Illegal Fortunes

by Sabrina Stark

  Illegal Fortunes

  A New Adult Romance Novel

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  Copyright © 2014 by Sabrina Stark

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Bishop

  Find her.

  My brother's words echoed in my brain. Like he didn't know. In five years, I'd never lost track of her.

  She didn't need finding. She needed forgetting.

  Fuck knows I'd tried. So now, here I was, surfacing in the city I'd been dodging for years. I had property here. I had friends here. I had associates here.

  What I didn't have was her, the only girl I'd be willing to die for, to kill for – looking at the jail, I felt myself swallow – to live for.

  Instead, I'd given her almost exactly what she'd wanted.

  Nothing.

  Until now.

  We'd tried it her way. Now, it was time for mine.

  Chapter 1

  I know what you'll say. If I was such a good fortune teller, I'd have seen it coming. And him returning – the guy who roared into my life to ruin everything.

  But I didn't see any of it.

  For one thing, I wasn't looking.

  For another, the cards don't always work that way. Sure, they can predict a lousy day or a sizzling hot date. But when it comes to specifics, well, they're a little harder to come by.

  Maybe that's a good thing. As one of the more cheerful members of what can be a gloomy profession, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, even to myself.

  On the Saturday it all started, I was anything but cheerful. But who could blame me? I was sitting in a cold jail cell with two other women – a college student on a weekend bender, and a forty-something blonde dressed like Pocahontas.

  I turned to Pocahontas. "Some fortune tellers we are."

  "I told you," she said, "Mercury's in retrograde."

  "So?"

  "So, it screws up everything."

  "I am feeling kind of screwed," I said.

  A loud retching sounded in the corner. We turned to see our cellmate hurl chunks of what looked like a burrito and beer over the front of her Michigan State sweatshirt.

  "You okay, sweetie?" Pocahontas called to the young woman, a button-nosed brunette who might have been cute a few beers ago.

  "My parents are gonna kill me," the girl moaned.

  Her face was green. I felt sorry for her. "You never know," I told her. "Maybe they'll take it better than you think."

  She leaned back and closed her eyes. "You haven't met my mom. She's a real Polly prissy-pants." The girl opened her eyes and turned toward me. "Is your mom a prissy-pants too?"

  My gaze slid to Pocahontas. "Oh yeah. Bigtime."

  "I am not!" Pocahontas said.

  I lowered my voice. "I thought it’d make her feel better."

  "I am not a Polly prissy-pants," Pocahontas repeated.

  "Mom–"

  "Call me Crystal," she said.

  "You let the other kids call you mom."

  "They're not in the family business."

  "Yeah," I said. "And they're not in jail either."

  "Now you sound like a prissy-pants."

  "Crystal–"

  "That's better," she said.

  Her full name is Crystal Moon. Yes, that's her real name. And no, she's not a porn star. She's the local astrologer in Riverside, Michigan, a blue-collar town a couple hours north of Detroit. She's also my Mom, which explains my name, Selena Moon.

  In Greek mythology, Selena is the goddess of, what else, the moon. She's the sister of Helios, god of the sun. I have one sister. Her name is Luna. But if you know what's good for you, you'll call her anything but that. She hasn't answered to Luna in a long, long time.

  In the jail cell, the college student squinted at Crystal and then at me. She clutched her stomach and retched again, this one a false alarm.

  Crystal turned to me. "Pub Crawl," she mouthed.

  She was probably right. The annual event drew revelers state-wide, lured by cheap booze, live entertainment, and the fact there wasn't much else to do in the dead of a Michigan winter.

  "You wearing anything under the sweatshirt?" I asked the girl.

  Plucking at an unsplattered section, she lifted the hem of her sweatshirt to reveal a navy turtleneck.

  "You might want to lose the sweatshirt," I suggested. "The police might go easier if you're not covered in..." I let the sentence trail off, not sure of the appropriate word.

  "Toss?" the girl mumbled.

