Illegal Fortunes

by Sabrina Stark

  "Big?"

  "Big enough to make the chief jump," he said. "And you know the chief."

  I did know the chief. He liked apple muffins, not blueberry. He took his coffee with one sugar, no cream. And he didn't like to jump.

  "Uh, yeah, and there's one more thing," Officer Jolly said.

  "What?"

  "We gotta take you guys back to the station."

  My mouth fell open. "You're arresting us?"

  He held up his hand. "Not everyone. Just the fortune tellers."

  "All the fortune tellers?"

  "Supposedly," he said. "How many you got?"

  I did a quick calculation. Other than me and Crystal, the store employed one other fortune-teller. But we'd brought in four extra for today's festival. That was seven total.

  "One?" I suggested.

  Officer Jolly eyed the tables, overflowing with fortune tellers and their clients. "By one, who do you mean?"

  I swallowed. "Me. I guess."

  Shaking his head, he pointed to a framed news article on the wall. The front-page photo showed Crystal giving the former mayor an astrology reading. "Can't be just you," he said. "I know that. You know that. And you can bet your sweet bippy, the chief knows that too."

  With no time to argue, I caught Crystal in the book room and cajoled her into cooperating. I found our third fortune-teller between readings, and asked him to clear the store as quietly as possible. Finally, I joined Officer Jolly at the door, where Crystal was already bitching up a storm.

  "Aren't you gonna cuff us, Frank?" Crystal was telling him. "Maybe beat us with a night stick while you're at it?"

  "Just doin' my job," he said. "Gimme a break, will ya?"

  Ten minutes later, from the back of the police car, we had a front row seat of our store, emptying of its customers. I saw Edie, wearing a red feather boa, climb into to a four-door sedan. A young couple carrying coffees and half-eaten cookies ambled to a pickup. One by one, the evicted customers straggled to their vehicles and drove off. Within minutes, the parking lot was empty.

  Thanks to the unexpected help from Bishop, along with express service from Officer Jolly, we were in and out faster than I'd dared to hope.

  I should've been happy. Instead, I was a mess. And it had little to do with the police.

  Bishop had done it again. He'd shown up out of the blue to rescue me from something I should've seen coming. I felt a wistful smile tug at my lips. The smile faded when I remembered just how badly it had ended the first time.

  But before it ended, now that was a different story.

  Chapter 4

  It was seven years ago.

  "Unbelievable," I muttered for like the millionth time as I trudged down the darkened country road. My silvery high heels dangled loose from my fingers, and my formal dress, so lovely in the store, felt about as elegant as a burlap sack.

  I'd been walking this road for what seemed like hours. The pavement, still damp with June rain, was pitted with potholes and littered with loose gravel.

  I resisted the urge to look down. The dress was long and silvery. Or at least it had been long and silvery. No telling what it looked like now.

  I faltered as the sole of my foot found another shard of gravel, sharp against my bare skin. "Son-of-a-bitch!" I yelped, not that there was anyone to hear.

  I was in the middle of a long, lonely stretch of road, surrounded by flat farmland and not much else – just the low, leafy stalks of some mystery crop, poking up in long straight rows.

  My feet were throbbing, and my shoes were useless. In a fit of pique, I stopped and hurled the heels into the wide open field. They plopped into the mud and stuck upward like a couple of mutant plants, sown by some psycho under the cover of darkness – or in my case, a stranded eighteen-year-old with blistered feet and a bad temper.

  In the distance, I heard the roar of an engine. I stopped, listening so hard I forgot to breathe. Oh crap. Was he coming back?

  Around me, I heard the hum of cicadas and the chirp of crickets. "Will you be quiet?" I hissed, trying to make out the motorized sound.

  I blew out a breath. No. It wasn't him. He drove a car. And unless my ears deceived me, that sound in the distance was coming from a motorcycle. That was the good news. The bad news? The sound was getting louder with every second.

  "Just great," I muttered, edging away from the road. My stomach churned as scenes from too many slasher movies skittered across my brain.

  Lone teenage girl? Check.

  Dark country road? Check.

  A night of booze and bad decisions? Check and double-check.

