He stepped closer and peered into her face, as though reading her. Feeling a tad uncomfortable, she averted her gaze to his hands and a sparkling blue ring on his pinkie. Sapphire, she guessed.
“Yes,” he whispered, “it’s the stone of destiny.”
Had he heard her thoughts?
She looked up, but Magellan was busy talking to the audience again, the blue stone sparkling with his gestures. He’d probably seen her looking at it, passed on the tidbit that it was the stone of destiny. Hardly a supernatural experience.
“So, Bill,” Magellan said, “are you ready to play our game?”
“Depends.”
“Ah!” Magellan made a swirling motion with his fingers again, reminiscent of an actor in a melodrama. “You’re not one to believe in life’s mysteries, and yet, deep down, you’re curious if what is mystical and unseen might in fact be real.”
“Not really.”
The crowd laughed again.
“We’ll see about that,” said Magellan, taking a few steps away in his flip-flops. The guy was a mix of Jimmy Buffett and the Wizard of Oz. Too much.
“Time to play Truth or…Bare!” he announced to the crowd. “Which is a variation of Truth or Dare in honor of this very sexy Sin on the Beach festival.”
Bill squeezed Ellie’s hand. “Fasten your seat belt,” he murmured, “’cause we’re on the ride now.”
“Ready?” Magellan asked them.
“Ready,” they answered in unison.
“Wonderful.” He closed his eyes, although she swore he was peeking out of one of them, and raised a forefinger to his turban as though summoning his powers. “I’m now calling on my spirit guides to reveal a secret about each of you. If I’m wrong—I mean, if my guides have erred—”
The crowd laughed.
“As I was saying, if my guides have erred, you earn fifty festival points as well as free tickets for rides.” He reached into the air and—presto!—a string of tickets appeared.
Gasps from the crowd.
“However, if my spirit guides are right, which they usually are—” he looked over at Ellie and Bill “—that person must remove an item of clothing. Not a necklace, earring, ring, hat, belt, shoestring, sock or contact lens, but something major. We’re talking the bare part of Truth or Bare, my brave friends.”
Whoops and clapping.
She glanced at Bill, imagining what she’d like him to take off, first. Considering they were in public, his shirt would do.
But if they were alone…
“Ahem,” Magellan said loudly into his microphone.
She looked over at him.
“The spirit guides say ‘naughty, naughty’!”
Even she had to laugh. Psychic insight? Nah. He’d caught her checking out Bill, every wanton little thought written all over her face.
Magellan turned dramatically solemn. “It’s time for the spirits to speak.”
As he put his palms together at his heart level, a flutter of flutes and harps swelled. She figured he’d touched some wireless remote hidden in his breast pocket that triggered the music. She wondered what other buttons he had hidden on his body, and what those might do.
Magellan nodded as though listening to someone speaking. Finally, he opened his eyes and put a hand on each of their shoulders. The music rose, the notes twirling higher and higher…
Then abruptly stopped.
“They’ve spoken,” Magellan said dramatically. “To you, Bill.”
A woman in the crowd shrieked.
“She’s not my spirit guide, by the way,” Magellan said under his breath, the aside accidentally on purpose muttered directly into the microphone. The crowd ate it up, laughing and clapping.
“The spirits have a riddle for you, Bill. Listen carefully. What has roots nobody sees, is taller than trees, its virtues it sows and yet never grows?”
Bill’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “They said all that?”
Magellan shrugged. “They’re a little wordy sometimes. They say when you find the answer, you’ll also find your destiny. But so you can play Truth or Bare, they also told me a secret. Yes or no. Your friend, they say, based a character in a story on you?”
Bill blinked, nodded. “That’s right. No way you could have checked that on the Internet. Awesome trick, man.”
“No trick, my friend. I’m merely a vessel for the spirit guides. So, what item of clothing will it be, Bill?”
He tapped the stain on his shirt. “I’ve been meaning to take this off ever since I spilled coffee on it this morning, so…” He grabbed the end of the polo shirt and tugged it over his head.
