Secrets and Charms

by Lou Harper

  “What is it?” Olly eyed the thing dangling from the chain. It looked like bone.

  “Coyote-fang amulet imbued with a protective charm,” she replied. “I found the skull in the desert last year during winter solstice. I knew there was a reason for it. C’mon, put it on. Chop-chop.”

  “What do I owe you?” Olly knew Mme. Layla wasn’t giving her services away.

  “Hundred bucks, but you don’t pay now. Wear it for a month. Then you decide if you want to keep it or not.”

  “Like a trial?”

  “Exactly. If you return it, there’s no charge. But definitely wear it for now. The bird marking you was a bad omen.”

  All Olly knew about divination and such came from books and TV. He knew ravens, crows, owls and such were loaded with mystical significance, but parrots? Could anyone imagine Game of Thrones with brightly plumed parrots instead of crows? It would be like sending an army of clowns onto the battlefield instead of knights in armor. The mental image made him smile, but, seeing Mme. Layla glower, he straightened his face. He pulled the chain around his neck and fumbled with the clasp.

  She helped. “As I said—don’t take it off for any reason.” She handed him his T-shirt. “Now off with you. I’m late for a séance.”

  From Pasadena, Jem drove them back to Olly’s place in Hollywood and opted to stay a while since Thursday was pick-a-movie night there. Olly’s roommate, Dylan, chose a straight-to-DVD slasher flick. Dylan, sadly, had a deep love for trash. At least he made popcorn. Their other roommate, Teag, had gone out.

  The unsurprising plot of Blood Manor Massacre involved a group of high school kids who get trapped in a spooky, abandoned mansion. The cast included the usual suspects: the jock, the nerd, the virgin, the slutty cheerleader, token black kid, and so on. Olly, Jem and Dylan had a good time shouting at the actors not to open doors or go down to the basement.

  When the slutty cheerleader met her timely and gory end, Dylan pointed at the screen. “Hey, isn’t that what’s-her-face, the chick who married Clay Carson?”

  “Kat Fontaine,” Olly said. “I was at their house once, you know, delivering groceries. And then saw them again at a party in Beverly Hills.”

  Dylan stared at Olly. “Since when do you go to parties in Beverly Hills?”

  “Just that one time. The invite was a gift.”

  “So how was she?” Dylan asked.

  “I dunno, pretty? I only saw her for two seconds.”

  They went back to watching the movie, but before it was over, Jem got a call from Nick and rushed off.

  Olly went to bed early, saving his energies for the next day. Friday was his day off, and he’d promised Sandy to be at her place early. The unfamiliar feel of the chain around his neck brought back memories of Mme. Layla and the alarm in her eyes when the bird crapped on him. He wrapped his fingers around the fang, wondering what trouble a lowly grocery clerk like him could possibly get into.

  The next morning, Olly parked his car behind a silver SUV across from Sandy’s house in Silver Lake. The car in front of him sported a AAA sticker on its bumper next to a dent, but what got his attention was the telephoto lens poking out through the driver-side window. Either a secret government—or antigovernment—agency was keeping Sandy under surveillance to find evidence of her paranormal powers…or a paparazzo had sniffed out her new address.

  Pretending not having noticed, Olly strolled up to the house. He heard no shutter clicks—no surprise, he was a nobody.

  He rapped his knuckles on the door, and while waiting, he grabbed the contents of the overflowing mailbox. Being mindful of the photographer, he was ready to either block the view or step aside, depending on how put together Sandy was. He wasn’t prepared for the redheaded stranger opening the door. Startled by the sight, Olly gaped. He’d never seen so much gingerness from so close—he didn’t know whether to be awed or horrified.

  The man glared back with frosty blue eyes. “What do you want?”

  Olly pulled himself together. Redhead must’ve taken him for a magazine salesman. He put on a friendly smile. “I’m Olly. I’m here to help. With the painting. Is Sandy home?”

  Redhead’s gaze failed to defrost. He turned his head and shouted, “Sands! Your prancing queen is here!” He walked away without a parting look at the shocked Olly.

