Believe It or Not

by Tawna Fenske

  As she continued answering questions, though, she could see something different in Drew’s expression. Irritation, for sure. That she hadn’t told him sooner? That she’d considered doing what Frank asked?

  Or maybe that she hadn’t done it… that she hadn’t just lied to save them all.

  Hell, maybe that would have been the easiest thing after all. What was one more fake psychic reading?

  “Ma’am?”

  Violet snapped her attention back to the young police officer. “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”

  By the time she’d finished up with the police, Violet was running late to visit Moonbeam at the outpatient rehab facility. They had an appointment to meet with the occupational therapist to go over some of the last-minute details of Moonbeam’s release, and Violet was already ten minutes behind.

  She skidded into the room just as Moonbeam was hanging up the phone.

  “Who was that?” Violet asked.

  “No one, dear. You’re here for the appointment with the occupational therapist?”

  “Sorry I’m late. Did I miss her?”

  “Actually, she had to cancel. Some sort of emergency with another patient. She dropped off a packet of information, though.”

  Violet took the thick blue folder and sank down into the chair beside the bed. She flipped listlessly through the paperwork for a moment, not really reading anything. The she closed it and looked at Moonbeam.

  “I’m actually glad you’re alone,” Violet said. “I kind of need to talk to you.”

  “About having sex with Drew?”

  “Not about…” Violet stared at her mother. “How did you—?”

  “I’m psychic, dear.”

  Violet narrowed her eyes. “Is this like in high school, where you said your psychic powers told you I’d lost my virginity to Matt Martin in the backseat of your car and then I found out you’d read my diary?”

  “I never read your diary, dear,” Moonbeam said convincingly.

  “Right. I always figured it was either that or you found the condom wrapper in the backseat.”

  Moonbeam said nothing, and Violet decided to just drop the subject. “So there’s a problem.”

  “With Drew? Oh, dear. He didn’t strike me as impotent, but—”

  “No, not with Drew.”

  “So everything was in working order with Drew then?”

  “Stop doing that.”

  Moonbeam smiled. “You’re so transparent, dear.”

  Violet sighed. “Enough with the sex already. I have to talk to you about Frank and Jed Buckles and Detective Smeade and—”

  “Oh, look. The Discovery Channel is rerunning that program about the lion cub.”

  Moonbeam grabbed for the remote and flicked off the mute button, looking delighted.

  Violet closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. “Mom.”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “We’re going to lose the studio. And Frank’s going to ruin us in the media. The space, your reputation… we’re going to lose everything.”

  Moonbeam looked at her, an expression completely devoid of alarm or anger. “I don’t think so, dear.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “No dear, you don’t understand.” Moonbeam squeezed her hand. “Do you realize what you just said? We’re going to lose everything. It’s exactly what I’ve always known. You’re as much a part of this as I am.”

  Violet looked at her mother. Part of her wanted to shake her hard, make her pay attention to the gravity of the situation.

  Part of her wanted to crawl into Moonbeam’s lap so her mother could stroke her head and tell her everything was going to be okay.

  But that had never been Moonbeam’s style, had it? Comforting reassurances, taking care of crises—that was Violet’s style, not Moonbeam’s. Her worries over Detective Smeade and Jerry and Frank, those were hers alone to deal with.

  Violet looked at her mother, watching as her face lit up in the strange orange glow of the TV.

  “I think I’m in love with Drew,” Violet said.

  Moonbeam didn’t look away from the TV screen, and her face registered no surprise, but she patted Violet’s hand. “I know you are, dear.”

  Violet stared at her. “I thought you hated him.”

  “I don’t hate anyone, Violet. Like I told him the other night, the two of you are meant for each other.”

  “What?”

  “When Drew stopped by to see me. That’s what he wanted to talk about.”

  “Wait… Drew came here to talk about me?”

  “Of course, dear. He’s quite taken with you.”

  Violet sat quietly for a moment, trying to decide whether to be flattered or annoyed. Why the hell would Drew talk to her mom about his feelings before sharing them with her?

  “Anyway,” Moonbeam continued cheerfully, “I’m glad you two have found your happily-ever-after ending now.”

  Violet nodded, feeling a prickle of unease crawling over her skin. “We’ll see.”

  ***

  It was a few minutes before Drew was due to arrive for their seven p.m. date, and Violet was feeling oddly flustered. She’d already applied her eye makeup twice, having necessitated a redo after poking herself in the eye with her mascara wand.

  She’d spent a full hour putting her hair up, then letting it down, then putting it up again, compromising with a loose chignon she hoped was a good blend of sexy and sophisticated.

  There was something oddly nerve-racking about having a date with a man she’d just slept with. There was a peculiar sense of “now what?”—a need to strike the balance between cool indifference and a desperate desire to do it again.

  She was just straightening her cashmere pullover—no buttons this time—when the doorbell chimed. She hustled to the front of the house, stopping to check her lipstick in the hallway mirror.

  The instant Violet threw the door open, she knew something was wrong. On the surface, Drew looked calm, composed, completely devoid of emotion.

  But Violet had spent the last two weeks looking below Drew’s surface.

