by Lane Hart
How stupid was I? To think that falling in love could be so easy and effortless, or that I could ever trust a man again. Swiping the tears from my face, I curse the stupid psychic for making me believe in something as ridiculous as a love potion. The fraud. It’s wrong for her to take advantage of desperate women. Lonely women like me.
Dragging my ass into my sad, empty apartment minutes later and slumping against the closed door, I don’t know which is more depressing, being left for another woman minutes after having sex with a man for the very first time, or knowing that I have nine more years of loneliness ahead of me. If I actually believe the psychic.
I hear a buzzing sound from my phone vibrating in the leather purse gripped tightly in my fist. There’s no need for me to even look at the screen to know who it is. Snatching it out without bothering to see what it says, I launch it right across the room. The annoying contraption flies through the air on a high arc until it lands, clattering loudly to the linoleum floor in the kitchen. Uncaring if it’s broken beyond repair or not, I turn the deadbolt on the front door and shuffle my feet down the hall to my room. Reaching my sad destination, I change into my pajamas and dive headfirst into my bed and wish that when I wake up it will have all been just been a dream.
Except, even as I think that, I know for a fact that as much as I hate Lawson right now, he’ll probably keep staring in my fantasies, the beautiful, evil man that he is.
…
The next morning I wake to a big, warm palm slipping underneath the back of my pajama top, stroking up and down my spine and pressing against me to pull me closer…What the fuck!
I jump clear off the bed before my eyes even start working. Then, I’m blinking around me in the sunlit room, trying to find something to use as a weapon.
“Josie,” Lawson says, sitting up in the bed. When my eyes start to regain focus, I notice that he’s freshly showered, his face shaved smooth, wearing a pair of jeans and another South Park shirt. This one is black and also has Cartman on it, along with the words, “You’re breaking my balls!”
And, dammit, the stupid shirt provides comic relief that I don’t want or need right this moment because I’m trying to remind myself that this man is a slimeball, albeit a gorgeous one, with a great sense of humor, but a slimeball all the same. Wait, how the hell did he get into my room? Last night I distinctly remember locking my front door, the only door there is.
“Did you break in my apartment?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest to warm my cold, pointy nipples. They’ve obviously forgotten that we no longer like the god of thunder with his messy, golden hair and sad, grassy green eyes. Neither my nipples nor I miss his full, pouty lips that are currently frowning or any of his various sculpted muscles hiding underneath his offensive clothing. Nope, definitely not even one tiny, microscopic bit.
“Now, if I had just committed a B&E, do you really think I would be stupid enough to confess to it in front of the alleged victim?” he replies, getting to his feet, as if to move closer to me.
“S-stay away,” I warn him, grabbing my curing iron from the dresser behind me since it’s the best I can do for a weapon.
“Or what? You gonna curl my hair?” he asks with a smirk as he runs his fingers through his disheveled locks. His biceps bulge from underneath the short sleeves of his tee, and that’s all it takes to wake up the rest of my sleeping lady parts. Hell, who am I kidding? They were well awake before I was just because of his close proximity. “Josie, please just sit down and listen to me a second.”
“Why? Why should I listen to you when you’re just gonna run off to be with some other woman?” I yell at him, and his eyes follow the movements of my curling iron that’s flailing wildly between the two of us.
“The garage is a sinking ship,” he says on a heavy exhale, his shoulders slumping when he sits back down on the edge of the bed and hangs his head.
My heart aches for him, right before I realize that his grandfather’s business failing doesn’t excuse him from having sex with other women. Jeez, woman. Get your shit together! Before I can point all this out to him, though, he continues his explanation. “No one knows, not my employees or my family. But the only way I can make ends meet is by my side business –”
“You’re a prostitute!?!” I exclaim just before I beam myself in the forehead with my own flailing weapon. Damn curling iron. I sit it back on the dresser before I do any more damage to myself.
