by Lane Hart
Tainted Love
A Lovestruck Novella
By Lane Hart
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue were created from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted and trademarked status of various products within this work of fiction.
© 2016 Editor's Choice Publishing
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” at the address below.
Editor’s Choice Publishing
P.O. Box 10024
Greensboro, NC 27404
Edited by Angela Snyder
Cover by Marianne Nowicki
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Josie Carter
“Oh my God, Josie. Check out that ridiculously horny guy,” my best friend Reagan says. Her words are followed by a knobby elbow nudge to my ribs, directing my eyes to the row of white canopies on our right.
“Where?” I ask, searching for him at the same time I concentrate on walking and not breaking both of my ankles. My nude stilettos are the equivalent of walking on stilts in this grassy field. I swear there must be a village of moles partying it up underneath our feet based on how uneven the ground is.
“On our right, shirtless, with the, um, brown plaid skirt,” Reagan directs, reaching over to steal a handful of popcorn from my bag.
“I don’t see him,” I tell her. “But I think we should turn around and go find those two knights. Boy, do they know how to handle their swords.”
“Yummy,” she mutters.
My wandering eyes finally land on the epitome of horniness. I nearly inhale a piece of kettle corn and break my neck when I’m unable to suppress my giggle.
“Wow…” I say when I catch my breath. “That dude is by far the horniest we’ve seen.”
“I know, right!” Reagan snorts.
While most of the guys walking around with horns that are no more than three or four inches long, this one is sporting horns that curve up and around like a ram. Overcompensating much?
So what brings me to a field in the middle of nowhere on this muggy spring day, surrounded by knights, horny men, fairies and mermaids? Reagan, my best friend of twelve years, is a bohemian dress wearing, save the Earth spewing, flowerchild hippie; and somehow she convinced me to attend the Festival of Legends in Apex, a small, country town about an hour and a half away from our apartments in Greensboro.
As if I wasn’t already regretting my decision to let her talk me into this freak fest, the sky picks that very moment to open up and start pelting us with big, fat raindrops.
“Shit! I told you we needed to bring the umbrella,” I bitch, as we both hunch our shoulders up to our ears and duck into the nearest tent. Great, and now my sky blue sundress may as well be white for all the protection the water soaked fabric is giving my full braless bosoms.
“It wasn’t even cloudy when we left!” Reagan argues, swiping at the wetness dripping from her face.
“Hello, ladies.”
Reagan and I both turn at the sound of a woman’s voice greeting us. Sitting behind a small, round table is an attractive red-headed lady, smiling warmly at us and dressed in a medieval style burgundy, bustier dress, complete with black laces. In front of her is an array of lit candles and incense, putting off a sweet, cinnamon scent…wait, is that a freaking crystal ball?
“Hi,” I reply softly.
“I’m Madam Tess. Care for a free spiritual reading?” she asks.
“Heck yes,” Reagan says without hesitation. I, on the other hand, am rather skeptical of such voodoo weirdness. My best friend plops her tiny ass right down on the empty stool on our side of the table and tosses her long, stick straight brown hair over her shoulder, clearly ready to get started.
“Your hands, my dear,” the woman says, and Reagan gives her both, palms up. I’m almost certain the girl has done this whole deal once or twice before.
“Ah, you have a bright and generous aura,” Madam Tess starts with her eyes squinting at Reagan’s hands. “Pure of spirit.”
So far she’s hitting the nail on the head, but of course her statements are vague and general.
“Losing a loved one suddenly when you were young has made you too cautious with your heart.”
Okay. That’s a bit more specific and also very true. Reagan lost her father to a heart attack when he was only forty and she was just eleven years old.
“You will find true love soon, just as you turn a new corner in your life.”
I barely refrain from snickering, recalling seeing similar words just last week on a fortune cookie from Panda Express.
“Thank you,” Reagan says, before standing up somewhat wobbly on her Birkenstocks. See, I told you she was a hippie, right down to her toes.
“How about you?” Madam Tess asks, turning to me. “No charge,” she adds when I continue to gnaw on my bottom lip in hesitation.
“Sure, what the hell,” I eventually say as I take Reagan’s vacated stool and sit my popcorn bag down on the table. I offer my hands to the so-called psychic. Her skin is cool when she flips them both over and then runs a red fingernail down the center of my right palm.
“Your life line is long,” she says optimistically. And despite my total disbelief in all that is the psychic arts, I have to say I’m glad she didn’t say some bullshit like I’ll die next week when I least expect it. “You are rather stubborn and quick to lose your temper.”
I scoff and straighten my spine at the same time Reagan laughs and says, “Got that right!” over my shoulder.
“But you are also very loyal and courageous.”
The positive remarks lessen the sting of the criticisms, just a little.