  He stood there motionless, his blue eyes boring into hers. When he finally spoke, his words were icy.

  “So, Violet,” he said, arms folded over his chest. “Would you like to talk about Jerry?”

  Chapter 21

  Drew was trying very hard not to lose his cool.

  Since his cool had pretty much evaporated the second Detective Smeade had arrived at the bar to question him about Jerry, Drew was already shit out of luck.

  Violet gripped the edge of the door so hard her knuckles were white. So was her face, for that matter. She looked nauseous. Nauseous and a little scared.

  Dammit.

  His anger evaporated for an instant, and all he could think about was taking her in his arms and making her smile again.

  Then he thought of Violet keeping secrets, jeopardizing his business, trying to control everything behind the scenes while he sat there like a schmuck and fell for her.

  “We need to talk,” he said, and pushed past her, ignoring the little whimper she made as he stalked through the entryway and headed straight for the living room.

  He looked at the sofa and gave a passing thought to kissing her there, the feel of her hair sliding between his fingers, her breasts pressing into his palms as she writhed against him and—

  He turned away from the sofa and chose a chair instead.

  “Drew, I can explain,” Violet said, hurrying into the room behind him. She hesitated a moment before dropping onto the edge of the sofa and folding her hands in her lap.

  “You can? Good, because I’d really like to know how you thought it would be a good idea to rat out one of my employees without even talking to me about it.”

  “Look, I didn’t know what to do. The detective showed me the pictures and I just knew it was Jerry. I couldn’t cover it up, could I?”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to cover anything up, Violet,” Drew snapped, fum
ing a little harder as his brain veered to the image of her covering her breasts with her arm just that morning. He fixed his eyes on the arm of the sofa, hoping the nailhead trim might dampen his libido. “What I’m saying is that you should have talked to me about it before you called the damn cops.”

  “Why, so you could yell at me again for meddling with your employees?”

  “No, I—”

  “So you could get pissed at me for getting involved in your business, for poking my nose where it didn’t belong?”

  “No, I—”

  “So you could make fun of psychics again?”

  “No!” he yelled, barking the word out as he smacked his hand on the edge of the chair. “So I could tell you that you’re wrong. You were completely, one hundred percent wrong about Jerry.”

  “What?”

  Drew took a breath, trying to keep his voice calm. “Your psychic reading? You were wrong. Jerry isn’t the criminal they’re after.”

  “How did you—?”

  “How did I know Jerry didn’t do it, or how did I know you used me to feed false information to the cops just to keep up your psychic charade?”

  Violet opened her mouth as if to protest, then shut it, looking slapped.

  Drew looked away, not wanting to see the stung expression in her eyes.

  You’re the victim here, he reminded himself. And Jerry. And Jamie, dammit.

  “First of all,” he said, “the name you gave the police is wrong. There is no Jerry Jester.”

  “What?”

  “Jerry Jester is a stage name he invented for himself. One he put on his application before I told him it was a bad idea, and told him he’d only be using his first name anyway when he came to work for me.”

  “But how did the police—?”

  “They showed up at his old address—another tip-off to where the information came from, by the way—and his ex-roommate told them where he worked.”

  Violet swallowed. “So that’s how you knew.”

  “That you stole information off a confidential job application and fed it to the police? That you tried to use your relationship with me to further your mom’s sham of a business?”

  “Hey, I was trying to do the right thing: to get a criminal off the streets.”

  “Yeah, well the only thing Jerry is guilty of is exceptionally bad judgment when he tried to take the fall for a car-jacking last year to keep his brother out of prison. He was cleared by DNA evidence two months ago. Not that you bothered to come to me to find out any of that information before talking to the cops.”

  “I didn’t realize—”

  “He was getting a second chance here, getting his life together, but you had to send the cops chasing after him.”

  “But the tattoo—”

  “Is on Jerry’s left arm, not the right one. Oh, and FYI, learn to distinguish between Tweety Bird and Marvin the Martian before you go accusing a man of crimes he didn’t commit.”

  That last part sounded silly even to him, and Drew almost laughed.

  But he was mad, dammit.

  Stay mad. Don’t notice how beautiful she is, how sad she looks. Whatever you do, don’t reach out and touch her and—

  Violet was blinking hard now, fighting back tears. She bit her lip and everything inside Drew twisted and ached.

  “Drew, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I feel terrible.”

  “Save your apologies for Jerry. I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear them when he comes out of surgery.”

  Violet stared at him. “What?”

  “When he saw the cops coming for him, he got scared and ran. Right out the door, and into the path of a bus.”

  “Oh, God.”

  Violet covered her face with her hands, and Drew tried not to feel sorry for her. She was messing with people’s lives here, hurting people. It wasn’t right.

  Drew shook his head and looked down at his hands. “This has to stop. This fake psychic thing, these made-up predictions and visions and—”

  “Drew, I think it’s real.” She uncovered her face and stared at him, those big violet eyes wild, imploring.

  This time, the shock was his. “What?”

  She swallowed, looking unsure. “I know I told you at first that I didn’t believe in psychics. But that was before.”