Lawson shakes his hanging head, and then finally looks up to flash me a small smile. “No, Josie. I have a side business on nights and weekends as a handyman, you know, like small home repairs. I also do on-call auto maintenance, and, ah, locksmithing. Most of my customers are divorced, single, or elderly women who don’t have any men around to fix those sorts of things for them.”
“Oh,” I mutter in partial understanding. Unless he’s lying. If he is, it’s very elaborate. “So, last night…”
“Last night, at the worst possible time, one of my regulars, Jasmine, a single mom with three young kids, needed an emergency fix. Her hot water heater started leaking into her basement, and it was a fucking mess,” he explains.
“Wow,” I say when I sit down on the bed beside him. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he accesses his camera roll and then shows me what looks like a recreation room with children’s toys floating in ankle deep water. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah,” he barks out a laugh. “I was there for five hours, fixing the leak and helping her clean up with a wet vac.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, covering my face with both hands in shame. “I’m a horrible person.”
“No, you’re not,” Lawson says, pulling me into a hug against his chest. “You just have trust issues, and I should’ve been honest with you. But I wasn’t ready to admit the garage’s failure, my failure, to anyone yet. And then, all night while I was cleaning, all I could think about was doing whatever I had to do to make things right with us.”
Reaching up to the back of his neck, I pull his lips down to mine and kiss him silly. He’s such a great guy, and I know now that I was absolutely wrong about him. Again. Jeez. I can’t help but think that he’s too good to be true, because he is. And, yes, I also can’t stop worrying that if I did find him after drinking from a magic potion that he might just up and, poof, disappear on me. I realize that’s probably something he needs to know, since he’s been so honest with me.
“I have a confession to make, too,” I tell him, when I pull back, licking my lips to keep tasting his cinnamon flavor on them.
“You do?” he asks.
“Well, I didn’t tell you the whole story about how my car lost the door,” I start, and Lawson bites down hard on his lip, I know to keep from laughing.
“Let’s hear it,” he says with a grin.
“Okay. So, my best friend Reagan and I were leaving this festival where we talked to a psychic –”
“A psychic?” he repeats with both golden eyebrows raised in disbelief.
“Yeah, who sold Reagan this, ah, supposed love potion....”
“Uh-huh,” he mutters.
“And I drank it going down the road, which made me sick, so I had to pull over. My car door was open, and that’s how it got knocked off.”
“Wow,” he says with a chuckle.
“Silly, right? To think that something so ridiculous could work.”
“Well, maybe. But it did lead you to my garage…” he trails off.
“Where you did the work for free. No wonder you need a side job,” I tease with an elbow to his ribs.
“I didn’t do much, and you still need a paint job,” he replies.
“Anyway,” I say on an exhale. “Do you think it’s stupid to believe in a potion?”
“Not stupid, no. Whether it was fate or coincidence or a love potion, I’m just glad you found your way to my garage, because everything’s been looking up since I met you.”
“Except for your business,” I finish, wrapping my arms around his waist. “I’m so
rry, Lawson. I know how important it is for you to keep your grandfather’s garage. Maybe you should talk to your dad. He works at a bank, right? He might be able to help come up with a financial solution. And you should probably tell your employees, see what they can do about cutting back or helping out.”
“I hate admitting that it’s going under, you know?” he says with a kiss to the top of my head, holding me closer to him. “But trying to figure it out on my own isn’t working, so it can’t hurt.”
“Good,” I tell him. “So, um, tomorrow the love potion expires unless I convince Reagan or someone else to drink it.”
“Really?” he asks. “What happens if it expires?”
“Madam Tess, the psychic, said that if it doesn’t get passed on, the potion will run out and so will any love it created.”
“Huh,” he mutters. “So your friend Reagan is gonna drink it, right?”
“You actually believe in it?” I ask, pulling back to see his face.
“Well, better safe than sorry, right?”
“I guess so,” I agree.