A thrill zigzagged through Ellie as she stared at his chest. His muscled, brown and deliciously hairy chest.
But it was the tattoo that made her blood run molten.
The dragon’s mighty torso, a marvel of blues and greens, crested over Bill’s shoulder, its reptilian head lying seductively across the pec, flames of fire shooting across his breastbone.
Women in the audience went nuts. Ellie hadn’t heard that much screaming since her girlfriend’s bachelorette party, the night she lost fifty dollars tipping a male stripper named Robby Rawhide.
“Your turn,” said Magellan, facing her.
With some difficulty, she tore her gaze off Bill. “Shoot,” she rasped.
“The spirits say your age is twenty-nine.”
Pause. “That’s it? A number?”
Magellan nodded.
She felt slighted. Bill got the riddle, then the insight about being the model for a character. And the spirits only guessed her age?
Which was correct, but too easy. Oh, yeah, definitely the work of Candy, the marketing whiz. She’d probably left a few tidbits about Ellie and Sara with Magellan to boost Team Java Mamma’s chance of winning. Maybe someone on Sin on the Beach had done something similar—left a cheat sheet with Magellan, giving names, descriptions, a few planted facts about people who worked on the show. It made Magellan look good, boosted attendance at his performances, which in turn raked in money for Sin on the Beach. A win-win all the way around.
Darn. She’d so hoped for something really supernatural, but it appeared Magellan was just a carnie with connections.
“Yes, I’m twenty-nine.”
Applause.
Magellan made a grand flourish. “Choose a piece of clothing.”
A no-brainer. Her fishnet cover-up. She slipped it off to much clapping and whistles. She caught Bill’s approving look, which pleased her.
She glanced at his shorts, he glanced at her top. Those would be the next pieces to go. An idea she liked. A lot. Just not here.
“I’m getting another message from the guides,” announced Magellan.
“Uh,” said Ellie, not wanting to hang here any longer, “tell them thanks but no thanks?”
Bill chuckled. “C’mon, Ellie. We don’t want to hurt their feelings.”
Magellan, his forefinger pressed against his turban like some kind of divining rod, closed his eyes. “They’re speaking…. Okay, here’s the message. Cinderella doesn’t make it home before midnight, but that’s not the end of her story.”
The hairs tingled on the back of her neck. She’d thought of Cinderella and her prince an hour or so ago…one of those funny thoughts that flits in and out of one’s head…but how odd to hear Magellan reference Cinderella, too.
“Is that my riddle?” she asked quietly.
Magellan gave her such a focused look, she swore he could read every thought she’d ever had.
“No,” he finally said, “it’s more of an insight. But because it wasn’t a question that can be answered, you win the prize and the points.” A festival ride ticket materialized in his hand, which he handed to Ellie along with a voucher for points.
As they walked back into the crowd, Bill hugged her close against his side. “Way to go, Ellie. You’ve won points at the audition, and now Truth or Bare!”
“Yeah, it’s great.” But she didn’t feel as exuberant
as she sounded because now she had Cinderella on the brain. Everybody knew it wasn’t until the very end of the story that Cinderella didn’t make it home by midnight….
Didn’t the story pretty much end there?
5
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Ellie and Bill had ridden the merry-go-round, gotten dizzy on the Tilt-A-Whirl, slipped and laughed down the gigantic blow-up slide. They’d watched people play volleyball, bowl with coconuts and jiggle and bounce on a community-size trampoline. Ellie had tried her luck at the ring toss and Bill had tested his strength swinging the mallet at the Hi-Striker.
After all that, they were content to simply walk hand in hand down the midway, sipping their lemonades. Bill wore his shirt tied around his waist, Ellie’s fishnet cover-up draped over his shoulder, items of clothing they hadn’t put back on since Truth or Bare.
He stopped and looked at her. “You’ll probably think this sounds crazy, because I see bodies in bikinis all day long.” He pulled her cover-up off his shoulder and held it up. “But seeing yours through a sexy fishnet…” He blew out a pent-up breath. “Well, it makes it extra sexy.”
