by Emily Bishop
“Take a seat, please,” I repeated. I had a strict policy about turning people away. I didn’t do it unless they made me super uncomfortable. People needed help in most places, and they didn’t realize how much they needed it until they came to me.
Jarryd Tombs handed me the cards he’d collected, and we touched. Electricity sparked through me, and I inhaled sharply. Wow. He’s magic.
The moment lingered, and he plumbed the depths of my soul with a look. “You’re beautiful,” he said.
I blushed.
“And younger than I expected. Shit, sorry, I had a Bud Light or five before I came.”
“I—well. I’m twenty-three. I’ve been doing this for a while. And that’s quite all right.” Did he think I was too young to know the cards?
“Sorry, that was inappropriate.” He gave a sheepish grin then then dragged back a chair, sat down. Was he a little tipsy? He touched a finger to the candle holder on the table and snapped it back, instantly, examining the hot wax now cooling on his finger. “Shit, I’m an idiot.”
“Here,” I said and fetched a paper towel from my shelf.
“Thanks.” He scraped off the wax and blew on the sore spot.
“Are you comfortable?”
“As much as I can be. Let’s say this isn’t where I usually take my advice.”
A skeptic. I’d encountered plenty of those on the road. In my experience, there were two types: the ones who plain hated what I did and wouldn’t hear about it, and the ones who didn’t want to believe because it scared them.
I always preferred the latter. They usually opened up during a reading.
“Would you like a glass of water? A cup of coffee?”
A slight shift of his hands on the table, a tilt of his head to one side, bright blue eyes watching me, waiting. Every motion took on meaning. Candlelight flickered, caught the hard plane of his jaw—rough with stubble. “No, I’m fine, thank you for offering. So, you’re Mistress Mystery, the tarot expert, right? What can you tell me about this stuff? Call me a virgin.”
“I’ll walk you through it as we move along. It’s nothing scary. It’s not magic—it’s an expression of your subconscious. Yeah, that’s the best way to put it, I’d say.” I smiled. Oversized butterflies swooshed around in my stomach. It wasn’t that he was famous. It was the way he swept his gaze around the room, rested it on me, sat tall—as if he owned everything here. And me, too.
I clasped the tarot cards to my chest.
“Great, thanks. So, Mistress Mystery… Is that your real name?” Jarryd asked then then laughed at himself. “Of course, it’s not.”
“No, it’s not,” I said and shuffled the cards.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“That’s—let’s call it a secret,” I whispered and winked at him. Oh, god, I winked at Jarryd Tombs. He probably thinks I’m fangirling.
But Jarryd didn’t waver. He stared me down, and silence built between us, heat building, a low flame that brightened. I gulped. “A tarot reading,” I said, “isn’t a fix all. You’ve got to understand that going in. It’s not meant to answer all your questions.”
“So, you’re not going to tell me when I’ll inherit my great-aunt’s fortune?”
“Wha –?”
“I’m kidding,” he said, and put up a sexy half-smile. “I don’t have a great-aunt.”
“Oh, I—well, no questions like that will be answered.” I tried smoothing over the tension but it didn’t work. Each time I met those crystal blue orbs, my insides turned to jelly.
“Mr. Tombs,” I said.
“Wait, how do you know my name?” He froze. “That’s too fucking creepy. How do you know that?”
“Uh, I—uh. You’re famous.” I giggled.
He laughed, too, a burst of mirth, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course. Yeah, not Tombs, call me Jarryd, please.”
“Jarryd,” I murmured. “What brings you to Moondance?”
“Work,” he replied. “Scouting locations for a movie, actually.” He shook his head. “That’s why I’m here. Things have been… complicated lately. I could use some clarity. And also, my buddy kinda forced me into this.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Not that I didn’t want to. I’d like to see where this goes. Go on, do your magic.” He wriggled his eyebrows up and down.
