Scorpio
Lauren Landish
Edited by Valorie Clifton
Edited by Staci Etheridge
Photography by Wander Aguiar
To the most important Scorpio in my life. I love you baby girl, forever and always.
Contents
Scorpio
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Epilogue
Epilogue
Matchmaker
Motorhead
Coming Soon!
About the Author
Scorpio
by Lauren Landish
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Your heart shall be his, then will come the sting. You will suffer . . . and then you shall burn.
The words chill me to the bone. That’s my fate. At least, that’s what the fortune teller says.
Destiny, horoscopes… who believes in that? I sure don’t. I make my own future, thank you very much.
But when I meet Scott Danger, the words come back to haunt me. His name even comes with a warning label. Handsome, rich, and sexier than any man should be, he’s pursuing me hard and fast. Little ol' me, a bartender with a penchant for makeup and old country music.
He’s dominant and seductive, a predator caged in gilded threads, and I want to run just so he’ll chase me . . . catch me . . . take me. Shit. I’m in so much trouble, but I think I like it.
Still, those eerie words… do I tempt fate?
Prologue
Madison
Love. From the dawn of time, it’s been with us, our silent companion weaving through the millennia.
It seems strange that such a simple word, four small letters, can play such a role in our lives, our past and our future.
Wars have started over it. Men and women have fought and died for it. We have holidays dedicated to it, and we spend billions of dollars when it blooms . . . and billions more when it dies.
There are some who say that love is fated, that forces beyond our control somehow whisper in our daily lives, guiding us this way and that like the wind propels a sailboat. We can steer against them sometimes, but if you fight the winds long enough, karmic laws of nature pretty much dictate that a hurricane’s going to come around and wreck you.
To avoid those storms, to avoid being pummeled against the rocks of life, you have to listen to the whispers and let them guide your future along its predestined path, smoothly, beautifully, and in its own time. They say that the winds of fate can be measured, that you’ll have clues before you meet that someone who’s supposed to be your soulmate. That somehow, some collection of the stars, planets, and maybe your own handprint can reveal your happily ever after.
Tell that to Romeo and Juliet. Star-crossed lovers? If that were true, maybe those twinkly lights could’ve foretold their futures a little more clearly and they could have avoided the whole deadly mix-up. That surely would’ve been a better happily ever after for those poor kids.
Nope. To me, horoscopes, fortunetelling, and predicting the future are baloney. I get it. Life is overwhelming, and it’s a comfort to believe there’s some magical plan or a greater power controlling things. To hope that even in our darkest days, there’s a reason, a lesson, a brighter destiny just around the corner . . . if we could just figure out how to take advantage of the winds of fate to get there.
But you want to know what reality is? Reality is the old saying that if you sow the wind, you reap the whirlwind. You can’t control it. You can’t predict it. You just hang on and try to ride it out. And when love jumps in your path, it might not be sweet and pleasant. It might attack and smack you in the face. And even in that moment of jaw-dropping shock, you know there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.
Chapter 1
Madison
Daily Horoscope, September 19th
Libra - Saturn in retrograde means that caution is necessary. Trouble will find you, even when you’re not looking for it.
“You know what you need to break you out of your slump?” Tiffany chirps from the passenger seat of the beat-up Toyota Corolla we share to carpool to work. I turn down the loud, vengeful Carrie Underwood song blasting through the radio and look at my best friend and roommate, already dreading her suggestion. “A psychic reading!”
“Oh, hell no!” I say laughingly, shaking my head to reiterate my point. The wind through the open windows ruffles my honey-blonde locks, sending them whipping around my face, further illustrating my ‘no’. We already have a tradition of Tiffany reading our daily horoscopes aloud every morning, so her suggestion isn’t completely out of left field. I don’t know if she’s a true believer or not, but the morning readings are usually in good fun, leading to laughter and attempts at straight-faced concern for ‘our future’, as Tiff usually says in a faux-spooky voice.
Except for the ones like this morning, something about trouble finding me. Uh, news flash, stars. Trouble already found me, and I kicked its ass to the curb like a boss. Well, okay, not like a boss, more like a freaked-out kitten scrambling to get away. But I fucking did it, and that’s what counts. So thanks for the warning, dear horoscope, but you’re a day late and a dollar short this time. Typical. Would’ve been a great caution notice months ago.
After enduring almost a year of progressively worsening hell at the hands of a prick whose name I refuse to even think, I have my good days more frequently now. Those days where I’m all ‘I am woman, hear me roar!’ and the idea of kicking ass and taking names is just natural.
