by Linda Grimes
“Yes, Billy. And her boyfriend too.”
He grinned. “That’s okay. I enjoy a challenge.”
Addie caught us on the way down and dragged me back up to my room while Billy went in search of his next conquest. My roommate’s poor boyfriend didn’t realize it yet, but his days were numbered. He wouldn’t stand a chance against those dimples.
“Oh my God, TD! How did you do it?” Addie said as soon as we were alone. She sounded deliriously happy.
“Do what?” I knew she couldn’t be talking about the house—that was old news. She’d been beyond overjoyed when I handed her the deed, of course, but she’d already thanked me a gazillion times for that.
“Get Granny to move out, that’s what! Sorry I’m late to your party, but I didn’t want to miss seeing her leave.”
“She’s actually gone? Addie, that’s great—your mother must be ecstatic,” I said.
“Oh, she is. I still don’t know how you accomplished it, but ever since I moved back home, it’s like Queen Bitch has abdicated her throne. She’s been almost nice, if you can believe it. It’s so freaking weird. And you were right—whenever she starts to mention my father, I just fan myself with my hand, and her mouth snaps shut like magic. She hasn’t said a single nasty thing about him. I think the strain took its toll, because she finally decided it was high time she retired to Florida.”
I laughed, a happy glow spreading through me. I hadn’t told her about Granny’s notorious past, because, really, what girl wants to know something like that about her own grandmother? Ew. I mean, you’d need a gallon of brain bleach to get the images out of your head.
“That’s wonderful,” I said. “For Pete’s sake, just enjoy it, you giant dork.”
“Trust me, I am. By the way, happy graduation!” She hugged me, careful not to smother me with her boobs. “There, now that that’s out of the way, I have a proposition for you. Do you have any free time next week?”
“I have no job. What do you think?” I said wryly.
“Yay!”
“Oh, right. Unemployment. Yay.” I pumped my fist anemically.
She gave me the dork eye-roll. “That’s not what I meant. Now shut up and let me explain. When Mom kept going on and on about how brilliantly I handled Grandmother, I felt guilty and confessed that it wasn’t me at all, and guess what? She was thrilled! She said you’re obviously a natural at fixing things. Called you a—what was it?—oh yeah, a ‘facilitator.’ In fact, she has a friend who could use your services.”
“What? But I can’t—”
“I know, I know. You’re job hunting. But you need to keep busy until you find one, don’t you? That’s the beauty of this. Mom’s friend wants to pay you. And she’s loaded. You could charge through the nose for what you can do.”
Molly popped her pigtailed head into the room, clutching her new stuffed bear. They were wearing matching plaid skirts and black leather biker jackets. It had me taken two days to get over the headache after our excursion with her friends, but seeing how adorable she looked with her new acquisition made it worthwhile, even if I didn’t get any of the credit for it. As always, I was struck by how much she favored her older brother.
“Hey, Ciel,” she said, blue eyes aglow and dimples deepening, “your mom says you’d better get downstairs right this minute or you won’t get any cake.”
Addie pushed me ahead of her toward the bedroom door. (She knows how I feel about cake.) “Listen, we’ll talk more later. In the meantime, just think about it, okay?”
Downstairs, everyone had gathered around the chocolate-frosted minimountain Mom had ordered for the occasion (she knows how I feel about cake too), looking happy and proud of me. The crowd parted, and I made my way to the table, running a gauntlet of handshakes, hugs, and kisses.
I was about to slice into the cake when Billy started chanting, “Speech! Speech!” In seconds, he was joined by everyone else.
I froze, momentarily at a loss. Then I caught sight of Addie giving me a thumbs-up from across the room. What was it her mother had said? That I could fix things?
Hmm. Ciel Halligan, facilitator.
It did have kind of a nice ring to it. Maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t as unemployed as I’d thought.
I put down the knife. “I’m going to assume everyone is as anxious to get to this glorious cake as I am, so I’ll keep this short—”
“Like you!” a hundred voices called out.
I acknowledged their collective humor with a nod and lifted my glass to the room at large. “Here’s to bad jokes.” I paused until the laughter peaked. “But mostly to happy endings and new beginnings. Cheers!”
