Disenchanted

by A. R. Miller

  We all look at the door as a buzzer sounds.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The door opens, revealing a slick–looking dude arguing with other MIBs in lawyerese about my release.

  Frack in linebacker stance, is obviously spoiling for a fight and the others don’t seem too keen on letting me just walk out.

  “Is Miss Fey charged with a crime?” Lawyer man moves past the guard at the door.

  Who in hel sent a lawyer, especially one with a suit that costs more than a year’s profits?

  Frick, slips his glasses back on, barely able to contain his distaste. Wonder if it’s lawyers in general, or this one specifically. “There is evidence that leads us to believe she knows something about The Collector. At least three of the victims were clients of her salon.”

  Bonus points, I guess. He didn’t say they think I am The Collector, just that I know something. The keep–your–mouth–shut look the lawyer gives me isn’t necessary. The baggie laying there in front of me is motivation enough. If it wasn’t, then what the contents were used for sure is.

  “Circumstantial,” he says, waving at their evidence. “Just because the victims came to her business establishment does not mean she knows their attacker.”

  Frick picks up the baggy like it’s filled with doggy droppings. “And these?”

  “Again, circumstantial, anyone could have purchased a pair of shears and engraved her name on them.”

  “They are covered with her fingerprints.”

  He shrugs. “Isn’t it possible they were taken from her workstation?”

  “Hey, are you saying we took them?” asks Frack, so obviously the brawn and not the brains of the duo. That’s what happens to many of the berserkers hired by the NTF. They are forced to induce the rage so often their ability to reason is wiped out, similar to the side effects of steroids.

  Frick sighs. I’m betting he’s wishing his partner would disappear, or at least keep his mouth shut as a slow smile creeps across lawyer man’s face.

  “You have two choices, charge her, or let her go. Clearly, the shears and recent visits to her salon are not enough, or you would have her in those.” He motions to the manacles and I bite the inside of my cheek.

  Lawyer man dismisses Frick and Frack, coming to my side of the table. He helps me up, gently wrapping his arm around my shoulders, leads me to the door. “You’ve been traumatized enough today, Miss Fey, let’s get you home.”

  Home, yeah, that sounds good. I hunch my shoulders, feeling every eye on us as we walk through the door. A part of me waits for, don’t leave town, but it doesn’t come.

  The bright sunlight is nowhere near as blinding as the cameras that flash the moment I step out of NTF headquarters.

  The man with the expensive suit steps in front, a shield between the crowd of reporters and me, then two others join us. These two are similar in build to Frack, probably berserkers also. They make good bodyguards and excellent bulldozers as we mow our way through the crowd.

  Someone pushes my head down and hustles me into the waiting limo. Yes, limo. For a moment, I feel like a celebrity, and then reality slaps me. These people think I’m a criminal. Not just any criminal, but The Collector. I can just imagine the headlines now, Local Stylist Center of Collector Controversy.

  The nightly newscast will be even more humiliating when it reaches out beyond the greater Des Moines area and my family and Annya get to watch my celebrity. I can hear the disappointment in The Sisters’ voices already. We didn’t bring you up that way. Annya will try and make light of the situation. Couldn’t you find a better way to get on TV?

  Giggles build to hysterical laughter complete with tears streaming down my face. I bury my face in my hands; laughter mixed with sobbing wracks my body. There’s a reassuring pat on my shoulder. My new lawyer, I’m guessing. It only makes me laugh harder.

  “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.”

  My sobbing laughter turns to hiccups and I nod as he opens the bar and pours two glasses of amber liquid. Instead of sipping what I assume is whiskey, I down it in one gulp, letting the strong liquid burn its way down my throat.

  “Smooth,” I gasp with a giggle. “Thanks, I needed that.”

  Taking the glass from me, he smiles, a little more than confused by my attempt at humor. “No problem,” he says, handing it back refilled.

  Being a lawyer certainly has its high points, like limos stocked with very expensive whiskey.

