Illegal Fortunes

by Sabrina Stark

"You need to stop that," I told him.

  "Stop what?"

  "You know what." I gave him look. "We had a deal. Remember?"

  "What deal is that?"

  "You promised to stay out of this."

  His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

  I lowered my voice. "And besides, you can't go around scaring people, just because they're giving me a hard time."

  "So," he said, "you want to scare him?" He nodded. "I can see that."

  "Oh stop messing around," I said. "I'm not scaring anyone."

  "Yeah? Give it time."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  He made no response, but his expression said it all.

  "Oh shut up," I said. "Unlike some people–" I gave him a pointed look. "–I don't solve my problems with violence."

  "Yeah? Tell that to Cat Randolph."

  I groaned. Not this again. "She totally started it," I said.

  "Uh-huh."

  "And besides, that was seven years ago." I lifted my chin. "I've mellowed. Older, wiser, and all that?"

  His gaze dipped to my lips. "You look the same to me."

  His words, along with that single glance, did the same thing it always did. My stomach fluttered, and my insides melted. But, I was older and wiser, and I knew all too well where that road ended.

  "Did you come in here for a reason?" I said. "Other than to scare Gary, I mean."

  Bishop reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gold envelope. "Here," he said, handing it over. "I figured you'd want this."

  As I took the envelope, my fingers brushed his for the briefest instant. That was all it took. A flood of memories came pouring back. He had talented fingers, among other things. I pushed the memories aside. This time, I was thinking with my brain, not my other parts.

  Besides, I liked to sleep naked. If this kept up, I'd be stuck in granny panties forever.

  I looked at the envelope. "What is it?"

  "The invitation to that Valentine's thing."

  Silently, I opened the envelope. I pulled out the card to scan the details. The event was being held at some upscale hotel in downtown Detroit.

  "By the way," Bishop said, "it's an overnight thing."

  "Wait a minute," I said. "Valentine's Day is a month away."

  He turned back toward me. "Yeah. So?"

  "So, don't you think this is a little premature?"

  "Nope." He flashed me a grin. "And don't worry. I'll be stopping by before that."

  "What for?"

  He turned to head out of the shop. Over his shoulder, he said, "To say 'I told you so.'"

  "Wait a minute," I said. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Too late. He was already gone.

  I felt my eyebrows furrow. I told you so? What the hell?

  Thankfully, the council meeting was that evening. More than ever, it was critical to get that stupid law overturned. I needed to escape, and fast.

  Things here were getting way too confusing.

  Chapter 17

  The liar. The guy on the motorcycle never did stop by. But what did I expect? One week, he steals a car, along with all my money. And the next week, he's supposed to waltz into coffee shop and pretend that nothing happened?

  Sure, he'd returned my phone, along my license, but that didn't change anything. Not really. The guy was still a thief, a brute, and a giant faker.

  To think, I'd fallen for that whole nice-guy act. What a crock.

  To end my streak of stupidity, I marched right down to the police station Sunday morning to report the whole thing – everything from Russell's carjacking to the missing money. I even gave them a name – Jim Bishop. Real or fake, it was a start, right?

  I didn't care if he knew where I lived. I didn't care if he was prone to violence. And I sure as hell didn't care that he was hotter than hot, with smoldering eyes and a body to die for.

  The way I saw it, pretty on the outside didn't mean squat if he was rotten where it counted. And that guy? He was the worst kind of rotten. He'd played me like a pro, which, come to think of it, he probably was.

  Not that anyone believed me. The trip to the police station was a total waste. As I learned from Officer Jolly, my story fell completely apart when Russell flat-out denied anything had happened that night.

  Russell's exact words? "What carjacking?"

  The coward.

  So, the past week had dragged, with no sign of the carjacker and no word from my so-called best friend. I'd been calling Paige every day. She never answered, and she never returned my calls. It shouldn't have been a surprise, but somehow it was.