“So, we’re good?” Lawson asks, hauling me on his lap so that I’m straddling his legs.
“Oh, we’re better than good,” I tell him, brushing my lips over his. “How about a repeat of last night? You know, before I left?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” he says, pulling me down with him when he falls backward on the bed. “But this time, I want you on top.”
Chapter Fifteen
Lawson
“Hey, guys. Thanks for coming in on a Saturday,” I tell Ryan, Blake and Carly, who are all standing around the front lobby of the garage while I sit with my feet propped up behind the counter. I’m still trying to figure out what to say to them.
“Oh, fuck. Something’s definitely wrong,” Blake pretend whispers to Ryan. “Boss is being nice.”
“Listen, you little shit,” I warn the young, tatted up asshole who is late every damn day. If he wasn’t the best mechanic I’ve ever had, I would’ve given him the boot a year ago. “Maybe I would be a little nicer if Ryan and I didn’t have to bust our asses every morning until you decide to grace us with your presence.” Blake mimes zipping his lips when I get to my feet. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, I try to start spilling the beans. “So, you guys should know that, unless things turn around, you may not have jobs here much longer.”
“Son of a bitch!” Ryan immediately shouts as he starts to pace, his fingers laced behind his head. “No one else will hire me without a GED or some shit.”
“Look, I hope it doesn’t come to that,” I tell him. “But I thought you all should know since it’ll affect you, possibly sooner rather than later. So, if any of you know of ways to cut back or whatever, let me know.”
Nothing but crickets chirping.
“How about social media?” Carly eventually asks softly from where she’s sitting with her legs crossed in one of the plastic waiting room chairs.
“Sorry, little girl, but I don’t think taking selfies will help the boss very much,” Blake replies with a scoff. “Unless you want to get naked…” he adds, eyeing her lewdly up and down.
“Watch your fucking mouth, asshole,” Ryan says, getting in Blake’s face and giving him a shove backwards.
Shit. I knew this was gonna happen. Having a woman in a garage is like the old superstition of having a woman on a ship. No good can come of it because of sexual harassment, and, well, violence if Ryan thinks he has to defend his younger sister every second of the day.
“You two, enough. Blake, that’s the last sexist comment I want to hear out of your mouth in this garage or you’re fired. Ryan, go easy. You can’t punch every man who speaks to your sister.”
“Yeah, but I can punch him,” Ryan responds.
I point at the chair across the room next to Carly; and after a moment of hesitation, Ryan relaxes his tense body and strolls over to take a seat in it.
“What about social media?” I ask Carly, because I don’t know shit about that sort of thing.
“I mean, does the business have a social presence? Can it be improved?”
Running my fingers through my hair, I consider it for a moment before I respond. “We have a page or whatever, but that’s about it. I don’t have time to fool with it.”
“If you want, I can set it up and manage it on all the popular sites, at least until I leave for school in August,” she offers.
“Good, yes, thank you,” I say. Who knows? Maybe it’ll help.
“What about custom shit?” Blake asks.
“Custom shit?” I repeat.
“Yeah, you know, like steering wheel and seat covers, rims, floor mats and shit. You could buy it wholesale and mark it up to sell it in here,” he says, nodding around the lobby that’s empty other than the plastic chairs, a counter and the register.
“We could try a few things, I guess. Advertise some specials on social media, and see how it goes.”
“Whatever you need, boss,” Ryan says. “But you’ve gotta stay in business.”
“Hopefully we will, but I just wanted you all to have a heads-up,” I tell them, more than ready to have this conversation over with. “Now you three get the hell out of here and enjoy your weekend.”
Chapter Sixteen
Josie
I knock on Reagan’s apartment door that faces the soccer field on Madison’s campus. After she walks across the stage in a few weeks with her graduate degree in journalism, I wonder if she’ll stay here or move. She hasn’t said, and I’ve been too afraid to ask. I don’t want her to move. Hell, I don’t want to move either. This afternoon when I get home, I’ll start looking for job prospects in the area. But first…I have to knock again before Reagan finally opens the door.