  “Before what? A massive brain injury?”

  “Before I started listening to the music you played. Before I realized what it was saying.”

  Drew stared at her. “Have you been drinking?”

  Violet took a breath and started talking. Her words came out in jumble, a peculiar list of ’80s tunes strung together in a chronology that made Drew’s head throb. She talked about Jenny, about the client who turned out to be a teacher, the woman who turned out to be pregnant, the money in the elevator.

  The story went on and on, and Drew grew numb to the endless string of song titles that previously been nothing more than a good beat for unclothed gyration: “Photograph.” “867-5309 (Jenny).” “Love in an Elevator.” “The Prisoner.” “Train Wreck.” “Hot for Teacher.” “Sweet Child o’ Mine.”

  “Enough,” Drew said, shaking his head. “This is crazy. This is ridiculous.”

  “But it’s true. You can’t deny the coincidence. What else could it be?”

  Drew’s head was throbbing now as he thought about that night in the bar with Petal. The Coldplay song, “Violet Hill.” Maybe there was really something to this. Some sort of bizarre connection between both of them—

  “No,” he said firmly.

  “What?”

  “This isn’t possible. There’s no way.”

  “But think about it, Drew. What are the odds?”

  He did think about it. He thought about it hard. And then he pushed all the other thoughts out of his mind and focused on a new one.

  “So you used me.”

  “What?” Violet said, looking confused.

  “You used me. For the songs, for the information about Jerry, for—”

  “Wait, let me get this straight,” Violet said, her expression going from baffled to annoyed. “You’re pissed I’m using you for psychic skills that don’t exist?”

  “No!” Drew raked his fingers through his hair. “Yes! I don’t—”

  “You don’t believe there could possibly be a way I could be channeling some sort of psychic information from the music you’re playing, but you think I’m using you because I’ve been doing exactly that?”

  Drew stood up, feeling dizzy from the anger and confusion and the fact that the thing he wanted most of all was to take Violet in his arms and make love to her on the sofa.

  God, you’re a mess.

  She’s trying to control you. Another woman thinking she knows best, going behind your back, taking charge instead of talking it out—

  “I can’t do this,” he said, stalking past her and heading for the door. “You’re nuts. Your mom is nuts. This whole thing with the music is—”

  “Nuts? Really, Drew? Is that why you went to my mother to talk about your feelings for me without ever saying a word to me about it? Because we’re all so nuts?”

  Drew shook his head again and grabbed for the doorknob. “I have to get out of here.”

  He yanked the door open hard and stomped out into the chilly Portland air, slamming the door even harder.

  But even the drum of his footsteps wasn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of something being hurled against the door.

  Or the sound of Violet crying as Drew trudged through the rain to his car.

  ***

  Violet didn’t remember falling asleep on the sofa, but that’s exactly where she woke up the next morning, feeling like she’d been run over by a bus.

  “Shit,” she said out loud, remembering that was exactly what had happened to Jerry.

  All my fault.

  As Violet stumbled to the bathroom, she glanced at the clock in the hallway. It was already ten thirty in the morning, though she couldn’t remember truly sleeping
all night.

  She remembered crying into a throw pillow, sobbing at the knowledge that she had been right all along. She should have stuck with normal. She should have stayed on the East Coast with her safe job and her quiet life. She should be dating a banker or data analyst or an actuary. Not a bar owner, for chrissakes.

  The thought of Drew sent a wave of nausea through her body. But there was also a tingle, familiar and joyful and delicate as bubbles.

  Violet pushed aside thoughts of Drew as she slogged through showering, dressing, and eating big spoonfuls of organic cherry yogurt straight from the carton. She dragged her feet getting ready, not wanting to go to the shop, to risk seeing Drew again.

  Finally, at noon, she was standing on the sidewalk in the rain in front of Moonbeam’s shop. The sight of a notice tacked to the front door wasn’t even alarming. Violet pulled it off with the same sense of dread that had accompanied her all morning.

  “Notice of sale,” she read aloud as she held the piece of paper close to her body, trying to shield it from the rain.

  The door to Drew’s bar swung open and Violet turned to see Sam walking toward her, looking grim.

  “You guys got one, too, huh?”

  Violet nodded. “I’ve never seen one of these before.”

  “It’s not really an official document,” Sam said. “Just something Frank made to rub it in.”

  “So he really sold the building?”

  “I guess the guy signed the paperwork last night. Frank’s washing his hands of the whole thing.”

  Violet looked back down at the paper and tried not to cry. “So how does this sort of thing work? We have thirty days to get out or what?”

  Sam shrugged. “I guess so. I’m not really sure. Drew left a couple messages for the new owner, but he hasn’t heard back yet.”

  “So we’re all moving,” Violet said glumly.

  “Maybe. You guys should be able to find a new place fast. Your space needs are pretty limited.”

  “But what about you guys?”

  Sam shrugged again and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in the light Portland drizzle. “It’s not as simple for us. Building out a new space to operate this sort of business takes a lot of money. Stages, lighting, disco balls, a new bar—that’s a whole lot of capital.”