Hush Money (Talent Chronicles)

by Susan Bischoff

  A car horn made us both jump, and we saw Eric’s car bouncing across the dirt. That explained how Dylan had found us. And if they’d started looking where Eric had dropped us before, he would have had to drive all the way around the trees that bordered the southern side of the site. The car braked and Kat jumped out, stumbled, and caught herself on the door. Then she hurried, a bit more carefully, toward us.

  “Oh my God, is she ok?”

  At that point I think I was more likely to die from embarrassment and confusion than from any injury.

  “I’m fine. Worry about Rambo here. He’s the one who came racing to my rescue and beat on Marco until he went home in tears.”

  Dylan snorted. “That’s not exactly how it happened. And we theorize he was going easy on me.”

  Kat looked from me to Dylan and back, her eyes narrowed.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “we were trying to decide if Joss has a concussion and should go to the hospital. I vote hospital.”

  “Seconded!” by Kat.

  “Vetoed,” by me. “Look, guys. You know I can’t do that. My dad…”

  “Hey, here’s your shoe,” Eric said, joining us. “Joss, how many shoes am I holding up?”

  “One sorry excuse for footwear that almost got this girl killed. I knew those things were dangerous. Let me up.”

  “This is probably the point where we berate you for your idiot plan that you didn’t us tell about,” Dylan said, more or less lifting me to my feet. The world grayed a little, but then things brightened up again.

  “Save it for later. Please.”

  “I still think you should go to the hospital.”

  “Here Joss, take this.” Eric grabbed my hand and slapped a cell phone into it. “We’ll take her home, she’ll go to bed, and you can call her every hour to make sure she knows her name and who’s President or whatever. That’s what they do in the hospital anyway, right?”

  “I guess the opportunity to berate you hourly will give me some satisfaction.”

  I have to admit that I was pretty overwhelmed at this point. Kat had the video that was going to protect us from any more of Marco’s threats. My sister’s secret was safe, and with it, my dad’s sanity. I’d gone up against my own kind, Talent y Talent, so to speak. I’d picked one who was meaner and stronger than I was and had managed to come out the other side.

  Ok, so I’d gotten involved with people and it almost ended in disaster. I’d used my Talent in front of others twice now and it almost ended in disaster. But it didn’t. I’d made things better. Using my ability had helped save Phil, Kat, my sister…

  And Dylan had kissed me, which I wasn’t even going to let myself contemplate for a while.

  All that would have been enough, but there was something in particular that was really blowing my mind when Kat hugged me as we made our way through the construction dust to Eric’s car.

  I was among friends.

  I felt like they were, and more, that I wanted them to be. I was still nervous, unsure and unused to it. But that day I knew that I wanted people in my life, and it didn’t matter if that would obligate me to help them because maybe I wanted that too. Maybe I wanted to save the world, I don’t know. Maybe I was high on victory. Maybe it was just the endorphins doing my thinking.

  I slid into the car and Dylan slid in next to me. Closer than he needed to so that it would be so easy to lean my aching head against his shoulder. I let it fall back instead, unsure of how to act. We were all tired. I had serious mixed feelings at the thought of a phone vibrating under my pillow every hour all night, even if he would be on the other end of it.

  “You don’t really need to call me. It’s nice of you to offer, but I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m calling you.”

  “No, really. Don’t.”

  “Joss, you might have just stopped Marco and saved me from a life of crime,” he said, easing his arm around me so my head rested on his shoulder, “and don’t think I don’t appreciate it but . . .

  “You are so not the boss of me.”

  The End

  About the Talents

  The world of the Talent Chronicles was born out of my love of both superheroes and romance. I’ve always been drawn to the characters whose supernatural abilities set them apart from everyone else. Some are loved by all and known by none, some are woefully misunderstood and mistreated by those they serve. Traditionally, the life of the super-powered being seems to be one destined for loneliness, and yet so deserving of a happily ever after.

  That’s what I wanted to give them, and that’s how the world of the Talent Chronicles came into being.

