'd be in and out in an instant. With the back of my sock-covered hand, I wiped my nose, running a marathon from the bitter cold.
When I entered Carmen's, my temperature instantly jumped – not from the warm interior of the shop, but because I’d come face-to-face with who else?
Jim Bishop, the ex-boyfriend himself.
Chapter 10
Our eyes locked for the briefest instant. He eyed me up and down. I stared back, defying him to make one single comment about my appearance.
He said nothing. He was tough, but not stupid.
I took in his appearance. Even in casual clothes, he looked like a gift from the gods, with his stormy eyes and chiseled face. His short, dark hair was just begging to be messed up, and the powerful lines of his body would've made my mouth water, if it weren't so parched from raw panic.
The guy in the calendar wasn't half as good-looking, nor half as dangerous.
I, on the other hand, was wearing a grocery bag on my head.
I turned to go.
He grabbed my elbow. "Hang on," he said. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
His gaze flicked to the bag.
"Oh shut up," I said.
"Did I say anything?"
"No. But you were thinking it." I looked around. "I've gotta run." I turned back the way I came, leaving the shop with barely a backwards glance.
With long, easy strides, he followed me onto the street. His voice echoed behind me. "You think you're getting off that easy?"
I stopped. Slowly, I turned to face him. "What do you mean?"
He gave me a hard look, and the silence stretched out.
And then it hit me. Oh God, I'd never thanked him for bailing us out. I'd been planning to thank him and repay him too, as soon as I found him, that is.
Too bad he'd found me first. And why now of all times, when I looked like this? I wanted to die of mortification.
Instead, I took a deep breath and vowed to get it over with. "Yeah," I said. "Sorry. About the bail thing–"
"Screw the bail thing," he said.
I looked up at him. "Huh?"
"You owe me something," he said. "But it's not bail money."
"Then what?"
"An explanation."
Oh. That.
I lifted a nervous hand toward my hair. I paused in mid-reach when I remembered that stupid bag, and – oh God – the sock-mittens. As casually as I could, I slipped my hands into the front pockets of my ski jacket and tried to look normal.
"What'd you think?" he said. "That I'd never ask?"
A blast of icy wind skittered across my bare neck. I stifled a shiver. "Do we really have to do this now?" I asked.
"Why not?" His jaw tightened. "You're a hard person to catch."
"Get real," I said, making a show of looking around. "I'm right here in my hometown. No. Make that our hometown. So if you wanted to 'catch me,' as you say, it couldn't have been that hard." I lifted my chin. "Especially for someone like you."
His voice was flat. "Someone like me?"
"You know what I mean." I cleared my throat. "Resourceful."
He took a step closer. "Maybe I'm not as resourceful as I used to be."
I gave him a long look, taking in his muscular form, his hard eyes, and his bare hands, seemingly oblivious to the bitter cold. He was the worst kind of dangerous, and not because he was packing at least one pistol and a knife in his boot.
I'd have bet anything on it. He hadn't changed. Not one bit. "Seriously," I said, "I've got to go. It's freezing out here."
"Fair enough," he said. "I'll drive you."
I looked around. For what, I didn't know. A bus? A taxi? A hole to hide in?
And then he spoke, softer this time. "Liste
n, I know you're in trouble."
I bristled. "I’m not in trouble."
His eyebrows lifted.
"Okay, fine," I said. "Obviously, the store's having some–"
"Screw the store," he said.
"Then what the hell are you talking about?'
He leaned closer. "Come on. Let's talk."
I bit my lip. Talking to him would be such a bad idea, especially if the conversation turned personal. I was freezing, unprepared, and distracted by my stupid appearance. He'd have the upper hand and then some.
"Okay, we can talk," I said, "but not about the past." I gave him a pleading look. "At least, not today. Alright?"
He shrugged. "Alright."
I felt my gaze narrow. "You're up to something."
"Am I?"
"Definitely."
He didn't confirm or deny it. Instead, he flicked his head toward a nearby parking lot. "C'mon," he said, giving me a knowing look. "My car's already warm."
My face felt numb. "Warm?" I said. "Really?"
"Yup." He flashed me a grin. "Heated seats too."
The bastard.
Shivering, I followed him to a black, four-wheel-drive sport utility vehicle. The vehicle surprised me. It was a lot nicer than I'd expected. Either it wasn't actually his, or his payments were insane. Just like him.
He opened the passenger door, and I jumped in. I yanked off that stupid bag and stuffed it into my pocket. When he looked away, I used one of my sock-mittens to wipe my nose.
"Just so you know," I said, "I'm refusing to talk until my brain thaws."
He gave a slow shake of his head. "You and the cold. Yeah, I remember."
It wasn't just the cold. It was him. Weather aside, he made rational thought downright difficult. My brain wasn't merely frozen. It was giving me the silent treatment.
As for my other body parts, well, they had plenty to say. Just watching him, having him near me, even that familiar scent of him, it was warming me in all the wrong places. Or maybe, I told myself, it was just the heated seats.
Yeah, right.
From the corner of my eye, I looked him over. His dark hair was shorter than I remembered, and there were new lines around his mouth. He wore faded jeans, black boots, and a black jacket that did little to hide his lean, powerful body. He'd always been in good shape, but he appeared to be even more fit now, more muscular maybe.
Illegal Fortunes Page 4