  I looked around, hoping to hide in the shadows. Of what, I had no idea.

  Gripping the hem of my dress, I waded into the open field. When I passed my muddy shoes, I stooped to pick them up. They had cost me half a week's pay, after all.

  Were they ruined? Probably. But when I reached a gas station, or whatever, I'd probably need them to be allowed inside. No shoes, no service, right? If only I'd recalled that pesky little rule a minute earlier.

  With a sigh, I shifted both shoes to one hand. With my other hand, I hiked up my dress as best I could. Cool damp soil squished between my bare toes, and stalks of the mystery crop tugged at the back of my dress. I felt a snag, and heard a rip.

  Shit. I twisted around to inspect the damage. I couldn't see any, but that didn't mean it wasn't there.

  I stopped moving and blinked long and hard. God, what a nightmare.

  The sound of the motorcycle grew louder. A few seconds later, I saw a single headlight illuminate the road. I stood, utterly still, as the motorcycle roared past.

  After a long moment, I gripped the hem of my dress, took a deep breath, and started squishing my way back to the road.

  I'd barely reached it when it suddenly occurred to me that the sound of the motorcycle hadn't exactly faded to oblivion. My heart skipped a beat. Oh crap. It was growing louder. What the hell?

  And then I saw it. That lone headlight, returning from the direction it had just gone. It had to be the same one. Biting my lip, I glanced back toward the muddy field.

  Screw it.

  This time, I stood my ground.

  The motorcycle pulled onto the shoulder and rumbled to a stop a couple feet away. The rider cut the engine. I watched, silently, as he removed his black helmet, along with the tinted visor.

  The rider was tall with dark hair and dark eyes. He might've been my age, or maybe a couple years older. He wore faded jeans, tattered along the side, and a black leather jacket that did nothing to disguise his lean, muscular body.

  He gave me a crooked grin. "Nice dress."

  I should've been scared. My palms felt clammy in the cool night air. Okay, so I was scared. But something about his smile was making it hard to remember why.

  I squared my shoulders. "Oh yeah?" I said, resisting the urge to look down. "Well, you should've seen it an hour ago."

  He gave a slow nod. "I bet." He looked around. "So, uh, you come here often?"

  I narrowed my gaze. "Are you making fun of me?"

  "Me?" He put on a solemn face. "Nope."

  "You are too," I said.

  He didn't deny it. But he didn't admit it either. Mostly, he stood there, looking like a midnight fantasy on wheels. I saw amusement in his dark eyes, along with something else. Whatever that something else was, it was making my heart race with more than fear.

  I waved away the distraction. "Oh forget it," I said. "You got a cell phone?"

  He shook his head. "Sorry."

  "Oh c'mon, you can't be serious," I said. "Everyone has a cell phone."

  "Yeah?" he said, giving me a pointed look. "Where's yours?"

  I knew exactly where it was. It was somewhere inside Russell's car, along with a certain silver beaded purse, borrowed no less. "Long story," I said. "You don't wanna know."

  "That," he said, "is something I seriously doubt." He was still straddling his bike. He leaned forward a fraction of an inch. "Hey, wanna trade?"


  I tensed. "Trade what?"

  "This story of yours," he said. "You give it to me straight, and I'll give you a lift."

  "To where?"

  "To wherever you need to go."

  I glanced at his motorcycle. "On that thing?" And then it hit me. What a jerk. I glared up at him. "Hey," I said, "you wouldn’t give me a ride regardless?" So much for chivalry.

  He shrugged.

  "Besides," I told him, "there is no story. Not really."

  He gave me a long look. His gaze took in everything – my muddy feet, the grubby dress, the pair of dirty heels dangling from my curled fingers.

  "Oh shut up," I said.

  He raised an eyebrow the barest fraction, as if to point out that he hadn't, in fact, said a single word.

  Somewhere in the distance, I heard the sound of another engine.

  "So…" the guy said.

  "Shhh," I said, holding up a finger. "Is that a car?"

  He didn't move. "Probably."

  I looked toward the sound, seeing nothing but empty road. But the sound was unmistakable. Was it coming up this road? Or the next road over?