  "Yeah," I said. "Toss."

  The girl was still struggling with her soiled clothing when Officer Jolly, a husky police veteran, appeared with a set of keys. "Bail's all set," he told Crystal. "You're free to go."

  So my dad had come through? Already? On the phone, he'd promised to hurry. But this was faster than I'd dared to hope, especially to bail out an ex-wife too.

  Freed from the cell, we found a quiet spot in the women's public restroom. I flopped on a long wooden bench and inspected my fingers, still blackened with police-issue ink.

  Like Crystal, I tell fortunes for money, a side job for me, a full-time vocation for her. Where Crystal looks to the stars, I look to the cards. Tarot, Old Maid, you name it. You can tell fortunes using just about anything – palms, eyes, even butt cracks. But with the last name of Moon, I was definitely sticking to the cards.

  I should've consulted my cards that Saturday, but probably, I suffer from the same condition that keeps electricians from changing their own light bulbs. When you do something all day for pay, it's hard to muster the energy to do it for free, even for yourself.

  In the station restroom, Crystal propped her moccasin-covered feet atop the overturned wastebasket, surrounded by wads of crumpled paper towels. She frowned. "What a mess."

  "No kidding," I said, thinking of my arrest, not the rest room.

  Crystal brightened. "I liked my picture though. How about yours?"

  I dug into the pocket of my long, colorful skirt and pulled out my mug shot. I saw a young Gypsy woman with long dark hair, a rose tucked behind one ear. "I hate it," I said.

  She snatched the photo and gave it a look. "No wonder," she said. "You didn't even smile."

  I still wasn't smiling. If I walked out of that restroom without a plan, a bad mug shot would be the least of my worries.

  I wanted to run. But I couldn’t run. For good or bad, Crystal's problems were my problems too. So after a quick brainstorming session, I was ready to face the situation head-on.

  What I wasn't ready to face was him. Not now, not ever, and definitely not in some police station lobby with both of my parents watching.

  Chapter 2

  I'd just walked out of the restroom with Crystal on my heels and my thoughts eight-hundred miles away, where my other life waited.

  At the front counter stood a man with his back to us. It was an impressive back, strong and broad, tapering to a narrow waist. That back was covered with a black jacket, worn to perfection, like the faded jeans that covered his long, lean legs.

  I froze in my tracks. That back looked familiar. Too familiar. And the hair, thick and dark with the barest hint of a wave. I bit my lip and caught my breath.

  Crystal poked me in the sid
e and whispered, "Hey, isn't that–?"

  "No," I said.

  It couldn't be. Not here. Not now. Not after what happened.

  At the sound of our voices, the man slowly turned to face us. And when he did, I felt the color drain from my face.

  Shit.

  It was him, Jim Bishop, the toughest person I'd ever known. I wasn't glad to see him. The feeling probably was mutual. It had five years since I'd walked out on him.

  Our eyes locked as we took in each other's appearance. In five years, he'd hardly changed. He was a walking cliché, tall, dark and handsome with a faint air of danger. I, on the other hand, was dressed like a vagabond and covered in ink.

  Separated by only the long, narrow lobby, we didn't move, and we didn't speak. I should've looked away. But I couldn’t. And apparently, neither could he – until Crystal's whisper broke the spell.

  "Do you think he's visiting his dad?"

  I closed my eyes, flooded with embarrassment on too many levels to count. I didn't answer. Even if I knew the answer, what could I say? His dad wasn't a police officer, and he wasn't a guard. When it came to Bishop's Dad, he was the kind of guy who didn't exactly visit the jail by choice.

  "Actually," Bishop said, his voice flat, "Dad got out six months ago."

  Reluctantly, I opened my eyes. To my immense relief, his gaze was no longer on me. It was on Crystal. But even in the frigid lobby, the heat of his earlier gaze lingered. Warmth flooded my body from my scalding cheeks to the tips of my toes.