  About the lost money, I couldn't even cry on my mom's shoulder. Somehow, she'd gotten this crazy idea that I should invest in her store, as opposed to a college education. The harder I resisted, the more she pushed.

  Finally, I gave up. In a fit of desperation, I played the poverty card, claiming I'd lost all my cash at the local tribal casino. Sure, I looked like a loser. But aside from the occasional gamblers anonymous flyer in my book bag, I finally had some peace and quiet.

  I was standing behind the front counter of our coffee shop, mulling all of this over, when I looked up and stifled a gasp.

  There he was. The carjacker himself.

  From just a few feet inside the door, he stood, looking at me. I swear, I hadn't heard him come in.

  When he spoke, his voice was cool, with an unfamiliar edge. "I had a nice visit from the police," he said.

  I glanced around. It was the mid-morning lull, and I was utterly alone – no Crystal, no customers. Talk about bad timing. Unless – I felt myself swallow – had he been waiting outside for the coffee shop to become empty?

  Crap. He probably had.

  My heart was racing, but my hands were steady. I met his gaze head-on. "What do you want?" I said.

  "Just stopping by," he said. "Remember?"

  I gave him a snotty smile. "Bummer for you, we're closed."

  He turned to look at the sign. "Doesn't look that way to me."

  "Well, maybe it's just closed to you."

  Slowly, he approached the counter. Without breaking eye contact, I reached down, seeking the handle of the old baseball bat we kept by the register. I felt around and came up empty. I looked down. The bat was gone.

  "It's in the supply closet," he said.

  I looked up "What is?"

  "The bat."

  "How do you know?" I said.

  "You wanna guess?"

  I glanced toward the closet. "Not really."

  "Suit yourself," he said.

  Instinctively, I took a small step backward.

  "I'm not gonna hurt you," he said.

  "Yeah?" I said. "Then stop right there."

  With a shrug, he stopped just beyond arm's reach. He wore jeans and a gray T-shirt. No jacket. His eyes were dark, and his expression darker. "You think I beat up on girls?"

  "I don't know," I said. "Do you?"

  He looked to his feet and gave a slow shake of his head. I heard a muttered curse, which I chose to ignore.

  When he looked up, I said, "So why are you here, really?" I gave him a cold smile. "To return my money? Or maybe Russell's car?" I craned my neck to look out the window. "Is it parked outside? Oh gosh. It's not. Gee, what a total surprise."

  "You're the surprise," he said.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I think you know."

  "No," I said. "I don't."

  "You played me," he said. "And I wanna know why."

  My jaw dropped. "I played you?" A bark of laughter escaped my lips. "Seriously?"

  "Do I look like I'm joking?"

  I took in his appearance. His arms, loose at his side, were corded with long, lean muscles that looked ready to snap. His fists were clenched, and his jaw was tight. When he took a step forward, I resisted the urge to step back.

  Instead, I squared my shoulders. "Actually, you look like you wouldn't know a joke if it bit you on the ass."

  He looked at
me a long moment. When he spoke, there was no hint of humor. "Who put you up to it?"

  "Who put me up to what?"

  "You know what."

  "Well, that wasn't vague or anything." I looked around. "You know what? Just forget it. I've got work to do, so…" I made a shooing motion with my hands. "Go away."

  His voice was flat. "Go away."

  "Yeah. Unless you came to return my money." I held out a hand, palm up.

  He looked at the palm. "What money?"

  "The cash in my purse. As if you don't know."

  "I don't have it."

  "Figures." I lowered my hand. "Spent it already?"

  "No," he said. "I never had it." His voice hardened. "As if you don't know."

  "Oh, so I suppose Russell took it? Is that what you're saying?"

  Sure, Russell was a turd, but he wasn't a thief. He didn't need to be. He had gobs of money – unlike me, probably unlike the guy in front of me too.

  I waited, watching as the carjacker met my gaze with an intensity that made me want to look away. But I refused to look away. And I refused to squirm. He was the criminal. Not me.

  And then he spoke. "It wasn't Russell who took it."

