Illegal Fortunes

by Sabrina Stark

  Across from me, Luna had been talking for fifteen minutes straight when she paused to give me an annoyed look. "You're not even listening."

  "Yes, I am."

  "That what'd I just say?"

  I counted off on my fingers. "Mom's a ditz, you need a car, and you want to kick some girl's ass for something she said on Facebook."

  She frowned. "Show-off."

  I grinned. "I told you so."

  She was seated at the front counter. I stood behind it, pricing a new shipment of aromatherapy oils. With no pricing gun, I was doing it the old-fashioned way, with stickers and a ball point pen.

  She glanced at the oils. "Need some help?"

  "Yeah," I said with a half-hearted laugh. "Tell me you know a guy named Jim Bishop."

  "Sure, everybody knows the Bishops," she said.

  I set down my pen. "There's more than one?"

  "Oh yeah."

  I shouldn't have been surprised. Luna was sixteen now and running with a rougher crowd than I ever had. Where I'd hung out with the yearbook committee, she hung out with stoners in the school's back parking lot – older kids who smoked in their cars and made out in their back seats.

  Probably, I should have asked Luna first. For someone so young, she was surprisingly well informed.

  She leaned forward. "You know Dean Fenwick?"

  I nodded.

  "A couple months ago, Jake Bishop – that's Jim's brother – kicked Dean's ass."

  "Why?"

  She shrugged. "Long story."

  "Do you know where they live?" I asked.

  She nodded. "You know Briarwood?"

  "The housing complex? Just a few blocks from here, right?" My heart was racing. If I walked out the door now, I could be there in ten minutes.

  "They live on the next block over," Luna said, "in this narrow two-story off Second Street."

  "You've been there?"

  "Hell no," she said. "I drove by with some friends though. We were gonna egg their house."

  "Why?"

  "I can't remember," she said.

  I gave her a look. "Uh-huh."

  "It doesn't matter," she said. "We totally didn't. Not after we saw the place."

  "What do you mean?"

  She grinned. "Take a drive by. You'll see."

  She never did elaborate, which was fine with me. It gave me the perfect excuse to find out for myself. And I didn't plan on wasting any time. I didn't have a car, but I did have walking shoes. In June, the days were long. It would be light out until past nine o'clock.

  At seven o'clock, I helped Crystal close the shop, and then dashed upstairs to throw on shorts and a T-shirt. By seven-thirty, I was standing, dumbstruck, on the sidewalk across the street from the house Luna described.

  I should've felt conspicuous. Hell, I would have felt conspicuous. Except I wasn't standing alone.

  On the sidewalk, a small crowd had gathered, mostly people my parent's age, along with a couple of kids, a few teenagers, and one lone golden retriever, straining at its leash while its owner – an elderly man in a running suit – held on for dear life.

  The house was a narrow ramshackle monstrosity that might have blue at one time, judging from the barest hints of color that remained.

  On the second story, a broken shutter hung from a boarded-up window. The grass was patchy, knee-deep, and littered with beer bottles and old snack wrappers.

  The porch was missing half of its spindles, the mailbox was missing its post, and the rusted pickup in the driveway was missing two of its tires.

  Nailed to a rickety post was a huge hand-painted sign. Protected by Smith & Wesson. The sign was crooked, misspelled, and riddled with bullet holes.

  But these weren't the things that had people staring. It was the spectacle playing out across the front yard. A muscular gray-haired man in a tattered wife-beater shirt was rolling around the front yard, wrestling with some younger guy, dark-haired and shirtless.

  I caught my breath. The young guy looked familiar. Too familiar. Bishop?

  Oh crap.

  I watched in horror as the older guy captured the younger guy in some sort of choke hold. He pounded the younger guy's head, hard, against the caked dirt.

  "Oh my God." I turned to the guy standing next to me, a tall man with thinning hair and a small mustache. "We should do something," I told him.

  He glanced toward the commotion. "Be my guest."

  I glanced over to see the younger guy jerk his head upward, smashing his forehead into the older guy's nose.

  "You little shit!" the older guy roared as blood spurted from the center of his face. "You're gonna pay for that!"

