by Hero Bowen
“I’d say you jumped in pretty deep this evening, but what do I know?” She forced herself to sound cheerier as they moved toward the cemetery entrance. “Basically, you can’t put someone’s life at risk in order to earn a wish by saving them. Big no-no, and you don’t get anything for it—other than a dead person if you screw it up. You could arrange it so that some unknowing bystander saves the person and earns a wish you can then steal, but that’s just as terrible and risky.”
“Ah, got you.” He nodded sagely. “But I’m not gonna complain about a free wish when I was about to pay megabucks for one. It doesn’t matter how much money you got—there’s nothing quite like a freebie.”
She should’ve figured out who that rich voice belonged to long before he took off his sunglasses. He had a unique, gravelly tone that filtered into his music. At least, that seemed the case for the songs she’d absently listened to on the radio. His voice matched his tall, broad stature, though his face was prettier than she’d expect from someone with such a husky, almost weathered tone. She’d assumed it was all makeup and Photoshop, but he really did look like his magazine covers, with flawless, dark skin and cheekbones so high she could imagine tiny skiers slaloming down to his defined jaw. His plump lips had a natural sheen, and his eyebrows didn’t have a single strand out of place. Based on the photos she’d seen in Grace’s magazines, he had close-cropped hair underneath his hood, and the kind of forehead used in Botox promos, but he was keeping all of that under wraps for now.
“You definitely got lucky.” Her eyes turned up as a warm raindrop landed on her nose.
He smiled proudly. “So did you, by meeting me. You’d have a bullet through you if you hadn’t.”
“Good point.” Really, the near-death experience should’ve turned her into a crying mess, but she felt restless instead, life buzzing through her veins.
“Hey, that reminds me,” he continued. “I swear I saw at least two bullets ping off that big dude who did all the talking. What’s the deal there, huh? He bulletproof or something?”
Nadia kept walking, head down. “Yep, a lot of guys like that are. I’d say it’s the most common wish for people who make their living like that.” She pretended to pull a trigger. She’d heard incredible tales of comical shootouts, where the bullets bounced off everybody and transformed wherever they were fighting into a cheese grater.
“We should get out of the rain,” she muttered as a few more splashes spat down from the swollen clouds that had charged in overhead.
Those few splashes turned into a deluge. Throwing her satchel over her head in a makeshift umbrella, she took off at a faster clip and jogged along the sandy network of paths to the cemetery exit, putting Miles in soggy pursuit.
At the gates, Nadia slowed to a walk and dropped the satchel to her shoulder. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the downpour slough away the stress and fear. The air carried that blood-metallic tang of ozone, and a growl of thunder bellyached in the distance. Without warning, her memory hit her with a gut punch: those lost days where she’d run around the garden when a summer storm came, Nick throwing an arm over her shoulder until they were soaked to the skin and her ribs ached from laughing. Returning to that life felt like an unattainable dream, given the omnipresent weight of the debt.
Her eyes snapped open. Wait . . . Her chance at freedom was right behind her, inside of Miles. What if this was the untracked, born-in-the-wild wish she’d been waiting for? If she could use it to clear the debt, there was no way Basha or Grace could argue. This would, in essence, be the very last wish on their tally—that is, if the wish was potent enough. And it was a wish he’d earned by saving her life, but she tried not to think too hard about that fact.
Miles came to a stop next to her, bending at the waist to catch his breath.
Sorry, Miles, but I need that wish. Her mind whirred as she scrambled for a way to delay his coming goodbye. Without a functional wishing box, stealing a wish would be nigh on impossible. But Miles had a wishing jar on him, though why anyone would want to sell their wish trap, she had no clue.
Like he had said, it was serendipity. All she needed to do was take his jar, coax a secret out of him, run off with the jar and the wish, and then this gigantic mess of a day would have a pleasant ending.
“You’re fast,” Miles said, panting.
She slipped on a nervous expression. “I think my adrenaline is still spiked. Didn’t mean to run that fast.”
