by Kat Turner
Helen might have enough flaws to fill a clown car, but she was nothing if not assertive. Brian noticed one of her positive traits, too, picked up on it with incisiveness. His acknowledgment of one of her good qualities became fuel.
She walked around the back of the vehicular food stand. Sure enough, there stood Mr. Sideburns, stuffing a soft taco in his face and hunched over his phone like a shifty ghoul.
Though nervous energy sprinted through her body in spurts, Helen stood tall. The best course of action involved exploiting the anxiety Mr. Sideburns had done a subpar job of masking.
She took a chance on a big bluff, “Excuse me. You stole something of mine. A clear crystal.”
He yelped, jumping and coughing. “Fucking hell, don’t sneak up on me.” Mr. Sideburns hung up and stuck his phone in a holster clipped to his belt. He curled one corner of his upper lip and slid a beady-eyed leer over Helen’s figure, gaze settling on her breasts. “You again. Shouldn’t you be on your knees somewhere, keeping my roadies happy?”
Helen groaned. Like she hadn’t weathered far worse harassment and abuse working as a stripper. “Weak. As you know, I’m immune to slut-shaming, so you’ll need to broaden your repertoire. Now hand over my stuff.”
Mr. Sideburns threw away his trash and unclipped his phone. Smirking, he used a single finger to punch a key in slow-motion.
“Congratulations. You can use speed dial like a big boy. Cough up my property.” She stuck out an open palm, balling her other hand into a fist with her thumb on the outside. If threatened, she could bust out her self-defense skills on this douche. Rough him up a bit and search his pockets.
He snorted and scratched his stomach. “Coupla yellow jackets are gonna be here any second, so you have two choices. Leave with what remains of your dignity intact, or hang around and wait for my boys to toss you out on your fat ass.”
Oh, hell no. He did not just insult her bootylicious curves. Celebrities paid big bucks for a superbutt like Helen’s. This freaking guy and his issues with women could get bent. “Fuck off—”
“We have a problem here, Mr. Clyde?” a man with a voice like a peach pit in the garbage disposal interrupted.
Two hulks, the word “security” written on neon yellow shirts stretched across barrel chests, joined Helen and Mr. Sideburns. Equipment belts slung low on their hips showed off handcuffs and Tasers. Ah, right. Yellow jackets, right down to their stingers.
The snidest of smug victory smirks bent Mr. Sideburns’s lips. “Nah. Some psycho slut of Shepherd’s, begging to do everything under the sun for a shot at getting to him. Swear to God, man, the girls get crazier every year.”
“We good, miss? Moving along?” Speaking in a thick Russian accent, the other security man patted his baton. Three bruise-blue teardrops tattooed on the outer corner of one eye bragged of murders committed.
Helen mad-dogged Joe. “I’m not dropping this.”
“We better get to the airport, Mr. Clyde. Last flight to Cheyenne leaves soon.” The graying Sasquatch with the ruined voice led Sideburns away. The Russian followed.
“I’m not dropping this. Watch me. I’ll get my crystal back and stop whatever the hell—”
“Quiet, honey. Men are speaking.” Mr. Sideburns delivered the parting shot over his shoulder while bodyguards whisked him to a nondescript sedan in the parking lot.
Epic fail. Helen was racking up a fair number of those. She resumed casing the fairgrounds for Lisa. Her best friend wasn’t mad enough to ditch.
After ten or so minutes of navigating a moving tide of people, she spotted her friend’s black bob of hair and cat-eye glasses the color of jade. Picking at a taco wrapped in paper, Lisa sat on a bench by a prize booth and watched a trio of teenage girls blast rubber ducks with plastic water rifles.
The ever-present kaleidoscope of carnival lights ignited blue-black darkness, a frenzy of canary and magenta excitement flickering over Lisa’s unsmiling mouth and vacant gaze in burst after incongruous burst.
Helen sat beside Lisa on the bench, internally cringing at the sight of Lisa’s frown and distracted, unenthusiastic eating.