“Hold my drink,” she said, handing hers to him. The speed with which she took the fishnet out of his hands made him laugh.
“You want it,” she said with a smile, “you got it.” She slithered into it, wriggling this way and that, which only added to the heat he’d been feeling ever since she strolled onto the stage this morning.
Those big turquoise eyes glistened as she looked at him, and suddenly he recalled those same big eyes from many years ago as a much younger Ellie asked if it was true…was he really moving away to New York?
He remembered how he’d felt that summer when he was eighteen, so damn anxious to move away and be on his own, it was all he could do to stay put. Once he’d landed in New York, he’d sworn never to go back. And he’d kept his word. His mom and sisters had occasionally visited him, but he’d never returned. In fact, until today, he’d rarely thought of the hood.
Yet spending time with Ellie had brought back memories—too many memories—of where they’d grown up. It brought back the memories of gunshots and kids dealing drugs and rap music and…
Then there was the resurrected memory of a young girl who’d lived next door, all gangly and wide-eyed and interested in the fate of a boy she barely knew.
That girl had been sweet, but the rest of the memories were sour. Getting closer to her didn’t mean getting closer to the rest of his past. Or did it?
“What is it?” Ellie asked.
He played with the fishnet, slipping his fingers through the diamond-shaped knit, feeling as tangled up in his emotions as he did in the threads. He dug her, was more drawn to and excited by her than he’d been to a woman in a long time, and yet…
She frowned slightly as she studied his face. “Are you feeling ill?”
He almost laughed, more at his own mishmash of thoughts than her question. He looked around at the crowd of people, some laughing, some eating, others kissing….
“This isn’t the place,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
He knew what he was about to say would come out sounding harsh, but he didn’t have a choice. Better to say it now, before things went further.
“This afternoon’s been great, but…”
“But…”
“I can’t do this.”
“This meaning…me?”
He nodded. Emotion filled her eyes and he went from feeling like a jerk to feeling like a rat.
“You can’t spend any more time with me,” she clarified, keeping her voice level.
He released a slow breath. “Right.”
Her chin quivered, but just when he thought she might crumble, she gave him such a long, judicious look, he realized he was dealing with a woman who might look soft, but could be tough-minded when necessary.
“I was confused about you, too,” she said simply.
In the distance, wheezy calliope music and the clang, clang, clang of a bell scraped against his nerves.
“Want to share why?” he finally asked, hearing his defensiveness and telling himself it wasn’t because his male ego had just been dinged.
“You first.”
He puffed out a breath. “Great, put me on the spot.”
“You started it.”
“I did.” He belatedly realized his fingers were still enmeshed in her fishnet cover-up. He looked down the peekaboo crisscross pattern, past it at her plump breasts, the taut tummy, those nicely shaped legs. “Oh, yes, I did start this, didn’t I….”
He dragged his gaze back to hers. In a low, rough voice, he murmured, “It’s not that you’re not so hot I couldn’t lay you right here.”
Her eyes widened, the pupils dark. “Wow,” she murmured, “you’d like to do me right here and now, but you can’t spend any more time with me.”
“I’m not that callous, Ellie.”
“No, just full of yourself.”
He looked behind them at a bench next to a taco truck. “Look, this conversation is weird enough without us standing in the midway surrounded by dozens of beach partygoers. Want to sit down?”
“Sure.”
A few moments later, they sat next to each other on the bench. Scents of fried onions and spices saturated the air. Across the way, people were lining up for a limbo contest.
“It’s been such a nice day,” Ellie finally said, “how about we bypass the heavy conversation, agree we can’t do this, and enjoy the next few minutes.”
He suddenly felt hollow. “All right,” he said quietly.
She gestured at the noisy, crowded midway. “Reminds me of that old movie Carnival Story.”
“Anne Baxter, nineteen-fifty-four. Not too many people remember that film.”
He’d never dated a woman who liked the Golden Age of Hollywood, not with any depth anyway. Most actresses equated those years with Marilyn Monroe, not with films or lesser-known actors of substance.