Read on for a preview of
The Big Fix
Linda Grimes
Available in hardcover and e-book in May 2015 from Tom Doherty Associates
A TOR BOOK
Copyright © 2015 by Linda Grimes
Chapter 1
It’s not that I’m averse to holding on to something long and cylindrical, even if it does wiggle a bit. But when it hisses at me, I get nervous.
Relax, I told myself. That snake is probably more afraid of you than you are of it.
Yeah, right, myself answered, noting the distinctly un-afraid reptilian glint in its eyes. You wish. (Myself can be an unsympathetic bitch sometimes.)
I inhaled—slowly—fighting the impulse to gulp in air until I hyperventilated and passed out. As much as losing consciousness was starting to seem like an attractive option, it wouldn’t put a paycheck in my wallet.
You need that money, you need that money, you need that money, I chanted. Mentally, of course. Saying it out loud wouldn’t do a thing to enhance the image I was being paid to project. And paid extremely well, I reminded myself. Better than ever before.
The snake hissed again, its head dancing dangerously close to my own, forked tongue flicking in and out between curved fangs. Gaaah. You need that money …
(Myself took the opportunity to point out that some things are not worth the payoff. Like I said. Cold. Also, not helpful.)
Maybe I could get away with lengthening my arm. Just an inch or two …
The snake stretched.
… or three or four. A foot, tops. Surely no one would notice. At least, not until my sleeve suddenly appeared shorter. Rats.
“Don’t hold it so close, Jack!” The woman glued to my side whisper-screamed at me through unmoving lips, calling my attention back to her existence. As if her chest pressed hard against my ribcage wasn’t enough of a grabber. If those sweater puppies were real, I’d eat the stupid Indiana Jones knockoff hat I was wearing.
“I’m try-ing,” I ventriloquized right back at her, barely audible.
Holding my current self erect (all ruggedly handsome six-foot-three of me, complete with requisite three-day scruff), I tossed the snake into the murky subterranean pit situated within easy falling distance … only to have another one drop immediately onto my shoulder from the ledge above. Crap. I squeezed what’s-her-boobs convulsively, but managed not to scream like a girl. Score one for self-control. Maybe I wouldn’t ruin this guy’s reputation after all.
At least the new snake wasn’t as big. That had to be good, right?
The rattle started in the vicinity of my left ear. Or possibly not …
The new snake’s head swayed in front of us, ominously close to the woman now scrambling to disentangle herself from me. I took a deep breath, grabbed the wiggly bastard by the tail (wondering fleetingly—and perhaps irrelevantly—how one was supposed to tell where a snake’s body leaves off and its tail begins), twirled it twice above our heads, and sent it into the pit to join its buddy, maintaining my cool it’s-all-in-a-day’s-work attitude by the skin of my teeth.
Boobs Galore stopped her escape effort and wilted against me in an orchestrated flood of relieved tears. I’d worry about lipstick stains on my shirt, but I was pretty sure that stuff wouldn’t come off her mouth without an industrial-strength solvent.
“Oooh, Dirk …�
�� she breathed through sexy sobs.
Yeah, Dirk. Why was that even a name anymore?
“… Dirk, darling, I would have been dead a hundred times over if it weren’t for you! How can I ever repay you?”
I swallowed, hoping I’d get the next words right. This was the part I’d been dreading even more than the snakes. I’d never forgive myself if I screwed up the one scene I was being paid—and paid well—to pull off for my all-time favorite movie star. My hero, for Pete’s sake.
Just say it already.
Gritting my teeth, I forced it out, making sure my gravely voice oozed the right amount of masculinity. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, pussycat. I’ll have you out of this hole in two shakes of that rattler’s tail.”
There. That hadn’t sounded too cheesy, had it? Sure, I might not have elevated the schlocky dialogue to the heights Jackson Gunn was capable of, but on the up side, I delivered it without passing out. Which was more than he could have done, given the slithering circumstances. Snake phobias are no joke when you’re billed as the World’s Manliest Man.
“CUT!”
“Thanks a lot, Jack.” The actress (whose name, I now remembered, was Sparky West-Haven—no wonder I’d temporarily blocked it) ducked out from under my arm with a shove to my kidney, and flounced off, puppies bouncing. Huh. Either she wasn’t happy with my performance, or else she wanted to get as far away from any residual snakes as possible.