“I wasn’t that far behind,” he protested. “I don’t know about you, but once I get home, I need a drink and twelve hours of shut-eye to forget about all this. Are you going to be okay out h—”
She hugged herself around her middle and forced a shake into her body. It was only half an act. She had nearly died.
“Not to sound needy,” Nadia said, “but I think I’m still feeling a little unsteady. Do you mind keeping me company for a few minutes until I can settle down?”
She didn’t know if he was the type to abandon a woman in a rain-spattered cemetery entrance after they’d been shot at, but she figured she was putting on a decent damsel-in-distress display.
“Any other day, sure, but I should get going before somebody recognizes me,” Miles replied, casting a wary look around. “You should get home and rest.” His sunglasses came back up to his cheeks, rain tracing down the front of them in beads.
“Did you bring your own car?” Nadia asked, hoping for at least a little luck.
He snapped his fingers. “Damn it.” A headshake accented his sudden frustration. “That Black Hat guy drove me down here. My fans know my ride, so there was less chance of being spotted if he took the wheel. Now he’s gone. I didn’t even think about that, to be honest.”
“Then we can help each other. I’ll trade you a ride for a little company.” Nadia shuddered at the unintentional innuendo. “I mean, can I drop you off somewhere?”
Miles answered with a wave toward the parking lot. She led him to her Chevy, jittering with anticipation as he walked around to the passenger side.
He prodded up his sunglasses—which were probably too smeared with rain to see anything other than vague shapes—as he eyed the car. “Nice. Not my usual style, but it’s cool.” He opened the door and got in as Nadia slid into the driver’s seat.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, twisting around and putting her broken wishing box onto the backseat.
He leaned casually on the narrow doorsill. “Sure you can.”
“Are you Miles Hunter? I wasn’t sure, with the shades and the hoodie, but you look a lot like him.”
His body language contracted like a tortoise, his head sinking farther into his hood. “I’ve just got one of those faces. Everybody thinks I look like somebody they know.”
“Perhaps. But you mentioned having fans, which kind of gave it away.” Nadia tried to make herself look as nonthreatening as possible by shuffling as far back against her door as the vinyl and metal would let her. “I’m a big fan, but I’m not one of those unhinged ones who’s going to keep you in my basement or anything. Your Achilles tendons are safe!” She laughed, but it came off way creepier than intended.
He slowly reached for the door handle. “Maybe I’ll just take a cab. No need for you to go out of your way.”
“Sorry, I’m a bit nervous,” she blurted out. The counselor in her recognized it as a Freudian truth. “This might come as a surprise, but I don’t play chauffeur to too many famous musicians, so that all came out wrong.”
He gave a half-hearted hum.
She switched tactics, realizing she’d put him on edge. “To tell you the truth, I’m not that big of a fan. I don’t know why I said that. It’s just that I know the artist who made the painting for your last show. She’s the die-hard groupie, and she was horrified that I’d never heard any of your music. She introduced me to it recently, but . . . Well, you’re not how I expected you’d be.”
He moved his hand away from the handle. “How do you mean?”
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��I didn’t think someone like you would put their life on the line to save someone like me,” she replied quietly. “I guess you can’t judge a rock star by their album sleeve, right?”
“I like that one. Though I prefer to be called a musician, to be honest.” The ghost of a smile crept onto his lips. “You’re pretty sharp, Clover Eyes.”
“Oh, it’s Rebecca. Clover Eyes is just a nickname. Obviously.” Maybe a real name would soften him up, even if it wasn’t actually her real name. “Listen, if you don’t have a ridiculously packed schedule, would you let me buy you dinner? A thank-you for saving my life, and to congratulate you on your new wish. It’s not often you get one after you’ve lost one, so we should give it due respect.”
He perked up at the mention of food. “I could do dinner.” He paused, one perfect eyebrow boomeranging upward. “But I’m not sure it’s cool to grab a bite with a wish hunter, in my condition. Who’s to say you won’t try to take this wish, huh?”