Her warm chocolate eyes are narrowed, lips pursed in a thin line. She doesn’t look very happy to see me.
“What do you want, slut?” she asks with her hand on the hip of her long, russet-colored bohemian dress. Her harsh words catch me off guard, until I remember our last conversation.
“I ditched Bryan,” I assure her. “And I slept with Lawson!”
“Oh, thank God,” she says, slapping a palm to her chest. “I thought you were gonna screw everything up. In that case, you may now come in.”
Stepping into her apartment that I’ve been in dozens of times, everything still looks the same, like a homeless person’s been camping out. The girl insists on buying nothing but organic, natural, fruit of the Earth shit. No consumer goods for her. As far as technology goes, she’s in the Flintstones era, owning only a landline phone. That’s it. I only just recently convinced her to upgrade her tin can with a string, and I think that was more for her mom to reach her in case of an emergency than for herself.
“So, how’s it going? Ready for exams? Drank the potion yet?” I ask before sitting in one of her bamboo Papasan chairs.
“Ah, it’s going good. There’s a week of class to go before exams, and what do you mean, have I drank the potion?” she asks, sitting on one of the oversized pillows on her floor since she doesn’t have a sofa.
“I mean, you’re gonna drink it, right?”
“Didn’t you say you don’t believe in that mumbo jumbo?” she asks, tossing her long, brown hair that hasn’t been cut in over a decade over her shoulder.
“Um, well, I didn’t, but now Lawson and I are together, and it’s…perfect, and he thinks it’s better to be safe than sorry, you know?”
“Huh,” she says with a shrug of her shoulders, followed by silence.
“So, you gonna drink it?” I ask.
“Can’t,” she says. “I lost it.”
“You lost it!” I exclaim when I jump to my feet. “How did you lose it?”
“I dunno. It may have accidentally got put in the glass recycle bin last week.”
“No, no, no! This can’t be happening! Not after everything we’ve been through this week. We’ve got to find it!” I say in flurry of panic. “Or find Madam Tess. She probably has more, rig
ht?”
Yanking my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans, I pull up the search engine and type in her name. “No results! Zero. How the fuck is that possible?” I ask Reagan.
“Already tried looking her up in the computer lab at school,” she answers, which surprises the shit out of me that she used the internet. She still turns in most of her assignments handwritten, unless it’s absolutely necessary for her to use the computer.
“What are we gonna do?” I ask, chewing on my fingernails. “I can’t lose him, Reagan! I can’t!” My eyes start to water, and I realize just how much faith I have in that stupid liquid.
“Aw, Josie. Don’t worry,” Reagan says when she stands up and strolls carelessly from the living room to the adjoining kitchen. When she comes back she holds out the familiar glass bottle with a purple liquid.
“Oh, thank fuck,” I say as I wrap my arms around her. “I should slap you for lying to me!”
“I just wanted you to admit that you believed in it.”
“Oh my God, yes. I believe, okay? Now will you drink it for fuck’s sake?” I ask.
“Fine. But you’re gonna owe me lunch when I toss my cookies,” she says, pointing a finger at me in warning.
“Yes, sure, whatever you want!” I assure her.
Reagan tugs the stopper out of the bottle with an echoing pop, and then she tips it up to her lips and chugs. While it’s going down, I run to the kitchen and grab the trash can to have it ready for her in case she can’t make it to the bathroom.
“Yum,” she says when I return, licking the drops from her lips, before putting the stopper back in place.
“Yum?” I ask. “Yum? Are you kidding? That shit tasted like the rotten eggs you hide at Easter and don’t find until the summer!”
“What? No,” she replies. “It tastes like pineapples.”
“You gonna barf or not?” I ask, holding out the trash bin in offering to her.