“Sorry to leave you hanging. I thought you’d be up for meeting the Fyre guys. Miscalculation on my part.” Before Helen could squash it, an awkward laugh bubbled out of her. A cruddy, spreading feeling followed, thick and greasy as motor oil. This was not going to go well.
Lisa tore off a sliver of soft tortilla and fed it to a loitering sparrow. “Yeah, well, there have been quite a few misfires lately, huh?”
The ambitious bird struggled to gulp down its outsized meal. Helen entertained the notion of making a joke about it and nixed the idea. The friends weren’t good yet, not by a long shot, and clowning wouldn’t solve the problem. It almost never did. No choice but to adult up and show accountability.
“I’m aware that we’re living this nightmare because of me. And I’m asking you to believe and trust me when I say I’m taking steps to fix the damage.”
Lisa scowled like the mere sight of Helen hurt her eyes. She gave a slight shake of her head and set her meal on the bench. “Then why did you dangle that bait about good news and not deliver? I’m mostly exhausted, though now I’m kind of worried.”
Enough stalling. Lisa would react to the truth however she’d react, and Helen couldn’t do jack to control her friend’s response. “You know the lady who all the pagans love?”
“The wicked fake witch of the upper Midwest? What’s she got to do with us?”
A bearish impulse, unusual in its maternal nature, surged in Helen. Nerissa was the only person with faith in her at the moment, and she didn’t deserve to be made into the butt of jokes.
“Don’t make fun of her.”
Lisa sent a frosty appraisal over Helen’s face and parted her lips. She smacked her forehead. “You got conned into another scam, didn’t you? Unbelievable. Unreal.”
The words were shards of glass in Helen’s ears, sharp and cutting, though brittle in their fragility. Lisa was hurting, too, and when wounded she lashed out. This common, shared trait added a complicated dimension to their kinship.
“I didn’t get conned.”
Not this time, though Lisa’s evocation of the blunder made heat rise up Helen’s neck. She touched her cheek and turned away from an incriminating look she wished carried more shock and disbelief. But no, Lisa expected a second imbroglio.
At the women’s sandaled feet, the happy little bird fluttered in dust, chirping as brown feathers puffed and flapped. Helen envied the bird’s lightness and unfettered joy.
“Whatever. At the very least, please don’t tell me you paid her with what remains of our money.” Lisa’s tone quaked while she tossed more scraps to the sparrow.
“I didn’t pay her a cent. If that’s what you care about, you can stop worrying.” Helen swallowed a dose of shame, though she couldn’t blame Lisa.
Her friend managed to escape a dead-end, trailer park life and get into college thanks to genius playing of the stock market. And now Lisa had to watch as the money that brought her salvation, the money she’d invested in yoga teacher training and later her half of L&E, vanished into the belly of an insatiable beast they called “bills.”
“But you went to her, right? Saw her for some kind of spiritual consultation?” Lisa put quotes around the word spiritual, doing zilch to couch her disdain.
Helen peeled off a sizable sheet of nail polish. Lisa’s sarcasm hadn’t helped lessen her grief and humiliation one damn bit. Not that Lisa had any obligation to ease Helen’s feelings.
And following the original disaster, no wonder Lisa had an ax to grind with all things esoteric or spiritual.
“Yes. I met with her. But it’s not like before, I swear. This is real, Lisa. She is real. An authentic witch. I saw things with my own eyes. Heard them. I tapped into forces over there. Ancient and powerful energies. Magic. I’m asking you to try one more time. One more chance.”
Lisa stroked Helen’s upper arm. “I’m trying to
be empathetic and open minded and reasonable. On your behalf. I love you, but you need to start using critical thinking. You have this beautiful, pure thing inside of you, this part of you that wants to believe in things like magic. But it makes you susceptible. Vulnerable. I wonder if you’re so anxious to secure stability that you think you have to do these over-the-top things to get security. Gurus. Witches. But you don’t have to cast a magic spell to make a lasting home, Helen. You just have to figure out how to build that environment through love. You aren’t fighting your way through the foster system anymore.”