Then I have my less frequent bad days, crying over stupid shit like our song on the radio or getting angry and being this close to banging on his door to give him a piece of my mind.
Both the good and the bad days are better than the rare dangerous days, though. Those are where I feel so alone that it seems like going back to that asshole, or an asshole like him, wouldn’t be all that bad. That’s when Tiffany usually jumps in to save me from my own bad ideas with pizza, happy hours, or root beer floats.
Luckily for me, today happens to be one of the good days, which is why I don’t immediately open a can of whoop ass on Tiffany for her wacky idea.
“You know I’ve never believed in that shit!”
From the passenger seat, Tiffany stops fiddling with her lipstick long enough to glare at me in exasperation. For the past twenty minutes, she’s been incessantly nagging me about getting on with my love life, a ritual she’s picked up ever since she thought I was okay enough to move on. Her advice to get over the last man is usually to get under another, at least for the night.
I get it. Tiffany’s the sort of girl who lets everything roll off her like water down a duck’s back, but these things take time.
“Don’t let one loser mess up your outlook on men for the rest of your lif
e. Girl, there are plenty of fish in the sea, and you only need to catch one big one who will treat you right to see that they’re not all the same. To do that, you gotta keep your hook in the water, reel them in, and give them a look-see to decide if they’re a keeper or a toss-back-er.” She mimes like she’s pulling in a big fish on a line, as if she’s ever held a fishing pole in her life.
This coming from a chick whose last boyfriend left her in the pouring rain on the side of a back-country road after a two-minute session of heated passion. Apparently, he’d kicked her out and told her to walk her “stupid ass” home after she complained about his being a two-pump chump and took matters into her own hands to have an orgasm. Some men think that’s hot. He apparently didn’t. Though that might’ve been because Tiffany told him to “watch and learn a thing or ten about how to get a woman off.” The implication of his lack of prowess was a bit too much for his ego.
Of course, Tiffany’s got all the luck, and the fucker was pulled over by the cops a few miles later. He’d gotten mouthy with the wrong cop and got thrown in jail for a cool-down period. Best part? He called Tiffany with his one phone call and she hung up on him.
So she doesn’t have the best track record with successful relationships, but that doesn’t stop her from doling out sage advice to me. She usually tells me there’s no harm in looking for Mr. Right and Mr. Right Now at the same time. But today, it’s a different pep talk, so maybe she’s got that going for her.
“What harm could a little psychic reading do?” she asks in her country-girl accent that makes my twang look downright cultured, turning her attention back to the makeup mirror in the sun visor. She rubs her finger along her bottom lip, trying to get the look of her bright red lipstick just right. “You could use a good reading in your life right now . . . pun intended.”
I toss her a quick ‘don’t go there’ look and get a mischievous ruby red smile in return. Just my opinion, but I think Tiff needs to lay off a bit on the makeup. She’s pretty without out it, with her raven-black hair, luminous eyes, and pale porcelain skin, but I don’t bother saying so since I’m basically a walking billboard for L’Oréal and Estée Lauder.
Honestly, I wear heavy makeup for two reasons. Okay, I’m lying, maybe three.
One, Dolly Parton is my idol. Growing up with a cantankerous aunt as my only mother figure, I would often steal her Dolly records and listen to them for hours while studying the album covers. Sure, she was a bit old-fashioned even when I was a kid, but it didn’t matter. She looked awesome, this weird mix of cheap and classy at the same time. Dolly always pulled it off, no matter what, and owned her backwoods roots with no apologies. And so I modeled my look—hell my attitude—after her. Big hair, big lashes, big . . . well, maybe not her whole look, but I did what I could with what Mother Nature and Victoria’s Secret gave me.
Two, I’m a bartender and it kind of comes with the territory. You want to look your best every day for your customers, especially when most of your tipping clientele are men. The dim lighting of a bar requires a heavy hand since it doesn’t exactly lend itself to subtle barely-there natural looks. I need the extra volume of lashes to bat, the red lips to pucker, and the powder to look flawless as I work my ass off.
And three, I feel more confident with a layer of foundation on my face. I’m not sure why, but a part of me feels like it puts a barrier between me and whoever I meet . . . especially the men. I’m more comfortable when they see me but don’t see the real me, if that makes sense. So I never leave the house without my makeup.
It’s a habit that’s been impossible to break ever since . . .
Angrily, I steer my thoughts away from that mental trip down memory lane and press the gas as we pass a speed limit sign that says seventy, letting the hum of my engine act as a poor substitute for my mood. It’s times like these I wish I had something with a little more muscle . . . something that rumbled and screamed when I revved it up.