“While you may be exceedingly lonely-”
“Am not!” I argue, trying to pull away from her grasp.
“Unfortunately, because of your inability to put your trust in a partner, you will not find love for…at least nine more years,” Madam Tess says before she finally releases my hand.
“Nine years!” I exclaim indignantly, trying to ignore the dig about my trust issues. “I-I’ll be thirty-five!”
“Yes, well, your paths are not destined to cross until that time when you will finally be ready to accept another’s loyalty and commitment to you and only you,” she replies coolly with a shrug.
My own shoulders slump because, while I’m certainly not what I would consider lonely, I would like to meet “the one,” get married, and have several mini-mes running around, all before I’m barren.
“Well, thanks for nothing,” I say with a huff of depression as I get to my feet and look outside the tent to see if the rain is letting up yet. I’m so ready to go home, curl up on the sofa with a carton of Neapolitan ice cream and watch reruns
of South Park. What can I say? I have a crude sense of humor. That could very well be why I’m still single.
Or the kook might be onto something about my trust issues.
Senior year of college I was engaged to a man I thought was perfect. Bryan was a political science major like me. In fact, we had several classes together. He was incredibly sweet, and we got along so well, never, ever fighting about anything over the two years we dated. If there is such a thing as soulmates, I’m certain that he was mine. So imagine my surprise when Stacy, one of my suitemates at the time, saw him at a party the night we graduated making out with another girl. He had told me earlier in the day that he would be spending the night celebrating with his parents, when in fact he spent it with his dick in another girl. Not that I know that for certain, but Stacy was kind enough to send me pics of them kissing and leaving together. Bryan and I had picked a date for a fall wedding. I had bought a beautiful princess dress, booked a venue, and started making all the other plans while he was still fucking around with other women behind my back! Since then, I haven’t dated much, especially no one seriously. Apparently, if what this woman says is actually true, I won’t be with anyone seriously for a long time in the foreseeable future either.
“There is another way…” Madam Tess says, trailing off her sentence after saying those four words, knowing she’s leaving me hanging. I refuse to take the bait.
For all of thirty seconds.
“A way to what?” I can’t help but ask when I turn back around. I grab up my popcorn bag from the table and pop a handful into my mouth, trying to act all nonchalant.
“A way to find him sooner,” she says with a knowing smirk because she’s clearly reeling me in like a floppy, big mouthed bass.
“How soon?” I ask skeptically.
“Within seven days.”
Seven days? Damn. That would be awesome to have a man in my apartment for the first time in --- what month is it? That is, if I actually believed her mumbo-jumbo.
“Oooh,” Reagan mutters from beside me, taking the bait hook, line and sinker. “Let’s do it,” she tells the woman and then to me, “What? You know you want to.”
The psychic woman reaches under the tablecloth and pulls out a small, round, glass bottle of red liquid. If I had to guess, I would say it’s cherry Kool-Aid.
“Nice,” Reagan says as she eyes the substance. “How much?”
“Two hundred,” Madam Tess answers.
“No way,” I reply with a bark of laughter. No way am I going to spend two hundred dollars, over thirteen hours of hard paralegal work, on what is most likely dyed water. This woman is just leeching off of the poor souls of single women!
“Nine years or two hundred dollars? I think you should go for it, Josie,” Reagan says with a nudge to my shoulder.
“Not gonna happen,” I tell her, crossing my arms over my chest to show her my adamant defiance against such scams.
“Fine,” Reagan says with a roll of her eyes. “I’ll buy it for your birthday.”
“My birthday isn’t for five more months!”
“It’s an early present,” she says with a wave of her hand before she pulls her wallet from her purse.
“Reagan, no.” I try to stop her, but it’s too late. She’s handing the woman a fistful of cash for what is clearly going to be a rip-off.
“Pleasure, dear,” the woman says as she stands up from her stool and hands Reagan the bottle. Only, she doesn’t let it go once Reagan’s hand wraps around it.
“Wow,” Reagan whispers in awe when the liquid changes color before our eyes, going from a dark, reddish tint to a more purplish one. In other words, it went from cherry to grape Kool-Aid.
“It’s nothing more than those liquid crystals like in mood rings, changing color based on body temperature,” I say, certain that the fancy little trick has to be the same premise.
“No, it’s not temperature. The potion senses souls,” Madam Tess says.
“Purple’s my favorite color,” Reagan admits.
“And mine, of course, is red,” the psychic says with a smile.
Pure coincidence.
“Now,” the hoodoo artist begins telling Reagan. “I must warn you of a few things. Once you or your friend drink the potion, you’ll have seven days to find and unite with your soulmate.”
“Huh?” Reagan asks. “Unite? Like get married in a week?”