Bracing her elbows on her thighs, Helen slumped forward so far her hair fell in her face. She shrugged off her friend’s patronizing touch.
“I’m aware.” The words ejected from Helen’s lips like bad food, some ugliness she didn’t care to examine festering under her skin.
“I’m not sure you are. Because I don’t feel like you learned a lesson.”
“Message received. You think I’m stupid.” A whole-body hurt overcame Helen. After hearing “stupid” shrieked in her ears for years, even uttering the insult herself stepped on a trigger.
Civilizations rose and fell in the crushing pause that followed. Wobbling water pooled in Helen’s eyes. Searing ripples of scarlet fury scorched away her heartache. Fuck this. Fuck Lisa and L&E and the crystals and Joe.
Helen forced herself to breathe mindful, meditative breaths. Her anger could be toxic and destructive, and she didn’t plan to burn her life to the ground yet.
“No, I don’t think you are stupid.” Lisa’s careful inflection cut even deeper than if she’d replied in the affirmative. She’d considered her answer, figured out how to package and hazard a palatable response. Bully for her and her adroit skills of diplomacy.
“But? Say what you mean. Say it to my face.”
“Fine. All of this talk of witches and magic does make you look naïve, and you have potential to see through this crap. Granted, the charlatan stuff was understandable, given what you went through. But it’s a fool-me-once kind of thing. And now it sounds like it’s happening again, and I wonder why. I wonder if you’ve got this notion in your head that the world is senseless, so you need to do senseless things for survival.”
Lisa danced near some truths. The swindler who’d stolen their bank account numbers and cleaned them out before falling off of the grid bore a striking resemblance to Helen’s dead father.
But to Helen’s credit, before hiring the supposed guru to lead workshops designed to take already-struggling L&E to the next level of spiritual and financial success, she’d subjected him to what she thought was rigorous vetting. Not rigorous enough. Never good enough.
Perhaps she’d succumbed to some self-defeating tendency to get duped by a powerful, charismatic man promising her the safety she craved.
“You’re right, as always. I was an idiot to trust him.”
“You have more than a modicum of awareness. Great. So why are you falling for another snake oil scam?”
“I told you. This time is different.”
Another painful moment of silence stretched the space between the friends.
“What age did your mother have her first psychotic break?” Lisa used a clinical voice, a new voice, and Helen detested it.
Helen snorted, though Lisa’s points came off intelligent and sane and scientifically ordered. Like pinned, categorized, and labeled butterflies.
Scrabbling for the shreds of her pride, Helen sat up straight instead of slinking back in shamefaced retreat. All she could do was own her new identity. “My mom’s issues don’t matter. I’m not stupid or crazy, I’m a witch. And I’m going to prove to you that magic is real. I’ll show you I can use witchcraft to help us.”
Two passing fair patrons, encumbered by behemoths of inflatable pink bunnies, swiveled their necks to stare. Helen ignored them. She needed to stay on track and yank out all weeds of doubt. Plus, she had Brian to think about now. Nobody saved her from the foster system, but she could use her gifts to save someone in need.
“At what age did your mom have her first psychotic break?” It came in that goddamn medical tone again, detached and superior.
The age I am right now. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Come on, sweetie. Facts do matter.”
“Stop. I’m not a child or a fool.”
“So quit acting like both.”
“You’re being cynical, even for you.”
Lisa scratched her head and huffed, like the entire conversation was some burdensome drag far beneath her great big brain. “I’m not cynical, I’m right. The nice thing about facts is they stay real whether you believe in them or not.”
Unable to meet Lisa’s condescending face, Helen trained her gaze on a random target, in this case a toddler eating popcorn off the ground when his parents weren’t looking. She was done. Done feeling dismissed, unheard.
Somebody needed to give her a shot, some encouragement.
“You know what, Lis? Spare me the quotes from your Neil deGrasse Tyson meme collection. I believe in what I experienced. I know my experiences don’t align with your worldview, but that doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”
“It’s like I’m trying to show you two plus two equals four, and you’re insisting the equation adds up to potato.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should open your mind to the possibility that realities exist outside of the scientific method. Potato, po-tah-to.”