  And it wasn't all embarrassment.

  Crystal beamed at him. "Oh, that's just fabulous," she said, her voice way too chipper to be sincere. "So you're visiting one of your brothers then?"

  "No." His gaze drifted to me for the briefest moment. "Someone else."

  Again, Crystal leaned toward me. This time, her whisper was very quiet. "Jeez, how many criminals does the guy know?"

  I didn't answer. I looked to Bishop. He was studying my face with that same old intensity, curious, but restrained. And that's when I knew. He wasn't here visiting anyone.

  He'd come for me.

  God, I was such an idiot. I hadn't even glanced at the paperwork. Without breaking eye-contact, I rummaged in my purse and yanked out the folded papers. When I finally looked down, there it was. Bishop's signature right at the bottom.

  So he was the one who bailed us out? How'd he know we were here? And more importantly, how on Earth had he paid for it? The amount wasn't a fortune, but it wasn't pocket change either. Given his background, I didn't even want to think of where the money had come from.

  I opened my mouth to say something. What, I didn't know. But I never had the chance, because somewhere behind me, a male voice was calling my name.

  I turned to see my dad, bundled in a parka, barreling toward us. Behind him, the front entrance doors swung shut. In his gloved hands, I spotted a large manila envelope, no doubt stuffed with paperwork for the bail thing.

  Too late for that.

  Still, I summoned up a smile and gave him a wave.

  He stopped short, as if suddenly realizing that I wasn't, in fact, stuck somewhere behind bars. His gaze shifted from me to my mom and back to me. "You're out?" he said. "How'd that happen?"

  As an answer, I turned to glance over my shoulder. But all I saw was Bishop's back, straight and tall, as he strode out the side door without so much as a backwards glance.

  Chapter 3

  Until we'd been marched off to jail, it had been a busy Saturday at The Crystal Moon, our family-owned coffee shop that doubled as a bookstore and metaphysical wonderland. In spite of the brutal cold outside, it was nice and warm in our downtown oasis, filled with the aroma of gourmet coffee and smoldering incense.

  Small groups of customers milled from room to room. Some strolled with café mochas or lattes. Others carried books, candles, crystals or T-shirts that posed the age-old question, "What's your sign?"

  At intimate tables throughout the shop, fortune tellers huddled with customers, sharing insights in hushed tones. A sudden giggle escaped an elderly woman. "Red panties?" she squealed.

  Her companion, a gray-haired woman with deep laugh lines, hooted. "See Edie, you better get shopping if you want to boost your–" She looked at Crystal, the costumed fortune teller who happened to be my mom. "What's that thing again?"

  "Her root chakra," Crystal said.

  Edie looked puzzled. "Where’s this root chakra, again?"

  Crystal pointed to Edie's pelvis. "There."

  Edie lowered her voice. "You mean my lady business?"

  "Close enough," Crystal said.

  Edie's friend spoke up. "I call mine a cooter-muffin."

  Edie gave her friend a good, long look, and then turned to ask Crystal, "Why do the panties gotta be red?"

  "Red's the root chakra's favorite color," Crystal said. "And you know what else?"

  "What?"

  "It'll spice up your love life too."

  Edie smiled. "Is that so?"

  Edie might not know it, but Crystal prescribed red panties to every woman who'd listen, including me.

  "Forget it," I'd told her the last time she'd mentioned it. "And besides, there's no lingerie store in Riverside." It was true. The nearest Victoria Secret was an hour south.

  "But there is a Wal-Mart," she'd said. "C'mon, girl, don't you wanna get laid?"

  The awkward factor aside – she was my mom after all – she did have a point. Twenty-five years old, and I barely dated. Sure, I dated guys here and there. And yes, a few of them saw my panties – and other things – but mostly, I just wasn't interested.

  It was my own fault. When it came to sex, I'd done everything in reverse, like a weird dinner guest who devoured their pie before their vegetables.