  “Chard! Go outside and play with your toys if you can’t behave!” Olly heard Sandy shout back, and a second later, he saw her bustling from the kitchen, flushed, hair in a mess, and wearing only a tank top and men’s boxer shorts. He quickly stepped inside and slammed the door behind him. Just in time. She caught him in a hug.

  “Who is that Neanderthal?” he asked when she let him go. He had near-instant dislike for the man, and it deeply disturbed him to find someone so unpleasant in Sandy’s home. He broke out in cold sweat at the thought the two might be dating.

  “My brother, Rich, as in Richard. Don’t mind him. He has no manners or common sense!” She shouted the last words in the direction her brother had disappeared. “I call him Chard when he’s being a nuisance. But you have my permission to call him Dick. But he didn’t mean what he said,” she added apologetically. “Anyway, Rich has been busy. Check out my walls.” She made a sweeping gesture as she pulled Olly into the middle of the living room.

  With great relief about Sandy not dating a dick, Olly looked around. “You have walls.” Last time he’d come by, they’d been all torn out so the contractors could get to the wiring and plumbing. Sandy had gotten a good deal on the house, with the catch that it was a complete fixer-upper. The previous owners had neglected the place to the point it had become utterly gross. But now with the fresh drywall on, it started to resemble a livable place again.

  Sandy seemed to think so too. Her eyes shone with pride. “Rich did it. The whole damn thing. He says there’s a hardwood floor under the carpet throughout, but we should leave refinishing it till last, after all the messy stuff’s done. I can’t wait to rip it out.” She wrinkled her nose at the grimy carpet under her feet.

  “Makes sense,” Olly grudgingly agreed. For the first time, he noticed the blue painter’s tape around the edges, and as he glanced up, he saw the ceiling was already painted. At least Sandy’s dickish brother had a few useful qualities too. You couldn’t choose your family. “How long is he staying?” He tried to sound casual.

  “Hm, we’ll see. Rich is…having a hard time right now. Normally, he’s not like this at all. Really. Just ignore him when he’s an ass. Is that for me?” she asked, motioning at the bundle in his hands.

  “Oh! Yeah. I completely forgot. Here, your mail.”

  She took the pile and threw herself on a couch covered with a dark blue sheet. It was the only piece of furniture as far as he could see, and he could see the whole living and dining room, and part of the hallway leading into the kitchen. He lowered himself onto the armrest and watched her tear open the envelopes one by one.

  Sandy was beautiful even in her early morning frumpies. Oval face and creamy skin made her the girl-next-door type, but then the big blue eyes and sensuously full lips kicked it up a notch. But what set her apart from all the pretty blondes was the way she sometimes looked at you—like she was up to something wicked and there was nothing you could do about it. On Fangs, it made her character—Glynn, the slutty and black-hearted vampire—a viewers’ favorite. Glynn’s was the most delicious kind of evil.

  As if sensing his thoughts, she glanced up. “What? You’re staring at me.” A shaft of light caught her messy blonde hair, making it glow like a halo.

  “I was just thinking how lucky I am to be gay,” Olly replied truthfully. “If I was straight, I’d be hopelessly in love with you but would never have a chance. I’d end up dying from a broken heart.” He said the last words with exaggerated theatricality, pressing his hand on his chest, but he was at least half-serious.

  She laughed loud and bubbly and smacked his leg with the big manila envelope she was holding. It clacked against his knee. “You doof,
you crack me up. As far as I’m concerned, you already did your part for today. So if you’d rather not be covered in paint, I’ll let you make your escape. Rich can handle it.”

  This Rich guy was really starting to annoy Olly. “Nuh-uh. I said I’d help, so I’ll help. Plus I like painting.”

  “Suit yourself.” Sandy turned back to her mail. She ripped open the manila envelope, pulled out a typed sheet, frowned at it and stuffed it back inside. Next she tossed the envelope on top of the pile on the floor and stretched.

  “Did you move in?” Olly asked, wondering about her situation.

  She looked up. “I had to. I can’t afford to pay rent and mortgage at the same time. My furniture is in storage, and my clothes are in boxes in the garage. Rich and I are living like Gypsies for the moment. There’s still too much to do here. The kitchen’s gutted, but the bathrooms are tiled, there’s running water, the toilets flush, and I have an old fridge in the garage. I can rough it for a few weeks, and since I don’t have any jobs lined up for another month, I can be as messy and paint splattered as I wanna be. A blessing in disguise.”