  Using both hands, the older guy reached out and jerked the younger guy upward. As if somehow expecting this, the younger guy used the momentum to his advantage. He gave the older guy a good, strong shove that sent the older guy sprawling face-up across the front walkway.

  At the neighboring house, an older woman was hollering over the fence. "That's it!" she screeched. "I'm getting the fuckin' hose!"

  "Fuck off, you old bat!" the older guy yelled, just before pushing himself up. He grabbed something that looked like a shovel handle. Wielding it like some sort of medieval weapon, he advanced slowly toward the younger guy, who lay, still dazed, across the lawn.

  I heard myself gasp. Without thinking, I plunged toward him. I'd gotten maybe two steps when a hard yank on my elbow sent me reeling backwards. I whirled around and slammed into a mass of lean muscle and black leather.

  Strong arms encircled me, steady and sure. I looked up, and there he was – my rescuer, my obsession, Jim Bishop.

  What the hell?

  Chapter 25

  I turned toward to the house, where the younger guy had miraculously gotten to his feet. Had he been faking it all along?

  I turned back to Bishop. "I thought… but who's…" I narrowed my gaze. "I'm all confused."

  He flicked half a glance to the house. "My brother," he said. "Jake."

  A crash sounded near the house. I whirled to see Jake going after the older guy with something that looked like part of a fence post. I whirled back to Bishop. "Shouldn't you do something?" I said.

  "Like what?"

  "Help him."

  His eyebrows lifted the barest fraction. "Which one?"

  "I dunno," I said. "Both of them, I guess."

  He glanced toward the commotion. "Been there, done that. No thanks."

  "But what if they kill each other?" I said.

  "Better them than me," he said. "Besides, cops'll be here any minute."

  "How do you know?"

  He gave me a deadpan look. "Guess."

  "Because, um, this has happened before?"

  "Yup."

  As I gazed up at him, the commotion behind me faded to near insignificance. Slowly, I became aware that his arms still encircled me, acting as a buffer between me and the crowd.

  I wanted to burrow closer, to soak up the smell of his jacket, to feel his breath on my forehead and hear his voice in my ear.

  As for what he wanted, I had no idea. Probably, he wanted me to go away. I'd caused him all kinds of trouble, and then, like a moron, I'd reported him to the police. Plus, it was nearly night-time, I'd shown up uninvited, and I'd just been caught spying on him at his house. I'd heard of stalkers with more finesse.

  Somewhere in the distance, I heard the wail of sirens.

  "See?" he said.

  Around us, the crowd shifted and murmured, like concert-goers, eager for the main event after a wicked opening act. Around us, I was vaguely aware of crashing and yelling amidst the sounds of sirens that grew louder with every second.

  I looked up, meeting his gaze. What I saw there, made my heart race and my toes tingle. He should've hated me. But if that were true, why was he looking at me like that?

  Before I could give it much thought, my poorly rehearsed words tumbled out. "I know who played you."

  He leaned close. "So do I."

  "Really?" I said. "Who?"


  He leaned over, pressing his forehead against mine. I felt his grip tighten and heard his voice, low in my ear. "Me."

  I pulled back to stare up at him. "Huh?"

  Before he could respond, a blue and white police car, with lights flashing, screeched around the corner. It skidded to a stop in front of the house. Abruptly, the sirens stopped wailing, and two uniformed officers got out of the vehicle.

  Nearby, the neighbor lady was yelling toward the car. "About damn time!" she screeched.

  I pulled away for a better look. The woman's hands were empty. "I thought she was gonna get a hose," I said.

  Bishop shrugged. "It's gone."

  "How do you know?"

  "Jake stole it."

  "When?" I asked.

  "After the last time."

  "Oh."

  On the front lawn, Jake and the older man stood, unsteadily, caught in some sort of wresting embrace that slowly morphed into a casual buddy pose.

  The older man glared at the two officers. "What the hell do you want?" he hollered.

  The officers exchanged a look.

  "Yeah!" Jake yelled. "Piss off!"