  Hush Money is the first story to be completed in their world. A second story, tentatively titled Heroes ’Til Curfew, is currently in the works. I hope you’ll join me in their future adventures. For up-to-date release and contact information, please visit me at http://susan-bischoff.com

  Acknowledgements

  The author wishes to give a grateful shout-out to the following people:

  To Kait Nolan, fantastic writer, dearest friend, and invaluable partner in crime, for brainstorming, cajoling, editing, finding Joss’s face, hand-holding, honesty, fight scene choreography, technical and emotional support, and…I could go on all day. Thanks for being absolutely the best critique partner anyone could ask for. You are THE person who made this book possible.

  To Zoe Winters (Zoe Who?), for inspiration, answers to a million questions, outrageous laughs, beta reading, and did I mention inspiration? Thanks for being your kick-ass self, bitches.

  To Amanda, Victoria, Megan, Valerie, Alex, Christel, Brandi, Heather, and Mom for beta reading, enthusiasm, and typo-corrections.

  To Robin Ludwig, Robin Ludwig Design Inc., for stepping in and putting together a wonderful cover for me, very quickly. Thanks for all your attention and beautiful work.

  To my daughter, Briar Rose, for putting up with my divided attention or lack thereof. And to my parents, for occasionally entertaining her so I could write.

  To my husband, Les, for being the kind of guy all my heroes aspire to be, and for putting up with a lot. Trust me, a lot.

  And lastly, to Mr. Stokas, my favorite teacher ever, for telling me to write.

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  An excerpt from

  Glimpse

  By Stacey Wallace Benefiel

  Chapter One

  I stared at the back of Avery Adams head, imagining what it would feel like to press my face into his wavy brown hair. I longed to experience the exhilaration of running my fingertips over his broad shoulders and down his chest, of standing that close to him, feeling the heat coming off of his golden skin.

  He was two people ahead of me in the line to take communion. I tried to focus on the smell of his shampoo. Unfortunately, the two people between us were my mom, and his dad. With them blocking the way, all I could smell was tea rose perfume and extra strength drain cleaner. Not a pleasant combination.

  The line moved forward. The woman behind me, Mrs. Hobby, stepped on the back of my heel, scraping it with the pointy toe of her white patent leather flat.

  “Ouch!” I said, way too loudly. The congregants of my white bread Lutheran church were not prone to exclamation of any kind. I flushed my usual shade of flame as everyone looked at me, including Avery. Mortified, I wheeled around, facing Mrs. Hobby, accidentally knocking off her massive white Easter hat. I caught it mid-air and jammed it back on her head. “Sorry! I was spacing out,” I whispered, like the whole church couldn’t hear what I was saying.

  “Zellie!” Mom hissed at me from the front of the church.

  “Uh, here we go, our turn at bat.” I ran up to the altar and knelt down, bowing my head, touching my chin to my chest.

  Someone in the back of the church snorted a laugh. It sounded like Claire. A giggle shimmied up my throat. Claire was my best friend and a frequent wit
ness to my extreme dorkiness. She could also make me get the giggles at the most inappropriate moments.

  I raised my head and took the communion wafer that my dad, Pastor Paul, offered, clamping my mouth shut before the giggles could escape and embarrass me even further. I glanced down the altar, wishing that the elder would hurry up with my tiny plastic cup of wine. I always seemed to get the communion wafer stuck to the roof of my mouth and then had to engage in some major tonguing in order to get it loose.

  Avery leaned forward, taking his wafer from my dad. He swallowed it in one smooth gulp and then gave me a confused grin.

  Oh, God, he must think I’m looking at him! I immediately stopped trying to pry the wafer loose with my tongue and put my chin to my chest again. What could I have looked like? I tried to float above myself, picture my face. What I conjured was not a flattering image. I had one eye closed, nostrils flaring, my tongue flicking back and forth. What the hell was my problem? I looked like a cat coughing up a fur ball. Ugh.

  When everyone was served communion, I got up, avoiding my dad’s bemused look and went back to the second pew where me, my mom and my sister Melody always sit.