I was approached—with happy purpose—by the man who’d just yelled, an energetic sixty-something whose Just-For-Men black hair clashed with the Spanish moss he seemed to be growing on his face in lieu of a beard. The director.
“Perfect, Jack! I swear, when that camera is rolling you are Dirk fucking Dagger!”
Whew. Chalk one up to panic acting. Also, I know. Dirk Dagger. How could Jackson Gunn put up with a character name like that? The man was obviously a saint. (Sure, there are those who think “Jackson Gunn” is almost as bad, but it beat the heck out of his real name. I mean, if my name were Gunther Jackson, I’d transpose and truncate it, too.)
“Thanks,” I said, squaring my perfect replica of Gunn’s chiseled jaw.
My own chin is much more feminine, not to mention typically at least a foot lower, being as I’m usually short, blond, freckled, and female, as opposed to tall, dark, handsome, and male. Sounds strange, I know, but it’s all part of my job as a facilitator.
Ciel Halligan: Places to go, people to be. That’s the real me.
See, I fix people’s problems for a living. Not only that, but I do it as them, so they get all the credit. I can do that because of a special ability I share with others of my kind—i.e., aura adaptors. A quirky mutation in our genetic makeup allows us to alter our auras to look exactly like someone else. Basically, if I can touch you, I can become you, at least physically. It’s a simple matter of absorbing some of your energy and redirecting it out from me.
Even if I don’t touch you, I can, with enough concentration, manage a remarkably close rendition. But it’s harder, and uses more of my own energy reserves, so I’m not crazy about doing it.
So what do I get out of the arrangement? Well, besides giving me the satisfaction of helping others (hey, I’m as altruistic as the next person), it’s also a highly entertaining way to make a living. My job is a lot of things, but boring isn’t one of them.
“Just a few more takes to iron some stuff out,” my gushing director said. “Not you, Jack. Of course. It’s Sparky who needs to tone it down. This isn’t a cartoon, am I right?—anyway, another hour, two tops. Thanks for being such a champ.”
Feeling pretty good about how this job was going, I smiled at his retreating back and pretended I didn’t see the dirty look directed my way by the burly snake handler, who had retrieved his babies and had been crooning to them throughout my kiss-the-star’s-ass convo with the big boss. He came over anyway.
“You didn’t even try to aim for the mattress,” he said, accusation squeezing his voice to a higher pitch than usual.
True enough. I’d been more concerned with getting the writhing, scaly tubes of poison—with fangs—the hell away from my face than with their soft landing at the bottom of the fake pit. I mean, sure, they were supposedly milked of their venom before the take, but they could still bite, couldn’t they? I happen to have a strong aversion to having my skin pierced.
“You’re such a dick,” he said when I didn’t deny it, and stalked off, obviously disgusted with me. I wanted to apologize—the guy obviously loved his squirmy pets—but it wouldn’t have been in character. Work rule number one: Never break character.
I plopped down on the canvas folding chair emblazoned with “J Gunn,” spelled out in the shape of a pistol. Gotta love those graphic designers. A steaming mug of real coffee appeared in my hand (none of that frou-frou foamy crap for my hero), courtesy of some wannabe starlet who probably only took the gopher job to get into the building. I avoided meeting her eyes. My job was snakes, not small talk with girls I had nothing to offer.
I scanned the area while the makeup artist powdered my brow and the stylist artfully re-mussed the parts of my hair visible beneath my hat. My best-frenemy-turned-boyfriend, Billy Doyle, had to be here somewhere, laughing his ass off at me. I scrutinized a boisterous group of rigging technicians. There was plenty of snickering going on, but none I could swear wasn’t typical of the regulars on the set, so I had to let it go. For now.
Billy had gotten me this gig because I needed the money. I had already turned down his offer of a financial bailout, primarily out of sheer stubbornness. The whole point of me having my own business was to be independent. Sure, I wasn’t above getting a hefty family discount on rent, for both my D.C. condo and office, from my big brother the lawyer (trust me, he can afford it), but taking cash from the guy I was sleeping with? To me that smacked of … um, yeah.