“It’s not magic, really,” I said, placing the tarot deck on the table between us. “At least, not like David Copperfield. It’s a feeling. It’s intuition. It’s soul.” I kept my fingers on the top of the deck. “You need to shuffle them.”
“I do? What am I paying you for?” The corners of his lips twitched—my insides whooped again. He touched the deck, skin brushed skin, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep the gasp inside.
Electric. As electric as watching him move. I couldn’t fathom the kind of life he led. Riches and stability, and people admiring him, wanting to be around him. That was the literal opposite of the life I’d led, skipping out from town to town and carrying a stigma above my head like an ever-present sword of Damocles.
Watch out for the fortune-teller! Depending on the town, I was either a phony or the creepy witch lady.
“Special trick?”
“Sorry, what?” I focused on him again. Get it together, Aurora. He’s a client, not eye candy, for heaven’s sake. “You what?”
“Is there a special trick to it? Do I have to do something, uh, you know? Weird?” He held the cards as if they might come to life and strike him.
“Yeah, you have to sacrifice a cat at full moon, while dancing naked to ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ by Rick Astley.”
He chuckled, a quick tight burst of mirth that rumbled through the inside of the tiny tent then shuffled the cards.
“Now, give them back to me.” I laid out my palm.
He placed the cards in it, dwarfing my hand with his. Another gasp pressed at the back of my teeth. What’s the matter with you? You’re not this woman. “Thanks,” I said, lamely.
“I would say it’s a pleasure, but we’ll have to see how things progress.”
I gulped audibly. Of course, he didn’t mean anything sexual. Of course not. Ridiculous. That was my long dry spell talking. I placed the deck and sighed. “I need you to ask the cards a question.”
“What kind of question?” he asked, brow furrowed.
“Something specific, anything that has real meaning to you. But you have to be honest and open. Really mean it, when you ask.” I buzzed, watching him again, those sure movements, and balled my hands into fists in my lap, hid them in my skirt.
“A question, all right. I can do that. Am I making the right choice with Pride’s Death?”
“What’s Pride’s Death?” I asked—it had to be specific.
“It’s my movie. A thriller. It’s pre-production. It’s the reason I’m here, as I said, scouting locations.”
“Oh,” I said. “Ask it again, please.”
His sucked his bottom lip, released it. Whoops, there go those waves again. “Am I making the right choice with Pride’s Death?”
I lifted the cards and shuffled them one last time then put them down again. “I’m about to show you the Celtic Cross reading. It’s great for questions like this and will hopefully give you some clarity on your question. The first card represents your current state of being.”
“Tipsy?”
“Ever considered trading in the thrillers for comedies? You could make a killing.”
Jarryd grinned again.
“The first card,” I continued and drew it, placing it face up on the table. My, my. Intriguing. “Your current state of being. The Seven of Cups. You’re considering your choices, trapped in fantasy. You have yet to choose.”
Jarryd perked up. “Choose what?”
“Only you’ll know that. The cards are showing you what’s inside, in your subconscious, Jarryd. The answers are all within you—this is a tool to help you see the truth.”
“Truth. I need truth.
”
“Then you’ve come to the right place.” I avoided his gaze. Each time it swept over me, a tide of shivers rose. “The second card is what opposes you.” I drew it and placed it crosswise over the first. “The Hierophant. He represents tradition, conformity. You’re faced with a choice and held back by your need to conform to your current path.”
He was frozen, eyes on the cards now. I took the opportunity and studied him. How could one man give off this much energy? I prickled all over, longing to touch him, but I tamped down the emotion.
“The third card,” I said, softly, “represents the origin of your question.” I drew it and placed it above the first two, on the velvety tablecloth. “The Five of Cups. See here on the card? The man is looking at the cups that have spilled and ignoring the full cup behind him. It symbolizes loss, regret, disappointment. And it means you’re ignoring an opportunity that is close to you.”
He looked up and speared me again. “Close to me.”