  Melody shook her head and flicked me on the back of my arm as I stepped past her and sat down in the pew. “Way to make a butt of yourself, Zel,” she whispered into my ear.

  “Whatever, hose beast.” I flicked her on the knee and scooted away from her, closer to Mom.

  She rolled her eyes at me. “Like I even know what that means.”

  Dad stepped up to the pulpit and shuffled his notes around in his hands. He was old school, writing his sermons in longhand on yellow legal pad paper. Assistant Pastor Morris wrote his on a computer and then downloaded it onto his BlackBerry, like someone from this century.

  The sermon was my favorite part of the church service, not because my dad was such a charismatic speaker or anything, but because I could get in some good Avery daydreaming time. And, since he didn’t know I was alive, daydream time was the only quality time I got to spend with him.

  I leaned forward and put my forehead against the pew in front of me, rubbing my temples as though I had a headache. Turning my head the smallest increment to the side, I looked past my mom across the aisle to where Avery sat.

  He was so beautiful it kinda hurt my heart to look at him. Ah well, I was in church after all, let the self flagellation commence!

  I began at his feet. Polished black dress shoes, black socks slouching at the ankles, a glimpse of beautiful calf, his khaki pants hiked up just a little.

  Moving up, I lingered on his hand resting atop his knee, his long, thin fingers spread out. I took a deep breath and envisioned reaching out my hand and intertwining my fingers with his. Running my thumb across the top of his hand from wrist to knuckle, brushing my fingertips up his forearm.

  In my imagination I was sitting next to him, pressing the side of my thigh against his, then elbow to elbow, shoulder to shoulder. My lips grazed the bend of his neck, the line of his jaw, the corner of his mouth, across his lips. Then we were forehead to forehead, my hands in his hair, I inhaled him in--

  “Ow!” I sat up straight, smarting from the sharp elbow to the ribs Melody had given me.

  “It’s time to sing!” She yanked me up and thrust an open hymnal into my hands.

  On pastor’s daughter autopilot, I sang, “Christ our Lord is risen today, haaaaaa-le-loo-oo-yah!”

  “Hazel Grace Wells, you are going to burn a hole in the back of Avery’s head as hard as you were staring at him.” Mom turned from the driver’s seat of our navy blue minivan, which was only six months younger than me. “Don’t think I couldn’t feel you looking, and in church of all places! How would you feel if your father had noticed you concentrating more on Avery than on God? He would not have appreciated it, young--”

  “Mom, you’re about to drive into Mrs. Woodbury’s mailbox.”

  She whipped her head back around, swerving away from the Woodburys fiberglass mailbox.

  “Dang it!” She pulled the minivan off of the gravel shoulder and back onto the black top.

  “Gee, Mom,” I said, a smirk spreading across my mouth, “what would Dad think of you concentrating on me concentrating on Avery while you’re driving? I don’t think he would appreciate it very much.”

  “Zip it, Zellie.”

  I caught Mom’s eyes in the rearview mirror and locked on a reflection so much like my own it was freaky. We have the same long auburn hair and green eyes, the same hot pink flush across our cheeks.

  Even though Mom grew up in Rosedell and everybody knows who we are, I was forever getting lame joke-y questions about my “older sister.” Well, as much as we looked the same, Melody and Mom acted the same. It’s not like I want to be Grace’s (and she would kill me if I ever called her that in real life) clone or something.

  Mom took the exit just past Wal-Mart off of Rosedell’s main drag onto the highway. I watched the scenery go by at 55 miles an hour as we passed the lake and the lava rock fields getting closer to Mt. Scott and to the edge of town. She parked the minivan in front of the See-Saw diner, our usual Sunday lunch place.

  We slid into opposite sides of a red vinyl booth. The waitress, Jan, was right behind us, plopping water glasses down on the yellow Formica table.

  “Happy Easter ladies!” she said. “Two burgers, two chocolate shakes for here, two BLT’s to-go?” She was already writing it down on her order pad.

  “Just for me and Zel today, Jan,” Mom said. “Paul and Melody are going to have Easter lunch at the Wallaces.”