  I scrunched up my face, listening so hard it made my head ache. It was definitely a car. Correction – a sports car. From somewhere in the distance, I heard the squeal of tires, and the roar of an engine. Even from a couple miles away, it all sounded all too familiar.

  Somehow, I knew exactly what I'd see if that vehicle kept on coming – a white Camaro with a black racing stripe.

  Well, this was just great.

  Chapter 5

  Swallowing, I turned to the stranger. In a rush, I heard myself say, "Don't go."

  His eyebrows furrowed. "I wasn't planning on it." He studied my face, and his voice grew softer. "Hey, are you alright?"

  "Yeah. Fine. Just–" I glanced around. "Wait here 'til it passes, okay?"

  Something in his expression changed. "You're expecting someone?"

  "I dunno. Maybe."

  He gave a slow nod. "Want me to take care of it?"

  "What do you mean?" I glanced toward the sound. "How?"

  He shrugged.

  "Oh forget it," I said. "It's nothing."

  "Nothing," he repeated, his tone dubious.

  I glanced at the guy's bike. "You know what?" I said. "That deal you offered? The story for a ride? I'll take it." I took a hesitant step toward him. "So, should I climb on behind you, or…?"

  He held up a hand. "Not yet."

  I stared up at him. "Why not?"

  He shrugged out of his jacket. "Here," he said, holding it out to me. "Put this on."

  I squinted at the jacket. "Why?"

  "One, because you look cold. And, two, you wear that, and it'll cut the odds of him seeing you."

  I swallowed. "Him?" I hadn't mentioned a him. Had I?

  "Just take it," he said.

  Silently, I reached out and took the jacket from his outstretched hand. I struggled into it, switching the muddy heels from one hand to the other while I jerked my arms into the long sleeves and adjusted the jacket over my shoulders.

  It was way too big, and I knew I had to look ridiculous. But the jacket felt nice, softer than I'd expected. The leather was warm and supple against my bare arms. I had been cold, even if I hadn't quite allowed myself to notice.

  I inhaled the scent of soap and something I couldn't identify. Whatever it was, it reminded me of fireworks on the Fourth of July. I lowered my chin and took a deep breath, savoring the scent of summer and danger, and maybe the barest hint of motor oil.

  When I looked up, the guy was holding out his helmet. "This too," he said.

  I glanced at the helmet. "But what are you gonna wear?"

  "Just put it on," he said.

  "But–"

  "It's not negotiable," he said.

  And so I did, feeling like a weird character mish-mash in my makeshift outfit, like Barbie the Brunette Biker right before she ditches Ken for some dark angel.

  "Ready?" he said, flicking his head toward his bike.

  I nodded and took a limping step toward him and then another. Still clutching my heels, I climbed onto the bike, nestling my body behind his. I watched with embarrassment as my dress hiked up to a level that was nearly obscene.

  After a moment's hesitation, I reached my arms around to encircle his waist. His stomach felt tight and hard against my unsteady hands, and I'm pretty sure I poked him with one of those stupid heels. But he didn't say a word. And he didn't move a muscle.

  More to the point, he didn't start the engine.

  I leaned to the side and glanced around him. I saw nothing in the road ahead. But that was little comfort as another squeal of tires echoed across the quiet night.

  "What are you doing?" I hollered through the helmet.

  "Waiting," he said.

  "For what?"

  "To see what kind of asshole would toss you out in the middle of nowhere."

  "Hey!" I hollered. "No one tossed me out."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah." I glanced around. "I got out myself."

  "Uh-huh."

  "I did!" I yelled.

  He shifted on his bike. "Hey, can you speak up? I can't hear you through the helmet."

  I ratcheted up the volume. "I said–". Oh crap. I felt the color rise to my cheeks. He wasn't yelling. And I could hear him just fine. "Very funny," I said.

  "I thought so."

  "Can't we just go?" I pleaded.

  "Not yet."

  He pointed somewhere to our right, indicating whatever lay beyond the farm field. "They're coming up Young's Pass," he said. "Next, they'll circle around to Finn." He pointed past the front of his bike. "My guess? They'll be coming from that way. I'd give it a minute, two tops."