“Nope. I’m out. Don’t call or text me again until you’re ready to listen to reason. I’m going to go home and rest so I can face our bankruptcy lawyer with some degree of dignity tomorrow.” Lisa sprang to her feet, snatched up her leftovers, and stalked off into the masses of people.
“I can go with you to talk to the lawyer. Don’t play the martyr. It’s a bad look.”
Lisa said nothing and blended into the crowd.
Talk about best laid plans going splat. Before she could degenerate into self-pity, Helen got out her bag of crystals and shook the contents into her palm. Lisa would come around or she wouldn’t, but in the mean time Helen had to figure out a solution to the supernatural debacle.
With an index finger, she sifted through the colorful chunks in her cupped hand. Fourteen total, two for each color of the rainbow.
Interesting, how the even number of tokens divided into two sets. Did the balance have to do with the Right Hand and Left Hand paths? What did the clear ones represent? The colors of the crystals aligned with the colors of the chakra wheels, energetic disks that yogis believed ran up the spine. An opportunity to explore color magic, maybe.
Lots of uncertainty in the mix right now, but one witchy person in particular could offer answers. Helen re-bagged the minerals and rose from the bench.
“We need to talk.” The stern, English male timbre snapped Helen out of her thoughts. “I’m hoping you’ll be able to offer an explanation for what I found on my tour bus.”
Five
Alone on the bus’s granite island, the second crystal resembled a several-carat cubic zirconia on a black sand beach. The rest of the tour bus lobby, from a leather couch to the subtle scents of lemon and bleach, projected order and tidiness in lieu of rocker debauchery.
Helen treated herself to a taste of enjoyment in the violation of her expectations. Not a bong or a groupie bra in sight.
Brian turned to her, eyes a touch hooded and one corner of his mouth quirked in a curious expression. “What?”
“I didn’t say a word.”
He took a step closer, tapping an index finger twice on the island. The gesture stirred excitement in her, the deliberate manner of his touch a subtle act of flirtation the weird context failed to repress or squash. The air flexed as unseen but potent masculine power insisted its way out out Brian. Awareness flickered under her bra cups.
Details of him rose to her perceptual surface. Jeans worn to a comfy, faded blue hugged the sculpted planes of his thighs. On a more intangible level, he carried himself in a way that was neith
er casual nor tense. Brian moved with grace suited to a dancer. Self-aware without being self-conscious. Dignified. Regal. Artistic.
“You giggled.” His rumbling cadence lilted as he delivered the faux accusation.
“I did not.” Okay, she’d made a slight peep that could be interpreted as edging into the vicinity of a chortle.
“What’s on your mind? Tell me.” He dashed a look over her face in a hesitant flick, like a lost part of him reached for a forgotten memory of how to desire.
Helen ran fingertips over the cool, smooth surface speckled like a robin’s egg, aware that Brian was watching her hands and enjoying the feel of his gaze. “Your bus is so clean and neat. I guessed I’ve watched too many trashy documentaries, because I assumed a rock band’s tour bus would be all cocaine and blowjobs.”
In a moment as sudden as it was inappropriate, Helen became aware that Brian was a man with biology like any other. He got hard and shot his seed. Did he swear or moan while he came? A hazy fantasy of his stiffness in her mouth drifted through her mind. In her scenario, he tasted as pleasing as he smelled, healthy and clean.
A big part of his allure involved how much he left to the imagination. An aura of propriety swirled around him, a primness that begged her imagination to picture him reduced to a grunting mess of lust.
Oddly enough, nothing about his upright personality was incongruous with his life station. Brian was no oversexed party animal who got lucky, shoving a groupie off of him in time to run on stage and stagger through a show drunk with a needle hanging from his arm.
Nope, she’d wager he conquered the music industry by sheer force of will, achieving his meteoric rise thanks to peerless focus, determination, and drive to succeed. What was going on with her all of a sudden? Male power had never worked on her as an aphrodisiac before, quite the opposite until now.