Читать книгу The Adventures of Jillian Spectre - Nic Tatano - Страница 9

Despite the killer body and gorgeous face, Roxanne doesn’t go out on second dates a lot. In fact she’s never even had a steady boyfriend. She is to dating what one-hit-wonders are to the music industry. She’s a drive-by romantic, going through men like Kleenex. Some dates result in her going to confession, some not. We’ll leave it at that.

It’s not that she wouldn’t like to date a nice guy on a regular basis; but after one circuit around the dating pool at our school, she simply feels guys our age are too immature. (No argument here.) There there’s the deal with her father, the former linebacker of the New York Giants. Imagine a high school boy ringing the bell to pick up his date and having someone like that answer the door. Heaven help the poor soul who treats his daughter badly.

So it surprised me that the ‘favor’ she asked for on Sunday was such an unusual one.

She wants me to do a reading.

Over the years I’ve offered to do it for fun, but since romance is not on the front burner with her she’s always declined. I, of course, not being a playwright, author or composer, haven’t had the need for a muse. (Thought I might in the near future. More on that later.) So when it comes to our talents, we’ve kept them separate.

Her reason for wanting a reading, however, has nothing to do with romance.

She simply wants to make sure she’s not going to die in the next five years. I don’t blame her. I’d do one on myself if it were possible. She couldn’t care less about what I see as far as her romantic future is concerned, as she’s one of those people who wants to be surprised when Cupid’s arrow hits. She wants me to see if the images keep coming when they hit the five-year mark.

I’m already seated when Roxanne enters what she calls our ‘seer cave.’ It’s a ten by ten room, every inch of wall space covered with floor to ceiling deep burgundy curtains. A simple round antique oak table sits in the center along with two matching chairs. The soft lighting overhead is provided by a gorgeous old tiffany lamp my mother found at a garage sale years ago.

And, of course, my trusty crystal ball sits in the center of the table.

I have foregone my usual cape (burgundy, matching the curtains) and jewelry since Rox is the only person getting a reading on this Tuesday night.

“What, I don’t rate the outfit?” she says, giving my FDNY sweatshirt the once-over as she sits down opposite me. “No bling at all?”

“It has no effect on the reading, and it’s just us tonight.”

She looks at the crystal ball. She’s never watched me do a reading since seers can get confused when there’s another person in the room along with the subject. “So, how does this work? Is that thing gonna fog up and show me the future?”

“It does fog up, but only I’ll be able to see what lies ahead when it clears.”

She scoots her chair closer to the table. “Okay, let’s rock. See anything yet?”

“Doesn’t work that way. First, you have to ask me a question, and it has to pertain to romance. Then we both close our eyes for a minute and focus on the question. The ball will then reveal images to me and I will try to interpret them.”

“Interpret?”

“Well, there’s no audio so I have to go on what I see. For instance, if the image is of a couple holding hands and smiling as they walk, then stopping for a kiss, I would interpret that as being in love or a good relationship.”

“Well, you don’t have to interpret any images you see of me being groped in a car.”

“Only if the guy doing the groping is worth mentioning.”

“Nah, I like being surprised. But I like the surprise the guy gets even more.”

“Okay, if we’re done discussing possible images of you giving guys a shot in the family jewels, can we get started?”

“Sure. Why can’t I just ask if I’m gonna be dead in five years?”

“No. Has to be romance. Love, not death. And be specific. You ready?”

“Sure.” She reaches across the table and takes my hands.

And then it hits me. “Oh my God!”

“What? I’m dead already?”

“No. I just realized what happened the other night. The woman with the afterlife reading took my hands before we started. She was nervous.”

“Okay….”

“I usually have my hands on the crystal ball. I wonder—”

“Maybe her touch gave you a stronger reading?”

“Possibly.”

“Did you tell The Council about that?”

“No, it didn’t occur to me until you took my hands.”

“Did you hold her hands during the reading?”

“No, I told her to relax and then I grabbed the ball as usual.”

“Okay, so do exactly what you did the other night.”

It makes sense, so I let go of her hands and take the ball. “Go ahead, ask your question. Look right into my eyes when you do.”

“Will I ever have had a good boyfriend by the time I’m twenty-five?”

I nod. “You don’t need a seer for that, but it’ll take us past the five-year mark. Now close your eyes and focus. Make sure you focus on the specific question and not why you’re really here.”

“Got it.”

She closes her eyes and I do the same. I’m focusing as hard as possible on Roxanne and her question, more than I usually do for clients. I see her face, her smile. I recap memories of our childhood that are already burned into my brain. I’m smiling now, remembering our wonderful times together. I focus on her romantic future. I imagine her in a wedding dress, ready to head down the aisle. She’s stunning, that black hair contrasting with the white dress, framed against the colorful stained glass windows of the cathedral.

I open my eyes. Hers are still closed. “Okay, now look at me.”

She does so and locks her eyes with mine. I shoot her a soulful look, hoping to relax her, then turn my attention to the ball, which is already fogged up. Hmmm. Usually it takes awhile.

The image clears, and what I see makes my eyes grow wide. I gasp. “Oh my…”

“What? I’m dead?”

I shake my head as the images suddenly fly by at increasing speed, too fast to process, like they did in the afterlife reading. Everything disappears at the five-year mark. Roxanne is still alive.

“What, Jillian? Talk to me!”

I exhale deeply. “You’re not gonna die. Geez, that was intense. It has to be something to do with touching you.”

She grabs my hands and squeezes them, leans forward with fear in her eyes. “What, dammit? What did you see? You had this expression, like something shocked you. Jillian, if I’m gonna die and you don’t tell me I swear I’ll come back as a friggin’ ghost and haunt you forever.”