  "How do you know?" I said.

  "Call it a hunch."

  "Then c'mon," I urged. "Let's go now."

  "Humor me," he said.

  I blew out a breath. I was tired of humoring anyone. But did I have a choice? And so we waited, until exactly as he predicted, maybe a minute later, I saw twin headlights coming fast.

  God, this was so humiliating. I huddled close behind him, sinking low as the Camaro roared past without so much as a swerve or downshift.

  I sagged in relief. So Russell hadn't recognized me? Then again, he probably hadn't seen me at all. No wonder, given the size of the guy in front of me, all wide shoulders and long legs.

  In front of me, the guy spoke. "So, was that the car?"

  "What car?" I said.

  He turned his head, giving me a no-bullshit sideways glance. "Your former ride."

  "Maybe," I said.

  The guy nodded, more to himself than to me. And then, finally, he leaned forward to fire up the engine. It roared to life and rumbled under my seat.

  I leaned into the guy and held on tight. He felt lean and strong in a way that had me holding on for more than safety. Against my palms and thighs, I felt his muscles shift and move in harmony with his bike, leaning into the corners and hunching lower on the straightaways.

  The way he moved, and the way I felt, I almost forgot what a crap-fest the rest of the night had been.

  Almost, but not quite.

  Even if I got back home in one piece, I was still missing my phone, Paige's purse, and a whole lot of cash.

  As we rode, the farmland gave way to clusters of houses, which gave way to city streets lined with restaurants and stores, mostly closed, given the late hour. We rumbled into Vet's Park, a wide expanse of mowed grass and park benches, overlooking the huge river that bisected the city.

  He cut the engine, but made no move to get off the bike. Neither did I.

  At Slammers, a dockside pub within easy walking distance, rock music blasted from an open air patio. I glanced over and saw midnight revelers leaning over the railing.

  Drink in hand, a tall brunette in a tight dress was gyrating to the music, while her date – or maybe just some random stranger – grinned stupidly as she shimmied against him.

&nbs
p; In front of me, I saw the stranger's head turn briefly in her direction before returning straight ahead, facing the river.

  And then he spoke. "You ready?"

  I removed the helmet. "For what?"

  "To tell me this story of yours."

  "Oh." Stalling for time, I looked around. "So why'd we stop here?"

  He gave half a shrug. "It's a public place. I figured you'd want that after whatever happened." He flicked his head toward a nearby park bench. "We can talk there," he said, making a move to get off his bike.

  I followed his lead and climbed down, wincing as my bare feet hit the pavement. With a practiced motion, he swung a long leg over the back of his bike and joined me on the sidewalk.

  "Hang on," he said.

  "For what?"

  Almost before I knew what was happening, he'd swooped up into his arms.

  I glanced wildly around. "What are you doing?"

  Cradling me against him, he strode toward the park bench. "Carrying you. Obviously."

  "Why?"

  Still walking, he flicked his head toward my feet. I saw bare toes, caked mud, and – oh crap – a mess of blood smeared up from my left heel. From a blister? Or broken glass? Did it matter?

  This should've felt awkward. It was awkward. After all, he didn't need to carry me. Before his arrival, I'd been walking a long time already. A few more steps certainly wouldn't kill me.

  But somehow, I couldn't make myself argue. Cradled against him, I felt warm and safe and utterly lost. He moved with a deadly grace, full of purpose, yet strangely gentle. Against my left hip, I felt his hard abs, shifting in time with his motions, even as his pace, along with his breathing, showed no sign of strain.

  Just before we reached the bench, I glanced up, meeting his gaze. "Hey," I said, "you never told me your name."

  "It's Bishop," he said.

  Bishop? What kind of name was that?

  "Really?" I said, hearing the doubt in my own voice.

  "Yeah," he said. "First name's Jim."

  Chapter 6

  "Who's Jim Bishop?" Gabriel asked.

  At the sound of that all-too familiar name, I snapped back to the present. I looked around the book-room table, where Crystal and I were sitting with Gabriel, our third fortune teller.