  “I suppose I should introduce myself,” he says after taking a sip of his own drink.

  “Yeah, that would be nice, along with an explanation of why you came to my rescue back there.”

  “Mark Jacobs, Miss Fey. Mr. Royd sent me.”

  If this car weren’t so damn smooth, my stomach would swear we just hit the biggest pothole in Des Moines.

  “What the...”

  He smiles and takes another sip, predatorily, like the sharks lawyers are accused of being. I down the drink and close my eyes, hoping to slow the dizziness that threatens. When I open them, there are three fingers of whiskey in the glass.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Jacobs?”

  He laughs. It’s actually a nice laugh, not at all sinister. Not really sure what I expected. Maniacal super villain laughter?

  “No, Miss Fey. I would gain nothing if you were to become intoxicated.”

  I nod and lean back in the seat. Plush leather envelops me, butter soft under the fingers and extremely rich to the nose.

  “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell me why Mr. Royd sent you to help me?”

  “I protect Mr. Royd’s interests.”

  “Huh? What do you mean, interests? I don’t even know the guy.”

  “No, but he knows you.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why I would be considered one of his interests.”

  “If you wish me to be blunt...” he pauses and I nod. “He owns the loan on your salon. If you go down, the salon closes and he loses money. My job is to keep you out of jail and defend you, if the need arises.”

  Talk about too much information. Finding out that Var Royd literally owns my ass is the last thing I need to hear.

  By the time we pull up outside my building, I’m all warm and tingly. What can I say? I’m a little buzzed. Okay, a lot buzzed. I drank three glasses. In some ways, it’s probably a good thing. In others, not so much.

  Reporters and gawkers have already surrounded the building. As the car door swings open I see Nyssa forcibly removing some of them from the salon.

  “If you’re not here to get your hair done—some of you really need it—then get out!” I hear her yell.

  Gods, that’s going to play well on the news, my shampoo girl insulting reporters.

  Following Jacobs out of the car, flanked by what I assume are Royd’s private guards, the press converges. I feel like a piece of sticky candy discarded on the sidewalk, with ants rushing in for a bite.

  I’m not claustrophobic, at least not in the conventional sense. Small spaces don’t bother me, it’s people crowding into my personal space, jostling, shoving, most of all touching me. Yeah, I know I work in an industry dealing with people and there’s a lot of touching. That’s one–on–one, not a crowd and they aren’t touching, or in this case trying to grab me. I do the touching.

  “Relax,” says Jacobs, flashing me a camera–ready smile. “I’ll take care of them. The boys will get you inside, virtually unscathed.”

  I recognize the attempt at humor, even without the wink, but the word unscathed isn’t very reassuring. Especially, when all I see is a flood of bodies pressing forward, expressions ranging from glazed excitement to rage. Breathing becomes short, quick gulps, and that bass line thumping through my body must be my heart.

  How had my life gotten so out of hand?

  The boys each take hold of my arms, just above the elbow and we force our way through the crowd. Their sheer bulk shields me from most of the throng, but there’s always that one idiot. Thi
s idiot decides it’s wise to thrust a mini recorder practically up my nose. Before I can even think about reacting, two impressively large backs block my view of what becomes of the overzealous reporter. I bolt for the door, slamming it behind me. The boys stay outside flanking the door. The recorder lies in bits and pieces, the owner’s ass planted firmly on the concrete next to it, a nasty little warning to those who would try to pass them.

  It takes a minute, but I soon figure out the reason for the silence. The only bodies in the salon are staff. Not a single customer. On the desk, nothing, but eraser shavings coat the remaining pages of the appointment book. Everyone has canceled and not just my clients. I want to cry until I notice Friday night. Lorelei is still down at seven. Then I do cry, even though it comes out more of a strangled laugh.

  Everything I’ve worked for, down the tube. With the scandal of me being hauled in by the NTF all the rave reviews in the world aren’t going to keep old customers, or generate new ones. Guess it might bring in a few rubberneckers, but that’s the last thing I want.