  She crossed out part of the order. “Okay, I’ll get this in for you and be back with the shakes in a jiff.”

  Mom dug around in her enormous brown leather purse until she found a small notebook. She flipped through the pages, stopping about halfway. “Ready for today’s roster?”

  This was a guessing game the two of us played every Sunday before we visited ill members of the congregation. I was pretty good at it and getting better the older I got, but Mom was exceptional. I nodded my head. “Ready.”

  “Jerry Hill. On previous occasions we have visited him for gout, appendicitis, and tennis elbow.”

  I closed my eyes and saw Mr. Hill sitting in his cushy beige recliner in the family room of his ranch house, watching the farm report on his dinky TV. He had a blanket tucked up under his chin. His eyes and nose were red. “Pfft! Easy,” I said, giving Mom a “really?” look, “He’s just got a cold, maybe a touch of hay fever. Next.”

  “Let’s see if I can find a harder one,” she scanned the page. “Alright, here we go. Lanie Graham. We haven’t visited her before and she only attends church once a month.”

  I chewed on my bottom lip, trying to concentrate. This one was way difficult. I couldn’t picture what she looked like at all. “This is a hard one. Let me think...I feel like it has something to do with her eyes...” An image popped into my head of an older lady with cloudy eyes. I could hear the sound of a monitor beeping. Two words floated into my consciousness. “Cataract surgery?” I guessed. Mom looked both a little bit proud and a little bit worried, if that was possible. I slapped the table with my hand. I knew I was right.

  Jan brought our order. “Right again, huh?” She smiled at me, shaking her head back and forth. “I do not know how you do that.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. I wasn’t entirely sure how I did it either, I just did. “It runs in the family, Mom’s really good at it too. I won’t even let her guess anymore, she never misses.”

  Mom stuck the notebook back into her purse and waved my comment away. “Ah, it’s a stupid parlor trick. You just have to trust your gut.”

  I sat at Mr. Hill’s kitchen table staring up at the feed store calendar on the fridge. It featured a herd of cattle in a dusty pasture flanked by grey-blue mountains. The slogan “Rosedell Beef-Central to Oregon” was emblazoned across the expansive blue sky. When I looked out the window above the sink, I saw pretty much the same scene with the addition of a ranch hand bur
ning trash in the far corner of the field. De-pressing. I drummed my fingers on the table to up my excitement level.

  After about a minute of that, I got up and went to the black rotary phone on the wall. Lots of people in Rosedell still had old-timey phones. Again, de-pressing. I picked up the receiver and held the phone to my ear. I listened for a dial tone. It hummed back at me.

  It was sort of against the rules for me to use other people’s phones without asking. I knew that, but if I were a regular teenager and not like, what my parents expected me to be, a future bride of Jesus or whatever, I would be allowed to have a cell phone. Then, when I was having a weirdly bitchy off day I could go out to the minivan and talk to Claire about my upcoming birthday party or Avery or lava rock formation, instead of stewing in my boredom.

  I let out a deep breath. How much trouble could I get in? I dialed Claire’s cell.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey,” I whispered, “I’m at the Hill ranch with Mom, totally bored. What are you doing?”

  “Not a whole lot. Eating some Peeps, watching Melrose re-runs.” I could hear her chewing. “Pretty sweet move with Mrs. Hobby’s hat this morning. God, that thing was massive. She looked like she had the actual Easter Bunny copping a squat on her head.”

  “Yeah, that was only marginally embarrassing.” I blushed remembering. “So, guess whose dad RSVP’d his son to my party?”

  “Avery’s?” Claire shrieked. “Yay! Now if only said party wasn’t in the church basement. I don’t know why your parents wouldn’t take mine up on using one of the banquet rooms at the lodge. I’ve already reserved the Grand Ballroom for my super sweet sixteen and its eleven months away.”

  I sighed. “Because we’ll have way less fun in a windowless wood paneled room with a concrete floor. Just another perk of being a pastor’s daughter, Claire, I get an all access pass to the church rec room.”