“Look at that guy.” Ellie pointed at a middle-aged, round-faced man walking down the midway with a tray loaded with baked items. “Reminds me of the bakers who’d bring their pastries to the festivals on Olvera Street, near where we lived. Oh, I can almost taste them now—what were they called?”
In East L.A., Olvera, with its cobblestone, pedestrian-only street, was famous for its multicultural festivals and celebrations, from Cinco de Mayo to Christmas to the Chinese New Year.
“Pan dulce,” he said, the memory of the Mexican sweet breads making his mouth water. “Remember how they’d stick to the roof of your mouth?
“Yes. Remember the Christmas Eve procession?” asked Ellie. “Afterward, there’d be several hundred kids breaking piñatas and scrambling for candy.”
He nodded, remembering his siblings laughing and grabbing candy while he, big brother and man of the house, watched over them. He didn’t want to be lured into the memories, didn’t want to look back, but that was like not wanting to swim with the tide. The pull was too strong.
“I especially liked the Ferris wheel. Even though I got kicked off it more than I got to actually ride it.” He shook his head, remembering some of the dumb stunts he pulled. “It’s been years since I’ve been on one.”
“Sometimes people would wear costumes, too.”
“A lot of those people just looked like they were wearing costumes.” He made a disapproving noise. “Some of the girls wore so much makeup and tats, they looked like they should be in the band KISS!” He laughed.
“My favorite celebration,” said Ellie, “was the Dia de Los Muertos. That’s how it’s pronounced, right?”
“You said it just like a homie, chiquita.” Dia de Los Muertos. Day of the Dead. The Mexican celebration to honor those no longer living.
For a moment, the crush of people and sounds and scents were almost like the festivals of years ago…almost. Some people in his past were no longer living, and even though he thought of them, he’d done little to honor them. An old sha
me bubbled up that he’d tried to bury so many times.
“So,” Ellie said, “what is it you wanted to talk about?”
“Bill!” squealed a female voice.
Phoebe, aka Diane, wiggled up to them wearing a white bikini that was barely legal.
“Fiona,” said Bill.
Her smiled drooped. “Phoebe.”
“Right,” he muttered, scratching a spot on his chin.
Ellie wished she and Bill were standing because from their seated perspective, they had a ringside seat to Phoebe’s bodacious mounds that threatened to spill right out of her top.
Phoebe glanced at Ellie, back to Bill. “Having another meeting?”
“No.”
“Good,” she said, batting her eyes. “Because I have a problem and was hoping you could help me.”
Ellie couldn’t believe her eyes. She thought this kind of big-man-can-you-save-me act only happened in the movies. Really bad, cheesy movies.
Bill shifted, cleared his throat. “Uh, what’s the problem?”
To Ellie’s shock and wonder, Phoebe-Diane leaned over just enough to give Bill a dead-on cleavage shot.
He glanced down, back up to Phoebe’s face. And said…nothing.
Ellie had to remind herself that men were made of flesh and blood. Offer a man a boob-flash and he’d look. Shame Phoebe wasn’t a rap song.
“I was supposed to enter the Hot Shot Photo Scavenger Hunt with a friend,” Phoebe said in a baby-talk singsong voice, “but he couldn’t make it.” She put on a sad look, which consisted of sticking out her bottom lip and making a noise like a pigeon cooing.
Unbelievable. No goth chick in her right mind would pull that stunt.
“Everyone’s signing up for the Hot Shot Photo Scavenger Hunt in an hour,” continued Phoebe, as though someone had asked for details. “That’s when they give everyone the text number where to send their photos. One category is tattoos, another tan lines—” she ran her finger along the edge of her bikini top “—stuff like that. And the photos are flashed on the screens.” She leveled a look at Bill. “Want to be my partner?”
Ellie took a big sip of her lemonade, making a loud slurping noise. When Bill looked at her, she gave a couldn’t-help-it shrug.
Shock Waves Page 5