  Her words jiggled Olly’s memory. “That reminds me—there’s a photographer parked across the street, and I don’t think he’s from National Geographic. At least he was there when I came in.” He hopped up and walked to the front window for a peek. “Yup, he’s still there.”

  She catapulted from the couch like a cat on springs. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could dash down to the coffee shop at the corner. What should I wear? Yoga pants?”

  Olly didn’t think so. “Nah, too tacky. What about those cutoffs? You know, the ones with the stitching on the pockets? They make your butt look as good as J.Lo’s but not as big.”

  “Good thinking!” She rushed off and came back a minute later wearing the jeans and carrying a few tops.

  In record speed, they fixed her up to look sexy and fresh like spring rain, and ready for her close-up. Well, not so much close up, but same difference. She popped out into the backyard to ask Rich if he wanted something, then she was out the door.

  Chapter Two

  The moment Rich opened the door and saw the young blond guy standing there, fresh-faced and cheerful, an emotion surged through him. One with barbed edges. He couldn’t put a name on it, so he filed it under anger. He’d been angry a lot lately. Every little thing set him off. Like this guy—Olly—with his blond hair brushed over his eyes and smiling, as if everything was right in the world. It made him want to punch something. Himself most of all.

  Rich fled to the backyard and left Olly to Sandy. He grabbed a beer from the fridge in the garage. What the fuck did he care if it was only eight in the morning? It was happy hour somewhere. The cold drink doused the fire inside him, at least for now. He picked up a gouge and went back to work. The concentration required for woodworking kept unwanted thoughts out of his head. It was a simple pattern of grape leaves, but his carving skills were average at best, and he needed all his focus.

  Sadly, he had only a few minutes of peace before Sandy rushed out and blew it to pieces. “I’m doing a coffee run. What do you want?” she asked.

  “I’m good.” Rich lifted the beer can to his lips and emptied it.

  She regarded him with an expression of pity that made him want to grab another beer right then and there. “Have you even eaten anything yet?”

  “Power bars. As I said, I’m good, sis.”

  “Good, my ass.” She shook her head. “I’ll pick up some pastries. Olly is staying to help. You be nice to him, or I’ll hurt you.”

  His annoyance stirred. “What the hell do you need that skinny runt for?”

  “He’s a friend. A real friend—you know, the kind who sticks around even when it’s not convenient?” Her jibe cut a wide swath at Rich’s friends, who’d all evaporated the moment he’d gotten into trouble. She’d never liked them to begin with. She’d once called them a gaggle of overgrown frat boys who had wallets where their hearts should’ve been. She hadn’t been far off, and the knowledge only pissed him off more.

  “Where did you find him? At the pound? Did he look at you with his big puppy-dog eyes?” He knew he should’ve kept his trap shut, but these days his mouth was on autopilot.

  “You can be such an asshole.” She put her hand on her hip. “I met Olly at a party, if you must know. He was sweet and real—a rare thing in this town. And, yes, he has puppy-dog eyes. He’s cute, don’t you think?”

  Rich shrugged. “If you say so.” Men didn’t use words like cute. They didn’t even think them. His father would’ve probably smacked him if he’d called a bunny cute, not to mention another guy. Even if said guy was a smooth-faced young man with floppy blond hair and a sunny attitude.

  “I do. Look, I gotta run or I’ll lose my photo op. Be nice, or else. I’m serious.” She was; he could tell from the edge of her voice.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Rich grumbled, watching her retreating figure. He wanted to apologize to her for being such a pain in the ass and thank her for putting up with him, but the words stuck in his throat, and then she was gone. So he grabbed another beer and went back to work. The best way he could manage to be nice these days was by not interacting at all.

  Sadly, some people hadn’t gotten the memo. Rich barely got back to his carving when Sandy’s young friend moseyed out and planted himself next to Rich’s workbench. Rich ignored him, hoping he’d get the message. He didn’t. “What are you making? It looks nice.” He had a voice like liquid sunshine, and it made the hair on the back of Rich’s neck bristle.