  At eighteen, I started with my own brand of sexual dessert, sinfully decadent, but ultimately unhealthy. Then, after two years of bliss, I spent the next five years working my way backwards to salads and casseroles – solid enough, but nothing that made my mouth water in the middle of the night.

  Sometimes, having your dessert first isn't exactly a good thing, especially when that dessert had a name.

  Jim Bishop.

  That lying bastard.

  He'd been my first, but not my only. And yet somehow, he'd managed to completely ruin me for every guy who came after. Safe guys. Easy guys. Guys with slow tempers and stable jobs. Guys who didn't make my pulse race and my knees turn to jelly.

  By now, I'd delivered that whole "It's not you. It's me," speech so often I could recite by heart. And every single time, I felt like a total ass. No, make that a dumb-ass. The guys? They were great. Me? Not so much.

  I was in love with a fantasy, faded by time, yet impossible to erase.

  But Crystal would never understand. So I gave her the same old excuse. "Forget panties," I told her. "Shopping for food is hard enough."

  Good thing for Crystal, Edie was more receptive. She pushed away from the table and pulled a notepad from her massive black purse. "Think I should get me one of them thongs?"

  I was envisioning Edie in a thong when I saw a familiar figure coming through the door. It was Officer Frank Jolly, one of our best coffee customers.

  Normally, he came in alone. This afternoon, he was flanked by two uniformed officers, who stopped inside the door, and stood blocking the exit.

  I watched in concern as Officer Jolly waded through the crowd and stopped at Crystal's table, now empty of customers. Brandishing an official-looking notice, he leaned over and said something I couldn't make out.

  Not liking the looks of this, I hustled over to join them.

  I arrived just as Crystal rocketed to her feet. "It can't be illegal," she told him. "We've been doing it for years."

  "Don't shoot me," he said. "Cripes, I'm just the messenger."

  I glanced around. "The messenger for who?" I asked.

  "The city," he said, not looking too happy about it. "But we gotta enforce it. Lucky us."

  Crystal gave me a pleadi
ng look. "They want to shut us down."

  "What?" I glanced around. The line at the register was three-customers deep, and no one was manning the coffee bar. "But we're right in the middle of a fortune festival," I said. "Can't you give us a few hours?"

  He hiked his brown pants to waist level. "Sorry, but the chief said–"

  "Screw the chief," Crystal said. She made a little shooing motion. "Now go away."

  "Sorry. No can do." He looked down at her costume. "And what's with the Pocahontas thing?"

  "Oh for Pete's sake," she said. "I'm not Pocahontas." She threw back her shoulders. "I'm an Aztec shaman."

  He squinted at her. "You are?"

  "Hell yeah," she said. "Wait here. I'll uh, get the catalog." She spun around and made a mad-dash for the book room, skidding around the corner on the soles of her plastic moccasins. From somewhere in the book room, I heard the scrape of metal and rattle of chains.

  Officer Jolly turned to me. "She's not coming back, is she?"

  I shook my head. "Actually, I'm pretty sure she's chaining herself to the staircase again."

  "Son-of-a-bitch," he muttered.

  With a sigh, he turned to me. "Listen, about the store, we don't have a choice. Let’s do this the easy way. It’ll all be over before you know it."

  "You mean our business will be over," I said. "What are we supposed to do come Monday?"

  "You can open back up," he said, "so long as –" He looked away and mumbled something I couldn't make out.

  "So long as what?" I asked.

  He studied his fingernails. "So long as you're not telling fortunes."

  My stomach clenched. "What? No fortunes?"

  Sure, we sold lots of stuff at the store – coffee and books, and all kinds of curiosities, but those weren't the thing that paid the bills.

  "You think it's my decision?" he said. "It's damn embarrassing is what it is." He looked tired. The police were short-staffed, thanks to budget cuts at City Hall.

  I lowered my voice. "Then whose decision was it?"

  "Hell if I know," he said. "I'll tell you this though, it's gotta be someone big."