“Yes,” I whispered, allowing the moment between us to lengthen. Oh, gosh, so much for my professionalism. If it gets around that I flirt with clients, it certainly won’t be good for business. Forget about the attraction. But it was easier said than done with him across the table. “The fourth card represents your recent past.” I let out a tiny gasp this time. I placed the card below the first two.
“What is it?”
The card pictured a heart, stabbed through three times with sharpened swords. “The Three of Swords. Heartbreak.”
Jarryd gritted his teeth. “Makes sense, I guess. Things have been tough the past while. A breakup.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He waved it off. “And the next card?”
I hid my pity. He’d been hurt. Was that why he was here? The longing to reach out to him, drag my fingers down his arm, embrace him even, struck me speechless.
“The next one?” A gentle prodding.
“The fifth card foretells what may happen, depending on how you react to future events.” I placed it to the right of the first two. “Two of Cups. So many Cups,” I whispered.
“Why is that significant?”
“Cups is the suit of emotion. It’s—I didn’t expect that in the reading.” He didn’t seem like the emotional type. He was intense, yes, but emotional? He was in a suit, and so well put together.
“What does it mean?”
“Two of Cups signifies a relationship or partnership.” The man and woman on the card, both dark-haired, him taller, her short. Stop it. You don’t even know him. He’s famous and you’re… you.
“In my future,” he said. “Doubtful.”
“The sixth card.” I blew past that response. It wasn’t my business. I wasn’t a shrink, and I wouldn’t drag his personal problems out into the open. That wasn’t me. “The sixth card represents that which lies ahead. The certain future.” I drew the card and placed it to the left of the arrangement then frowned. “Reversed Two of Pentacles. Financial disarray. You’re going to lose money.”
Once again, he fixed his attention on the spread.
“The seventh card is—”
A shrill ring interrupted me, and Jarryd slipped a cell out of his jacket. He held down the plastic button on its side and the noise cut off. “Sorry about that.” He magicked it back into his pocket again. “Please, continue. This is more important.” His foot brushed mine.
My heart did a flop. The reading was more important than… what? An important call from whoever that’d been. At least he could switch off. I despised the new social era, everyone attached to their devices, tapping and liking and poking.
“The seventh card is the current state of your emotional self.” I placed it to the far right. “The Hanged Man. Sacrifice, suspension, the need to let go.” Readings usually had some element of intimacy, but this felt different.
It was as if I’d peeked behind a curtain and caught him naked. The cards bothered him.
Jarryd shifted and tapped his fingers on the table. He didn’t like any of this, but what could I do? He’d touched the cards, and he’d paid me to do this. I couldn’t guarantee anyone a joyful reading.
“Go on,” he said. “I’m fine.” As if he’d read my thoughts.
“The eighth card is for external forces, the people who influence your life. The High Priestess. Intuition and mystery.” Once again, his gaze flickered up to my face and glued me in time. “The, the ninth card is for hopes and desires. The Lovers. Love, union, choices.”
“And the tenth card?” he asked, voice deep and warm, like honey and butter.
“Tenth card is the outcome of your question,” I replied.
“Am I making the right choice with Pride’s Death?”
“That’s it,” I said, as if he didn’t already know that. “The tenth card is—oh, my god.”
“What?”
Shoot, I never let emotion show during readings but he’d made this difficult for me. His presence had hazed everything but the table, the cards, and Jarryd. Flickering candles, a distant rumble of thunder.
“What?” he repeated.
I placed the tenth card. “The Tower.”
“Jesus, that doesn’t look pleasant.”
A tower above a roiling ocean, waves crashing against the cliff it stood upon. Flames erupted from the topmost window, a man toppled to the waves below, and lightning arced through the darkened clouds above.
Outside, rain pattered the roof of my tent to suit the mood. “It symbolizes change.”
“Is that all?” he asked. “Don’t go easy on me. I can take it.”
“Disaster. Upheaval. Revelation.”