  All I wanted growing up was to be normal. Then I came to terms with who and what I am. Okay, that last part I’m not totally sure about. Not knowing your parentage doesn’t help and there’s no discussing a topic with The Sisters that they don’t wish to discuss.

  When I decided on being a stylist, I had a goal and worked like hel to achieve what I have. Now in a matter of days that rug has been yanked from under me and I feel like that lost teenager again. I don’t want to be the freak everyone stares at, not again!

  At least Lorelei hasn’t deserted me. She couldn’t possibly be planning on calling later to cancel, or worse, being a no–show. Could she? Slumping down in the chair, I cradle my head in my hands. Can it get any worse?

  Sure it can. I’ve got a staff whose clients have canceled because of me. My alleged guilt just cut off their livelihood. The best thing for them would be to distance themselves from me. What about Jenny? Will this turn her to a life of ho–dome? .

  Wait a minute, where is Jenny?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I don’t remember seeing her when I came in, but that doesn’t mean she’s not here. Then again, maybe she left after all the excitement. She does have classes to attend. Jerked out of my pity party I glance at the room, then around the partition between reception and the cutting floor.

  “Where’s Jenny?” I ask the huddled mass of my esteemed lawyer and colleagues.

  They look like rabbits caught in the garden—if I don’t move, you can’t see me—before they finally look at me.

  “She must have left after they took you,” says Nyssa.

  “Did she say where she was going, or if she’d be back?”

  “Nope, and I didn’t ask. Guess I was just too busy with customers leaving, the phone ringing off the hook, and a pissed–off vamp to notice.”

  I nod, imagining the phone frenzy as clients spread the word of what they’d see through the digital airwaves. At the front desk, I bring up the contact list in the computer and dial Jenny’s home number. No answer. I try her cell, it goes straight to voicemail, could be turned off, or she’s in another call. Maybe she saw the number and decided not to answer.

  None of this matters when a brick flies through the front window. Particles of glass in various sizes spread across the floor and furnishings, magazines scatter where the brick pushed them after bouncing off a table. Echoes of bitch, murderer, and other choice phrases follow. The sound of shattering glass and my involuntary scream brings the others to the front with some astounding speed.

  Seeing the mess, the destruction of my property, my heart stops fluttering and the tears that threaten dry up. I now know what they mean by seeing red.

  “Come back here and say that to my face, you assholes!”

  I know it’s stupid and childish, but I can’t help myself. I’ve had enough of being accused and abused for one day. Thankfully, no one tells me how stupid and useless my little outburst was Matter of fact they pretty much pretend nothing happened.

  Nyssa and Rey are hard at it with the broom and dustpan. Jacobs is on the phone with the police and the boys are outside scaring—no, it looks like talking to some of the bystanders. In their case, it could be one and the same.

  I flop down in the chair and stare at the window, smashed, just like my life. I bite my lower lip to keep it from quivering. In a matter of hours, I’ve lost everything I worked so hard to achieve. The curious have gathered as a police car pulls up and Jacobs walks to the curb. I should be out there dealing with this, but my limbs are like jelly and my brain fuzzy with anger, self–pity and fear.

  I can’t afford a lawyer, especially one like Jacobs and I’m not about to take Var Royd’s charity. How in Hel’s Realm am I going to afford to pay him? The pencil smudges on the pages of the appointment book have already proven I have no income. Sure, I have a little in savings, but I doubt it’s enough to keep him in limos and pricey whiskey. There’s probably enough to pay my bills for the next couple of months, but what about the others?

  Rey and Dara make commission, but no appointments on the books means fifty percent of nothing. Nyssa gets a commission on her nail services, but I pay her an hourly rate for shampooing. So much for that raise I promised Jenny.

  Things must not be going very well outside. I can’t see Jacob’s face, but his posture has stiffened and the boys look none too happy. The cop’s smug expression clinches it as he scribbles something in his notepad before getting back in his car. My esteemed lawyer comes back in, expressionless, but tension rolling off him like the stench of perm fumes. Can things get any better?