She put up her palms. “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. My wishing box is cracked in half. I’m decommissioned. Powered down. Hands tied. A kitty with no claws.” She dropped her chin to her chest in case her eyes gave her away, trying not to cringe at how much she was overselling it.
She peeked up through her eyelashes to find Miles’s body language relaxing.
He settled back into his seat. “I’m already in your car, and I’m hungry as hell.” He tapped his fingers on the slim sill, apparently content again. “Might as well take the edge off this evening. I’m thinking spicy food. What about you? It totally chills me out. Something to do with Scoville scales and endorphins.”
“I can’t promise endorphins, but how about Mexican?” Nadia resisted the urge to grin.
He tipped his head in a half nod. “Sure, that works, as long as it’s legit. I can’t stand these places that claim to be the real deal, then all their food is about as spicy as mayonnaise.”
“I know the perfect place,” Nadia assured him. “And the lighting’s pretty dark, so you won’t have to worry about being seen.” Though she hoped he’d take off his stupid sunglasses.
He shrugged. “I’ll save my review for after we’ve eaten.”
She pulled out of the parking lot. Glancing at the dashboard clock, she figured she had about an hour to take his jar and come up with a way of prizing out his most precious secret. Difficult? For sure. Impossible? Not with so much hanging in the balance.
Chapter Seven
Spanish guitar floated through the crowded hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant not far from Bonaventure Cemetery. Miles had his eyes closed, his fingers drumming against the slightly sticky table to the rhythm of the mesmerizing tremolo. Nadia watched him intently, though she didn’t have music on her mind. He had that wishing jar on him—and a wish inside him that had the power to change her life.
“That’s a guitarist’s Everest right there,” Miles said. “And ‘Memories of the Alhambra’ is the summit. You play that, you can play anything. It sounds like two guitars, right? But it’s just the one. You have to almost . . . ripple your fingers to get that trembling effect.” He tried to demonstrate, but he just looked like he was scratching the chin of a particularly small kitten.
“Have you managed to peak that figurative mountain?” Nadia asked.
His eyes opened. “I wish.”
“Do you?” She nodded toward his chest.
“Oh, man, I’d love to spend a wish to bag that skill, but this puppy feels like it’s for something else. Something bigger. This is a full-orchestra wish, not a jazz-quartet-in-a-smoky-dive-bar kind of wish.”
He patted his damp T-shirt. His soaked hoodie was drying on the radiator beside the nook table they’d managed to snag. As for Nadia, she was enduring the chilly, wholly unpleasant feeling of wet fabric on skin, since she had only a camisole underneath. She kept her arms crossed.
“Is that Miles Hunter?”
Nadia heard the not-so-discreet whisper from somewhere across the throng of diners. He’d already signed three autographs and posed for even more selfies since they’d sat down.
“What are you thinking of spending it on?” she pried. “If it’s not to get rolling fingers, or whatever you just said.”
She wanted to make sure his idea wasn’t something altruistic. If he said anything in the ballpark of what Angela Rhodes had shared she’d do with a hypothetical wish, then Nadia might have to let him off the hook. As much as she wanted the wish to get rid of the debt, she was already feeling a little guilty about preparing to steal it. Especially considering that the life he’d saved to earn it was her own, as her conscience unhelpfully kept reminding her.
Miles hummed a tune that clashed with the restaurant’s playlist—“Jukebox Hero,” if she wasn’t mistaken, though music wasn’t really her forte. That had been Nick’s domain.
“I’m still deciding,” Miles said at last as the server came up, likely to ask if they were ready to order. She walked away again before Nadia could stop her. Had his response been for the waitress’s benefit, or was it an answer to Nadia’s question?
“I’ll probably settle on how to word my wish later,” he said, looking at her. “I need to get all mellowed out, maybe in the tub, with a Jo Malone candle to blow out when I say those magic words and make great things happen.” Miles did a little shuffle dance in his chair. “Ooh, that made me feel all tingly just thinking about it!”