“No, not obtain a piece of paper. How does one physically unite two minds, bodies, and souls?” Madam Tess asks, glancing between us with a raised eyebrow, still holding the bottle of Kool-Aid in a death grip.
“Sex?” Reagan asks, making me snort. When Madam Tess gives a slight nod of confirmation, I can’t refrain from rolling my eyes.
“Furthermore, by drinking the potion, you’re causing a disturbance in the natural order of things, making events occur sooner rather than later. Therefore, sacrifices must be made to put you on the correct path and resume the balance.”
“What kind of sacrifices?” Reagan asks softly, her skin looking paler than usual.
“No one will die,” Madam Tess laughs. “But there may be some suffering or…inconveniences that are required for the sudden shift in time order to take place.”
“Like what exactly?” I ask.
“There’s no way for me to know. It’s different for each person. Which brings me to the third and final warning,” she says, her face turning serious. “The potion in this bottle will never run dry, unless it goes unused.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I snort.
“Once you drink your one sip, you cannot drink anymore. But every seven days from that time it must be ingested by someone else, and so on,” the psychic explains to us. “The potion will continue to replenish itself as long as it is consumed by a different person every seven days. If not, it will begin to diminish, and once the last drop is lost, so will be all the love it created.”
“Oh no,” Reagan mutters as she buys right into all the bullshit this woman is selling. After Madam Tess finally releases the bottle, she stares down at the purple liquid a second in thought before she asks, “But how do you know when you’ve found the one? Your soulmate?”
“Easy,” the psychic answers with a smile before she folds her dress underneath her and retakes her seat at the table. “Because after a perfect pair of souls are united, they’re unable to see anyone else.”
“At first maybe, but I bet your little potion can’t make a man keep his dick in his pants around other women forever,” I say with a great deal of snarkiness. Okay, so maybe I’m still a little bitter, even three years later.
“Once bonded, the two souls will never be separated, by infidelity or anything else, not even death,” Madam Tess replies. “Well, not unless you wait too long to unite or the potion expires.”
The rain thankfully finally lets up to a soft drizzle and not a moment too soon, because I seriously want to get away from all these weirdos and get back to normal society.
“Reagan, you ready?” I ask, nodding my head back toward the parking lot.
“Ah, yeah,” she says to me, and then, “Thank you,” to Madam Tess.
“You’re welcome, dears. Protect the bottle, remember the rules, and good luck,” Madam Tess says to our retreating backs.
“Wow. How nuts was she?” I mumble softly to Reagan as we hike through the grassy field, tossing my mostly empty popcorn bag into a passing bin.
“What if it works?” she asks. At twenty-five, the girl is so gullible. I worry about men taking advantage of her naivety.
“Sorry to break it to you, but I think you just threw two hundred bucks down the shitter.”
Reagan gives a humph of disagreement and stays quiet until we’re seated back in my nineteen seventy-two El Camino. My classic car is my baby, possibly the only one I’ll ever have. For my twenty-first birthday, my parents paid to have this classic restored with a shiny blue finish and a black racing stripe down the center before they gave it to me. I’ve been in love
with this make of car since I was old enough to say “El Camino.” They don’t make cars like these anymore. And what can I say? Despite my girly wardrobe, I’m a bit of a tomboy.
“Are you pouting?” I ask my best friend as the car roars to life with a twist of my wrist. A minute later I’m driving us out of the slushy, gravel parking lot.
“If you don’t think it will work, it won’t work,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest like a child having a tantrum.
“Oh my God. You can’t be serious, Reagan. Love potions don’t exist. If they did, there wouldn’t be any single ladies, would there? Beyoncé’s song about putting a ring on it would’ve been a big flop, not a worldwide sensation.”
“So you’re not even gonna try it?” she huffs.
“I can make you a big batch of Kool-Aid when we get back to my apartment for free,” I tease.
“Just promise me you’ll try it! What do you have to lose?” she asks, as I start looking for the signs for the highway. “I know how lonely you’ve been, but you refuse to date anyone because of that dipshit who cheated on you!”
“Don’t think so, Reagan,” I remark. “That dipshit was my soulmate and, yes, he cheated on me and I refused to forgive him. But feel free to try it yourself. I mean, you did pay a fortune for it.”
I exhale a breath of relief when we take the exit for Interstate 421 north, thankfully heading back to normal civilization after that freak show we just left.
“Try it!” Reagan screeches, making me jump in surprise before she thrusts the bottle into my face.
“No!” I exclaim, batting her hand away. “And chill the fuck out. Do you want me to wreck?”
“Try it!”
OMG. She was exposed to the crazy people for far too long. Now she’s caught it, and I don’t have any antidotes to restore her sanity.
“Josie?” she says when I don’t respond to her psychotic request.
“What, Reagan?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the road.
The glass bottle appears in front of my line of sight yet again. “Try. It.”