  The grit of eraser under my arms reminds me, I have something to do. No matter how selfish I want to be, I have to do the right thing. They need to distance themselves from me, and I know they won’t do it on their own. That also means talking to Dara when she wakes up and telling her. She should also probably find a new place to live.

  With Jacobs on the phone again, I gather my courage and stand up.

  “Guys, I need you to come here a moment, I have something to tell you.”

  They glance at one another as they walk over. Nyssa’s perfect little brow furrows and Rey shrugs.

  Taking a deep breath I spit it out, “You’re fired.”

  “Excuse me?” Nyssa suddenly goes ghetto on me, head bob and all.

  Rey’s laughter just makes me want to I yell, psych, then join in.

  “Okay, that went well.”

  “You can’t fire us.” Nyssa pushes her four–foot–something frame up into my face. I fight the urge to take a step back.

  “The name of the place is Fey Creations and I’m Fey...so um...yeah, I can.”

  “Well, I’m not going.” Rey continues to chuckle as he moves off to his station and lounges in the chair. “You can say whatever you want, but I don’t think any of us will leave. We’ve got it too good here.”

  “Good?” I try to keep my voice at a normal level, but fail. “You have no appointments on the books. I barely have enough in savings to pay my bills; I can’t afford to pay Nys, or Jenny. Do you want to tell me how you plan on supporting yourselves?”

  Climbing into my chair, I bury my face in my hands. Argument I expected, but not flat out refusal, or laughter.

  “Darlin’, this is the best salon I’ve ever worked in and we all connect like...well, like family. I’m not leaving and you can bet the others feel the same.”

  “Rey, if you guys don’t distance yourselves from me and this cluster fuck I’ve got going on you’ll be finished. I don’t want to sound like a mob boss, but you’ll never work in this town again.”

  More laughter, this time softer, like a big brother indulging his baby sister. “Those old biddies chasing youth and the groupies will be back before you know it. Trust me, I’ve been in worse situations and this will blow over quicker than you think.”

  “I don’t know.” I shake my head.

  Nyssa stands between us clutching the framed review. “I�
�m with him, I’m not leaving either. You need us.”

  “I could take your keys.”

  “Try it,” they both say.

  “I could change the locks.”

  “You can’t afford it,” says Rey with a giant grin.

  Nyssa giggles as she hugs me. “We’re not going, so get used to it.”

  “Okay, okay, I give.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jacobs sits at the break room table, leaning heavily on his arms, the bridge of his nose pinched between his fingers. The earpiece from his cell phone lays abandoned to one side of the table and the phone teeters on the edge of the other. One small jostle of the table and it will crash to the floor. This can’t be good.

  “Miss Fey, Keely. May I call you Keely?”

  “Sure.” I take the seat across from him, reminiscent of my earlier experience, without the fear of torture.

  “Here is the essence of our situation. We have a serious problem. Even though you weren’t charged, the press and others are under the impression you either are, or are in league with, The Collector. After the earlier display, I anticipate more retaliation. The local authorities have all, but outright denied my request for protection and the NTF is unresponsive.”

  The set of his jaw and frustration in his eyes is a clear indication he doesn’t trust them and I probably shouldn’t either. Nor did I trust the local authorities.

  Sheriff Bogner, or as he prefers—major emphasis on prefers—Sheriff Frank, conjures up childhood memories of Porky’s and The Dukes of Hazzard. What we have here is a 6’7” troll, tiny by troll reasoning; whose parents cruelly named him Frances. Maybe the unlit cigar continuously clenched between his teeth is some sort of compensation. It’s released to fingers the size of ring bologna when he’s about to make a point. The unlucky recipient of that point is subjected to a couple of inches of masticated, soggy goodness waved in their face. Just thinking about being on the receiving end of one of those conversations makes my stomach curdle.