“Hey!” Tiffany presses. “Stop ignoring me! It could be fun, even if you don’t believe in it.”
“I’m not hearing you,” I reply, pushing the gas just a little more. “Besides, we don’t have time. Our shift starts in an hour. Stella will have our asses if we show up late.”
A slight smile plays across my lips as I think about Stella, our boss and owner of the restaurant and bar where we both work. A hard-working woman in her mid-fifties, she’s been like a mother to me ever since I went out on my own.
Tiff smudges her lips together and then lets them go with an audible pop. “Girl, please. You know those boys want to get their beers and whiskey from us. Stella wouldn’t know what to do without us. You need to live a little, loosen up, and have a little fun. Seriously, let’s do it!”
I grip the steering wheel tightly and feel an old, familiar ache in both of my wrists like a ghost as on the radio, Carrie wails about a cheating bastard who's going to get his just desserts. “I don’t know if I consider that fun. I’m just not into being told I’m going to die in seven days like that movie The Ring.”
Tiff huffs out a laugh and waves my comment away. “You’re not dying before me. Unless I kill you, of course. Which I might end up doing . . . sooner rather than later, if you keep being so stubborn.”
I tap the brake a little, causing Tiff to jerk forward. Her tube of lipstick falls to the floor and I grin faux-evilly at her.
“You bitch!” she yells, stretching her seatbelt so she can bend forward to retrieve it. She has to grunt as she finally snags it, giving me a death stare.
“That will teach you to threaten me.” My smile fades as quickly as it came as I apologize. “Sorry, did that a little harder than I intended.” I giggle.
Tiff is still set in her mission, brandishing the tube of lipstick like it’s a weapon. The bright red is only inches away from my perfectly contoured cheek. “An hour is more than enough time. Probably won’t take but twenty minutes.” She gives up on dotting me with the expensive and hard to remove lipstick, but she continues her plea. “And don’t be so quick to dismiss it. My Aunt Nelda went to one. And every word turned out to be true.”
“Seriously?” I ask incredulously. I can’t help but laugh, thinking about Tiffany’s aunt and all her crazy antics and quirks. “Your aunt doesn’t help your case at all! That lady scares me.”
Tiff snorts, laughing right along with me. “I can’t argue with that, but still . . . the story is true. They’ll probably just tell you that your dreams and aspirations are right around the corner if you keep working hard, which you know, obviously. It’s just reaffirming, but you need to hear if from someone other than me.” She shakes her head and starts in on her customary rant that I’ve heard at least a thousand times in the past few months. “You’ve got to start living again! Besides our shifts at Stella’s, you never go out anymore and always have some excuse. Ever since Rich . . .” Her voice trails off and she bites her lower lip as a burning sensation forms in my throat.
I cough, an uncomfortable silence filling the cabin. The only sound is country music pouring from my speakers and the rush of wind past the windows. But even in that din of noise, the silence is palpable. I have to force myself to stare out the front windshield as we head down the highway.
“I’m sorry, Maddie,” Tiff says softly, quickly. “I didn’t mean—” She stops as she sees my expression.
For a moment, my throat tightens and I can’t breathe. I count the white stripes of the road as they whiz by . . . one, two, three, four. Luckily, the panic passes quickly. I’m doing better. This time.
Damn it, and today started off so well.
I keep my eyes on the road, my expression neutral even though I’m angry. At Tiff for mentioning him, at myself for giving a fuck, and at him, of course. For everything.
I can’t get this worked up every time I hear his name, dammit! “It’s okay. Just please . . . don’t mention him again, ‘kay?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tiffany stare at me for a long moment. “Sorry. I won’t . . .”
she says and trails off. I see the look in her eyes. She is sorry, but there’s more. Hope. She wants better for me and somehow hopes that she can help me find it and my old happy self again. “Maddie, I just think this could be good for you, something exciting and different.”
She’s still set on doing this reading thing. I open my mouth to refuse one last time, but I relent, thinking to myself, What’s the worst that could happen? It’s just a bit of cheesy fun to take my mind off everything.
“Swear that you’ll never ask me to do this again. And that you’ll accept that I’ll date when I’m good and ready,” I say.
Placing her hand over her heart, Tiffany nods. “I, Tiffany Donna Meyers, swear on my sweet little innocent unborn babies that you won’t hear another word out of my sexy ass . . . and by the way, if you’re wondering, the palm reading shop is on Third Street, directly on the way to Stella’s.”
I laugh and shake my head as I switch into the right lane and make my way to the nearest exit.
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