  I couldn't help it. I snickered. Piss off? Seriously? Did he think he was British or something?

  Bishop's voice was low in my ear. "'Fuck off' gets him arrested. But piss off? Eh, it's a gray area. Fifty-fifty. Depends on the cop."

  Silently, I watched as Jake and the older guy were – as Bishop put it – cuffed and stuffed. After the patrol car pulled away with Jake and the older guy lodged in the back seat, I turned to Bishop.

  "What happens now?" I asked.

  "I dunno," he said. "Not my problem."

  I bit my lip. Shouldn't he care? They were his family, after all.

  And then, he gave me a smile, the kind that made rational thought utterly impossible. "Need a ride?" he asked.

  "To where?"

  He leaned in close. "Wherever you want."

  A half-hour later, we sat side-by-side on the wide sandy beach that overlooked the nearby bay. Freshwater or not, it looked more like an ocean than anything, with shimmering waves as far as the eye could see.

  But that wasn't why I'd picked this place. Mostly, I didn't know where else to suggest. I had almost no money, and the way it looked, neither did he. The beach cost nothing.

  Officially, the park closed at sundown. That was probably an hour away. And even then, enforcement would be spotty at best. As long as you weren't stupid about it, you could get away with almost anything.

  Surrounding us, on at least two dozen beach blankets, people of all age groups were sprawled out, listening to music, watching the waves, or in the case of three teenage guys, playing some beach game with a foam ball and wooden paddles.

  Over my objections, Bishop had tossed down his jacket, forming a makeshift blanket against the damp, cool sand. He handed me a beer, one of two singles that he'd bought at the nearby party store.

  To be polite, I opened the can and took a tiny sip, trying not to grimace. I hated the taste of beer. Always had, and probably always would.

  The beer-purchase had been a surprise. Somehow, I'd guessed his age to be closer to mine. At eighteen, I was still three years away from the legal drinking age.

  I tried to sound casual. "So you're twenty-one, huh?"

  "Nope."

  Oh God. Older? "Uh, twenty-two?"

  "Guess again."

  I hesitated. "Twenty-three?'

  He laughed. "No."

  Abruptly, I stood. Oh crap. Now what?

  "I'm twenty," he said.

  "Oh." I looked down at my knees, and made a show of brushing some imaginary sand off by bare legs. When I sat back down, I turned to face him. Of all the things that should worry me about this guy, his age was the least of them.

  His mouth twitched at the corners. "Better?" he asked.

  "Uh, yeah. Thanks." I glanced down at the beer. "So, you've got a fake ID?"

  "Nah." He grinned. "I've got Jake's."

  I laughed. "Won't he need it?"

  "Not tonight, he won't."

  "So, the other guy, was he…?"

  "Yeah." His voice was flat. "My dad."

  I winced. "I'm getting way too personal, aren't I?"

  "That depends," he said.

  "On what?"

  "On what you're willing to tell me in return."

  "What do you want to know?"

  "You decide."

  His voice did funny things to my insides. Breathlessly, I stumbled through an introduction that seemed long overdue.

  I was maybe halfway through the highlights – normal things, like my full name, the fact I'd just graduated from high school, stuff about siblings and favorite school subjects – when it suddenly occurred to me that I was totally rambling.

  I clamped my lips shut and looked away.

  "Why'd you stop?" he said.

  I forced out a laugh. "Because, if I keep on talking, I'll put you to sleep."

  "Do I look sleepy?" he said.

  I turned to study him. "No," I admitted. "But you should be sleepy. I've been rambling for like ten minutes."

  "What makes you think I wouldn't want to hear?"

  I gave it some thought. I was the family oddball – the bookworm, the schoolgirl, the one with dreams that didn't involve living my whole life in the city of my birth.

  I hated the cold, and spent way too much time longing to be someplace else. I loved my family, and I loved my hometown. But as long as I could remember, I'd always been a little out of step compared to everyone else I knew.

  But Bishop wouldn't want to hear any of this. And I couldn't exactly blame him.

  So, as an answer, I tilted my chin upward. My lips parted, and my eyes drifted shut. If he didn't kiss me now, I'd die of embarrassment.