  "So who did?" I said.

  "You."

  "Me?" I said. "Well, I've gotta give you points for creativity."

  "How so?"

  "I figured you'd blame Russell."

  "Sorry, wasn't him."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because," he said, "I counted the money. It was all there."

  "How nice for you."

  He took another step toward me. If it weren't for the counter, he'd be dangerously close. Crap. Who was I kidding? He already was dangerously close. I looked down and saw his flat stomach pressing against the tall counter. One quick lunge, and I wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Still, I refused to be intimidated. If I backed down now, I'd be looking over my shoulder forever.

  "You wanna keep playing me?" he said, his voice quiet in the empty shop. "Fine. But sooner or later, I'm gonna learn who put you up to it. And when I do, I'm coming back. And we're having another talk."

  I stared up at him. "Are you threatening me?"

  "No."

  I'd seen enough gangster movies to know the lingo. "Because it's not a threat when it's a promise?"

  "No," he said in an oddly quiet voice. "Because you scare me."

  I choked out a laugh. "I scare you?"

  "Yeah," he said. "More than you know." And with that, he turned and strode toward the door.

  Just as he opened it, I hollered after him, "If you think I'm scary now, steal from me again, asswipe!"

  When the guy kept on going, I sagged against the counter. He wasn't an asswipe. He was a carjacker, a thief, and apparently, a liar. And now, he was threatening to come back.

  I should've been horrified. Hell, I was horrified. But I was also something else. And it was that something else that kept me awake half the night, wondering who that guy really was. Part of me wanted to believe him. The other part of me knew I'd be smart not to.

  He was kind of scary. But somehow, I wasn't scared.

  And that, I knew, should've scared me more than anything.

  Chapter 18

  The night of the city council meeting, Crystal and I braved fresh snow to arrive early at City Hall. If the meeting went well, we'd see the fortune-telling ban lifted for good. If it didn't go well, Crystal's business was in serious trouble, even if she refused to acknowledge it.

  As we waited in the packed lobby, Crystal studied her notes, a speech she planned to make if needed. She'd refused to let me see it, lest it ruin the surprise. Too bad. I was sick of surprises.

  I'd also come prepared. I carried a stack of index cards detailing other outrageous laws still on the books. If the city refused to repeal the fortune-telling ban, I'd demand they enforce the other ancient laws too.

  Technically, it was still illegal to bathe two babies in the same tub, wear skirts that showed ankle, or cut a woman's hair without the husband's consent. Other laws made more sense. I, for one, have never given a lit cigarette to a dog, and figured the law had some merit.

  I was shuffling through my cards when someone jostled me aside, sending my index cards flying. I saw Gary plow past, trampling a few fallen cards in his wake.

  "Hey!" I called to his receding back. "Watch it!"

  "Butter-fingers!" he called back over his shoulder as he disappeared into the men's room.

  "Jerk," I muttered.

  I eyed the destruction, cards everywhere. With a sigh, I stooped to gather them up while Crystal chased after a card that had skittered halfway across the lobby. Somewhere above me, I heard a male voice say, "Here, let me help."

  I looked up and felt my jaw drop. I thought I knew the guy, and not because I'd ever met him in person.

  He was in his early thirties, tall and blond, with broad shoulders and a trim waist. His clothes – tailored slacks, a matching sports coat, and a silky dress shirt – looked terribly out of place in the antiquated lobby.

  Even if he were some random stranger, I'd know one thing for certain. He definitely wasn't from around here.

  As he crouched beside me, I gave him a long sideways look. Holy crap, it was him – Conrad Harrison – author, real estate mogul, and downtown Detroit's golden boy.

  Because of the Michigan connection, I'd read a couple of his books, including his latest, some new treatise on real estate investing.

  The guy was a huge power player in the downtown revitalization effort. He'd taken nearly a dozen low-end properties and turned them into pure gold – hotels, condos, restaurants, and two of the city's hottest new nightclubs.

  What on Earth was he doing in Riverside?