As soon as he puffed out the flame of his fancy candle, the wish would be gone forever in its pliable, unused form. Nadia couldn’t let him get that far. She had to take the wish right now while she had him in front of her. And that meant turning this dinner conversation into a subtle interrogation.
“So, this must be your second wish?” Nadia asked, sipping her tamarind-flavored bottle of Jarritos.
“Nah, this is lucky number three,” he said. “What’d you spend your wishes on?”
The question threw her a little. “Oh, I actually haven’t used any wishes. Yet, anyway. I’m waiting for the right opportunity to come along.”
He leaned forward, chuckling. “It’s wild that I can finally talk to somebody about this other than my parents. Anybody else would think I was into some Keith Richards shit and needed to lay off.” There was a momentary pause as he seemed to realize how that could sound to a stranger. “Just so you know,” he added, “not all musicians are into that. I prefer to treat my body like a temple these days.”
“Hence the bubble baths, right?” Nadia flashed him a grin to let him know she was only teasing.
“They’re good for circulation. Dry brushing too. It’ll change your life.” He craned his neck to scan the restaurant. “Where’s the server when you need them? I’m starving. They’re losing a star for this.”
“Actually, she came over, but I think she was a bit nervous because you’re . . . you. She probably didn’t want to interrupt while you were in your Spanish guitar zone,” Nadia told him, before he got trigger-happy with his Yelp account. “You’re like the next Johnny Mercer, maybe better. People can get intimidated. I’m sure she’ll be back in a minute.”
The flattery seemed to please him. He sat up straighter in his seat. “I’d rather be compared to Hendrix or B. B. King, but everyone jumps to Mercer when I’m home. But I’ll never beat him in the Savannah hall of fame, that’s for sure, considering the obvious.” He pointed to himself. “I’ll have to wait until all the old money and their offspring die out before they put a Black man above a white guy.”
It was the first time she’d seen a crack in his bravado. He had a smile on his face, but it was a bitter one. Savannah had its muddied history, same as all places, but in a city that celebrated being Georgia’s oldest and still breathed bygone days with its horse-drawn carriages, it wasn’t a surprise that some people refused to budge into the modern day.
“Change is coming, and the old money is hanging on by a thread,” Nadia replied, fully realizing the irony of her statement.
Her family’s hardships were now
here near comparable to what Miles’s family must’ve experienced, but she didn’t count herself among the Savannah elite. She’d never been to a cotillion or been a member of a country club, and the Kaminskis rarely found themselves on any gilded guest lists. As far as high society was concerned, they were still the Poles who’d moved in next door, fresh off the boat, despite being here for three generations.
“I’m writing that down.” Miles took out his phone and tapped rapidly. “Don’t sue me if you hear it in a song.”
She smiled. No, she had a different repayment in mind.
The food came twenty minutes of music talk later. Nadia figured that an appetizer of letting him ramble about his passions was the best way to dive into the entrée of his personal life and, hopefully, his most guarded secret. Food was supposed to be the way to a man’s heart, after all.
“It’s kind of odd that your parents know all this wishing stuff.” Nadia tried to elegantly eat her taco, but there was no such method. “Are they ‘in the biz,’ as you musicians would say?”
“We never say that,” Miles said, and her ego soundly deflated. He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin, then continued. “It’s more of, like, a family tradition. Each descendant gets a wish when they turn eighteen, and it’s gifted in a wishing jar.” He bit into a tamale and huffed through the heat.
Nadia’s jaw dropped. “Everyone gets one?” The Hunter family must’ve had an incredible cache of wishes stowed away somewhere.
He nodded. “Man, it seems like forever ago since I got mine. I swear time speeds up in your twenties. One minute, you’re flashing your ID around because you can legally drink, and the next minute, the big three-oh is slapping you in the face.”
Nadia had assumed Miles was still in his twenties. Had one of his wishes been to keep his youthful, rock star good looks? She hoped not. “Beauty” wishes had a nasty habit of going awry. Some serious Death Becomes Her consequences.