Silence followed my words, broken only by the flash of lightning and a thunderous boom outside. The rain picked up. Shoot, I’d have to pack up everything and cart it back to the RV park. If the tent flooded, it’d ruin my books, cards, candles, everything. I’d officially run out of time for this reading.
“Is this true? Is it all going to come to pass?” Jarryd asked.
“That depends entirely on you. The reading is a representation of what you’re feeling. If you make a change, you can affect the outcome of your question,” I replied and swept the cards back into a pile. I patted them together and fed them into their black silk pouch.
“I’m not sure I understand half of what you told me.” He rose fast, towering over me. Towering, ha. Irony? “Or if I believe it.”
I bristled a little. “You don’t? I can only explain what the cards show me. Change is coming for you. Change and love. Perhaps a bit of turmoil, but ultimately, you’re in control. You always have been,” I said and hurried to the bookshelf. I placed the cards then moved back to the table and swept the tablecloth off it. “But now, Mr. Tombs, I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“Will you leave a glass slipper for me?” he asked.
“I—what?”
“Why do you have to leave?” He caught my arm, and I gulped. I couldn’t handle him touching me. Every cell in my body ached. “No, why are you packing up? Are you leaving Moondance?”
“Not Moondance, no.”
“I don’t want you to leave because of me.” Jarryd still hadn’t let go, and the heat from his skin on my bare arm brought goosebumps. He looked down at them then up at me again.
“I wouldn’t leave because of you.”
“I’ve upset you.” He let go of my arm.
“Not at all. I’m packing up because of the rain—the tent will flood, and I’ll lose everything. I need to get it all inside.”
Already water had trickled beneath the tent flap and sluiced across the grass.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh. I’ll help you.”
“I don’t need help.” I tried for a smile.
“ I want to,” he replied and brushed his fingers through that wavy brown hair “I’ll help you pack up. You wouldn’t have this problem if I’d come during regular hours.”
“It’s OK. I can do it on my own.”
“It’s fucking pouring out there,” he said.
“It’s already flooding. I’m helping you.”
I stared at him, breathing hard, my heart pounding against the inside of my ribcage. “All right, but you’re going to get wet. I live in the RV park outside the fairgrounds.”
“No problem.”
We made quick work of it—packing the crystals, books, and tarot cards into a wooden box decorated in silver etchings. I covered the top of it with the velvet tablecloth. “That’s everything. Oh, wait, the sign,” I said. “It’s wooden. I don’t want it to rot.”
“I’ll get it. You take this.”
Jarryd marched out into the rain before I could utter another word. I splashed out into the thunderstorm with the little box. Chain lightning arced through the sky, and the wind picked up, splattering raindrops against my back. I shivered and rushed past Jarryd while he heaved the sign from the ground and toward the exit.
The thrill of the storm, and the fact that he was behind me, rushing through the rain to help—there was a celebrity here, in my little field—was enough to trip me up, and I stumbled, straightened then continued. I led the path to the RV, shuddering from the cold, and thundered up the front steps. I forced the door open, stumbled in, and dumped the box on the mini-kitchen table. I’d leave the bookshelf and the table out—neither were made of wood and wouldn’t take damage.
Footsteps thumped up the two steps behind me, followed by the creak of wood and scrape of something being placed. “There.”
I turned and slammed into Jarryd’s hard, muscled torso. He caught my arms and kept me from falling. “Whoa, easy there.”
I sucked in a breath and looked up at him. “Th—you—thanks. I—the sign?” He dripped water, his suit jacket sodden but hanging open to reveal the wet, white cotton shirt underneath, stuck to his abs, displaying the outline clearly. The scent of his cologne, kind of woody and mixed with the musk of pure skin, drifted between us. His eyes glinted, danced up and down, studying me.
He moved forward, and the wetness pressed against me, water spread between us, joined us. I melted internally, barely holding myself together.
“It’s right there.” He tilted his head to the left.
I didn’t look. Neither did he. We were connected by something, tangible strings of attraction, and it was all I could do to keep breathing. He had a dimple on his chin.