  Rich put the gauge down and reached for the beer can. Be nice, he reminded himself. He took a big swig of cool beer. Better. He gestured at the pieces of wood strewn on the grass. “Remaking the fireplace mantel. The morons who owned this place destroyed the old one.” The poor thing looked like someone had taken an axe to it. Maybe someone had. “It won’t be the same as having the original, but once I stain it, no one will know the difference.” What the fuck am I babbling on for? What is wrong with me? Rich took another sip of beer.

  He had so far avoided looking at Olly directly, but it became impossible as Olly stepped into his field of vision and knelt on the grass. “What a shame,” he said, picking up a section of the wrecked mantel. “A little ornate for a Craftsman house, isn’t it?” He tilted his head up, giving Rich the full focus of his gaze.

  Rich looked away. He was impressed the kid knew the house and its built-ins were in Craftsman style, but didn’t mean to dwell on it. “Life’s full of anomalies. Maybe the original owners had a vineyard,” he said, referring to the pattern.

  Olly stood and walked into Rich’s field of vision again, damn him. He stared at the gray walls of the house. “If it was me, I’d paint the whole thing forest green, except for the columns and the eaves—those should be yellow.”

  “Yellow?” Rich couldn’t help but picture the house as Olly was describing it, and he wasn’t sold on it.

  “Warm yellow, like honey—something medium dark, like clover or orange blossom. Or maybe a little darker, like sunflower. And those brackety things under the roof up front could be burnt orange.”

  “They are called brackets,” Rich said. The image Olly’s words painted became clearer, and it wasn’t half-bad.

  “Perfect.” Olly spun around to face Rich. “It would be fabulous, don’t you think?” He stood with his hip pushed out and his face beaming with enthusiasm. As he smiled, a couple of dimples appeared on his cheeks.

  If Rich ever had any doubts of the kid being a fruit—he hadn’t—he would’ve lost them right then and there. Olly couldn’t even stand straight. It was all too much, Rich couldn’t take any more—his bubble of niceness was about to pop. He took a deep breath. “Sure. Look, kid—”

  “Olly.”

  “Oliver—”

  “Just Olly.”

  “Look, Just Olly, I’d like to get on with this.” He motioned to his carving. “So, if you don’t mind…”

  The joy dropped from Olly’s
face so fast it almost made a sound. “Of course. Sorry to be a bother.”

  A funny sort of pang jabbed Rich in the stomach as he watched Olly flounce back inside. He should’ve had a real breakfast, he told himself, and turned back to work. It didn’t go well, though, and he nearly fucked up the piece he’d been working on for three days. He put the gouge away and finished his beer. He was contemplating a third when Sandy arrived back with a coffee he hadn’t asked for.

  She also brought bear claws and Danishes. Since there was hardly any furniture inside, they ate in the backyard, using Rich’s workbench as a table. They had a couple of folding chairs and an upturned milk carton to sit on. Olly pointedly ignored Rich and chattered with Sandy about some photographer.

  Rich listened with half an ear but was puzzled by their excitement. “I don’t get it. Don’t you actors hate paparazzi? Protection of your privacy and all that crap?”

  Olly opened his mouth but then quickly closed it, clenching his jaws as he did—as if the temptation to interact with Rich pained him. So it fell to Sandy to explain. “Once you’re famous, sure,” she said. “But when you’re a nobody, you want to be photographed as much as possible.”

  “You’re not a nobody,” Rich and Olly protested in unintended unison.

  Sandy beamed and called them her favorite boys. Rich noted the flush of color on Olly’s cheeks and how adamantly Olly didn’t look his way. Olly clearly didn’t cherish the idea of being lumped together with Rich. The irony tickled Rich in all the wrong places.

  They were about to start painting at last when Sandy’s phone rang—it sounded like a foghorn. “I have to take this,” she announced and scurried inside.

  For a minute, Rich watched Olly fussing about with the napkins and cups and avoiding eye contact with steely determination. The day was shaping up to be an awkward one. Rich decided to put the kid out of both of their miseries. He gathered the dregs of his once abundant charm. “So, Olly, it’s all right if you’d rather skip out. I can handle the job alone.”