  And then, as if answering my prayers, I felt his lips brush mine – not so much a kiss as the promise of a kiss. I pulled away and found him studying me, like some foreign specimen he couldn't place.

  "What's wrong?" I said.

  "I've been asking about you," he said.

  "Really?" For a half-second, I was insanely flattered. But then I recalled why he'd be asking, and it wasn't exactly flattering. "Oh. Because of the police thing?"

  When he didn't respond, I launched into a long, convoluted explanation. I told him everything – how Crystal had borrowed the money, how I'd jumped to all the wrong conclusions, and how I'd been searching for him ever since.

  A slow smile spread across his face. "Yeah? And what were you gonna do when you found me?"

  Something in his voice made my stomach flutter. There were things I thought about doing. Some of those things, I hadn't done before. I gave him a sideways glance. He looked like he'd done plenty.

  His voice broke into my thoughts. "That good, huh?"

  I jerked back to attention. "What? Oh. Sorry." I cleared my throat. "Actually, I wanted to tell you something."

  As I watched, his eyes became wary.

  "Nothing bad," I assured him. "Just an apology."

  "Forget it." His posture, so relaxed a moment earlier, became oddly rigid. He flicked his gaze over my shoulder toward the parking lot, where we'd left his bike. "Ready to go?" he asked.

  I glanced down at my beer. It was still full. I glanced at his beer. It was still unopened. I glanced at his face and saw the face of a stranger – a stranger with a hard jaw and cold eyes.

  Okay, so my apology was sounding lame, but I wasn't done yet. "Sure. But let me finish first, okay?"

  If he heard me, he gave no indication.

  "About the police thing," I said in a rush. "I really am sorry. That night, you were really nice to me. More than nice, actually. And I know I caused you all kinds of trouble, and–"

  That's when I heard a female voice somewhere behind me say, "You want trouble, bitch? I'll show you trouble."

  Chapter 26

  I turned my head toward the sound of the voice. Looming above us, I saw a tall girl with long, black hair and a kill
er body. She wore black skinny-jeans, a skimpy black top, and loads of silver jewelry.

  She studied me with undisguised malice. "Who are you?" she said.

  I craned my neck for a better look. "Uh, I dunno."

  She made a sound of derision. "You don’t even know your own name?"

  Behind me, I heard Bishop's voice, low and cool with the barest hint of an edge. "This is a private conversation, Cat."

  "Well, that's just fuckin' great." Cat said. She flicked me a dismissive glance. "So she's the reason you've been scarce lately?"

  "No," he said. "I've been scarce, because you're a bitch."

  Surprised, I turned to look at Bishop. Okay, that girl had called me a bitch, so she might have had that coming. But still, his comment made me uneasy.

  She threw back her shoulders. "Oh yeah? Well, I'm your bitch, and don't you forget it."

  His cool gaze rested on the girl who loomed above us. His voice was eerily calm as he said, "I said you were a bitch. Not my bitch."

  Oh my God. Who was this guy?

  She snorted. "Sorry Bish. If you think I'm going anywhere, you can kiss my hot, sweet ass."

  I couldn't quite see her ass, but judging from the rest of her, it probably was pretty darn nice.

  I glanced at Bishop. His face showed no emotion. No disgust, no interest. Nothing.

  My face burning, I tried to make sense of everything. The girl was a lot older than I was, five years at least. Suddenly, I felt very young and very foolish. To think, I'd been pining for a guy who was taken. By a psycho.

  I turned to stare up at her. She wasn't just a psycho. She was a psycho with a hot, sweet ass and – oh my God – was that Bishop's name tattooed just above her right boob?

  Holy crap. It was. I might have noticed it sooner, except her hair must've been covering it. I squinted up for a better look. The tattoo was small and surrounded by pale pink roses, or maybe those were lotuses.

  Her gaze suddenly whipped in my direction. "See something you like, bitch?"

  I heard myself ask, "Uh, are those roses?"

  "Where?"

  "On your boob."

  She tucked her chin to look down. "What are you? Fuckin' stupid? They're butterflies."