Since I didn’t have another job on the horizon, and some big bills were about to come due, I’d pounced on it when Billy told me about a way I could earn beaucoup bucks and get a trip to Hollywood. Stubborn I might be, but I do have a pragmatic side, especially where my business is concerned.
And, you know, Hollywood. The opportunity to meet Jackson Gunn—and walk a mile in his legendary shoes—was not to be missed.
Billy sometimes did stunt work for film actors who liked to pretend publicly they were as athletic as the characters they portrayed. Why take the bumps and bruises yourself if somebody else can do it for you? Bonus for me: threatening to tell his mom about it was part of the backup blackmail plan I hold in reserve. Auntie Mo would kill him if she knew what kind of risks he took. Of course, I’d probably never be able to use it, because he knew stuff that would make my mom kill me.
Mutually assured destruction: the glue of any good relationship.
Jackson Gunn had heard about Billy through the golden grapevine—people with money who knew how and where to buy anything they wanted—and approached him with a “little problem.” Seriously, what kind of action hero wanted to admit he couldn’t be around a snake without peeing his pants? He’d be a laughingstock.
A throat cleared beside me. Jackson’s assistant, Frannie. Cute, curvy, and in a rush. This was the first time I’d encountered her in person, but I recognized her easily from her picture in the extensive dossier I had compiled before the job. (I do that with all my clients. No room for screwups in my line of work.)
“Shouldn’t you be gone?” I said, making sure I sounded concerned, not rude. According to a last-minute update from Jackson, Frannie had been called away on a family emergency.
“Come on, Ja—I mean, Mr. Gunn. You don’t think I’d leave without making sure you’re taken care of, do you? I got you a temp.” She glanced with distaste at the starstruck girl with the black-and-white ponytail and double-hooped nose piercings. “What’s your name again?”
The goth girl mumbled something I didn’t bother to commit to memory (totally in character for Gunn) and took my empty cup, holding
it with such reverence I was afraid she might be planning to make a shrine to it. Or possibly just sell it on eBay.
Frannie glared at her, obviously annoyed at the hero worship. “Mr. Gunn takes his coffee black, and only when he asks for it. Make sure you don’t bother him in his trailer. He’ll need to rest—undisturbed—between takes.”
Goth Girl nodded, looking contrite. I split a megawatt smile between the two of them, lingering a little longer on Frannie, so she wouldn’t get bent out of shape.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine, sweetie,” I said to the girl. I knew from his file that Gunn tended to call all women “sweetie.” I supposed that spared him from having to remember names. Whatever the reason, I was glad. It made my job easier.
Frannie looked torn—she was obviously a devoted assistant—but eventually left. On her way out, she lobbed one last warning look at little Miss Black-and-White, who faded obligingly into the background, still clutching her prize coffee cup.
“Jack!” The director again. What now? Had the snakes gone on strike?
“Look, Jack … I don’t know how to say this … I … We just heard … I mean … we have some bad news.”
I quirked my mouth, shrugging it off the way I figured a superstar would. “What? Are we losing investors? Hell, let me talk to them. I’ll—”
“No, that’s not it, the movie is fine, though if you want … I mean, if you need to take some time …”
“Spit it out, Wally.” That was his name, right? Walter Gentzner. Wally to his cast and crew, I was sure of it. So why was he looking so sick?
“It’s your wife.” He swallowed, his face looking as gray as his beard. “She’s dead.”
Well, shit. Part of my satisfaction guarantee was to never return a client’s life in worse condition than it was when I got it. I could fix a lot of things, but you can’t fix dead.
TOR BOOKS BY LINDA GRIMES
In a Fix
Quick Fix
The Big Fix
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LINDA GRIMES grew up in Texas, where she rode horses, embarrassed herself onstage a lot, and taught teenagers they’d have to learn the rules of English before they could get away with breaking them for creativity’s sake. She currently resides in Virginia with her theater-god husband, whom she snagged after he saw her in a musical number at the now-defunct Melodrama Theater in San Antonio. There’s nothing like a rousing chorus of “If You Wanna Catch a Fish You Gotta Wiggle Your Bait” to hook a man for a lifetime. Grimes is the author of In a Fix, Quick Fix, and The Big Fix.