  He scooped up a handful of cards and reached for another. I collected my wits and gathered the rest.

  When the floor was card-free, we stood. He handed me a small stack of cards. Trying not to stare, I gave him a grateful smile and a quick thanks.

  Returning from the other side of the lobby, Crystal handed me a single card, crumpled and stained with half a footprint.

  She glanced at Conrad Harrison and did a double-take. "You look familiar," she told him.

  He gave her that same heart-stopping smile that graced his book covers. He held out his hand. "Conrad Harrison."

  Taking his hand, she scrunched up her face to give him a good, long look. Finally, her expression cleared. "I know!" she said. "You're the guy who hates fishermen."

  His smile faded.

  What the hell was she saying?

  "Actually," I said, "he's an author."

  She turned to look at me. "Like Harry Potter?"

  "No," I said, "Real estate stuff. He's a turnaround specialist."

  He turned toward me. "You've read my books?"

  "A couple of them. They were really good." I held out my hand. "I’m Selena by the way."

  His hand felt cool and smooth in mine. "Conrad," he said.

  Crystal was tapping him on the shoulder. "Selena's a writer too," she told him.

  I gave a dismissive wave. "Yeah, but not books or anything."

  Behind Conrad, I saw Gary lounging against the far wall. He was glaring at me. So I gave him a glare right back. He held a small plastic cup. He dribbled brown spit into it.

  Chewing tobacco. I shuddered.

  "Is something wrong?" Conrad asked.

  "Huh?" I said. "No. Sorry."

  Again, Crystal tapped Conrad on the shoulder. "When's your birthday?" she asked.

  He blinked a couple of times and then said, "October 25th. Why?"

  "What year?" she asked. "And what city were you born in?" Before he could answer, she added, "I'll need your exact birth-time too."

  I looked at Conrad, a deer in headlights.

  "Don't tell her," I said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because she'll use the information against you," I said.

  "How?" he asked.

  "Yeah how?" Crystal demand
ed.

  To Conrad, I said, "She'll create your astrological chart."

  He gave me a blank stare.

  "And learn all your secrets," I explained.

  Conrad looked from me to Crystal and then back to me. "So you're the fortune-tellers?" he said.

  I tried to smile. "Yup, that's us."

  He eyed me with interest. "I read about your case."

  Crystal spoke up. "That's weird. Because I read about you in the paper." She lowered her voice. "Tell me, do you really have mob connections?"

  "Mom!"

  "For the last time," she said, "it's Crystal. Remember?" She turned to Conrad. "We're business partners. But she keeps forgetting that."

  "If only I could," I muttered.

  Before she could respond, the clerk called the meeting to order.

  An hour later, it was all over. The drive from City Hall was short and tense. Crystal and I sat in the back seat of the police car, facing the back of Officer Jolly's head.

  I turned to give Crystal a hard stare. "You should've told me," I said.

  "I couldn’t," she said. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

  Well, it definitely was that.

  Chapter 19

  The meeting had been a disaster. The disappointment burned even deeper when contrasted with the session's promising start.

  Edgar Kreezak had shocked me to the core by appearing not only sober, but dressed in a Fortune 500 business suit. Even better, he'd argued brilliantly on our behalf. Turns out, he was a retired law professor who knew a thing or two about image.

  The law repeal was so close I could taste it. But then, a scruffy little man in the back of the auditorium jumped up and exploded in a fit of hysterics. "They're all witches!" he shrieked. "Burn witches, burn!"

  Along with everyone else, I turned to stare at him, too stunned to move. Was he talking about us?

  The assembly came to a screeching halt. The clerk demanded silence. The protestor refused, repeating the words over and over until a bailiff dragged him off, kicking and screaming down the aisle, into the lobby, and down the front steps.

  A shocked silence fell on the assembly. I looked to Edgar, sitting on the raised platform next to the mayor. He opened his mouth, but before any words came out, a female voice next to me said, "I'd like to address the assembly, if I may."