“No, honest to God, Rox, the images went the full five years. You’re not going to die.”

“So what the hell did you see that made you get react like that?”

I tell her and she immediately starts shaking her head. “No friggin’ way,” she says.

***

“That’s gotta be it, your touch!” says Mom, sipping a beer as she walks around the living room. “It’s the key.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

She shakes her head. “Not a clue. Have you ever touched a client in that manner before?”

“Uh-uh. I mean, I shake hands when I meet them, but nothing like this. When the woman, Donna, took my hands she was definitely a little apprehensive. She looked right at me and I could see a little fear in her eyes. I figured she was worried that I’d tell her something bad. Roxanne was nervous too, worrying about possibly dying.”

“Hmmm. The emotion might also be a factor. A handshake is casual. But if you’re connected when the client is emotional, that must somehow trigger a different kind of reading. You say the images are flying by?”

“It starts out normal, then speeds up, like a DVD on fast forward. I couldn’t possibly keep up with it.”

Mom furrows her brow. “At what point did the images speed up?”

“Well, with Donna, it was right after I saw her murder. The afterlife image started at normal speed and then it did the same thing. With Roxanne, it was right after I saw…you know, what I told you.” I see the image in my mind again and it makes me cringe.

She slowly nods. “Both caused emotional responses in you. Donna’s reading scared you, Roxanne’s upset you. Had they not, I would guess you would have seen the images at your normal speed.” She pauses a moment, looks up at the ceiling as if searching for inspiration, then back at me. “I need to get in touch with The Council about this so they can explore it before we get there this weekend. Perhaps there’s some precedent they know about.”

“And in the meantime?”

“Try taking the hands of a few clients this week. See what happens.”

***

I’m bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and the image that played on an endless loop making my imagination run wild. My mind has created many upsetting scenarios, all of which include something physical. Roxanne slides her tray onto the table and takes a seat across from me. I’m about to make my case and open my mouth when she cuts me off before I can say a word. “Don’t even start with me.”

“Rox, really, you have to go—”

“No. I’m not having this argument again.”

“Honestly, it won’t bother me.”

She rolls her eyes. “What a steaming pile of horse shit, Jillian. Of course it will bother you and I know it’s been bothering you. It would bother me if the roles were reversed. Look, one date in high school doesn’t mean anything to me one way or the other, and I’m not hurting my best friend.” She looks around to make sure no one’s within earshot, then leans closer and drops her voice to a tone that tells me she’s digging in her heels. “I am not going on a date with Ryan. When he asks me out I’m politely turning him down. End of story.”

The image flashes through my mind again and makes me cringe ever so slightly though I try to maintain my game face. Ryan stopping by her locker, asking her out to the dance…

And then, of course, everything went into super fast forward so I have no idea what happened next.

Because, as Mom theorizes, I was upset at the thought of the guy I desperately want for myself going out with my best friend.

Well, make that one of the guys I desperately want. (Hey, cut me some slack, I’m a teenage girl. I can like more than one guy, okay? And no, I don’t wanna share.)

Still, what do I do? Maybe that’s the first date of a long relationship. Maybe Ryan and Roxanne are soul mates, and meant for each other, would have a happily ever after ending.

Or maybe I’ll grow a pair and ask him out one day.

But she deserves the chance to find out if he’s the one. “Look, he obviously likes you or—”

“Stop it. I’ve known him as long as you have. Sure, we like each other well enough…as friends…and he’s a great guy. But he’s not my type. He’s your type.”

“My type might also be Jake. What, I’m going to call dibs on all the guys at this school I might have a crush on and forbid you to consider any of them? That’s not exactly fair.”

“Jillian, he’s your best male friend. He might one day become your true love. You’ve had it bad for him the last year or so since you started looking at him differently. And you know boys mature later than we do. Give him some time to figure things out. Wouldn’t that be cool, to marry someone you love who’s also a great friend, someone with whom you have everything in common? I’m not going to come between that possibility. No, he’s yours. Besides, I aint datin’ no mindreader. One look inside this head and he’d leave skid marks running away. And like I said, he’s not my type.”

“Okay, so what is your type?” I already know, I just want her to admit it.

“Doesn’t exist at this school.”

“Now who’s shoveling the horse shit? I’ve seen you bite your knuckles when that Brian Kale walks by. You can’t tell me you don’t think he’s pretty hot.”

“Yeah, but he’s a crash test dummy. You ever talk to him? He’s TSTL.” (That’s too stupid to live for those who aren’t privy to teenage girl acronyms.)

“Rox, I know you like Ryan. You always have.”

“End. Of. Discussion.”

She gives me the Sicilian death stare usually reserved for losers who hit on her and I know it’s time to back off and drop the subject. I’ll be honest here; I’m relieved she’s not going out with him. Time to fess up. “Thank you,” I say softly, dropping my head and staring at the mystery elbow macaroni casserole that might actually contain the elbows of some poor creature.

She reaches across the table and lifts my chin so that I’m looking at her. “I could never hurt you, Jillian. Just like you could never hurt me. I’ve always got your back.”

She’s protected me from bullies, now the game has changed. Still the big sister keeping me from getting hurt. “You know, for a muse you inspire a lot more than creativity.”

She begins eating her lunch. “By the way, on the subject of hot guys…” Her eyebrows went up and so did her voice, into a sing-song third grade lilt. “I know someone who likes Jill-i-an…”

***

His name is Gavin, and he’s a new client. He greets me with a warm handshake and I gesture toward the seat opposite mine. He’s maybe thirty, tall and slender, expensive charcoal gray windowpane suit and a red paisley tie with a perfect dimple in the knot. Classic square jaw, jet black hair, deep blue eyes I could get lost in if I were ten years older or he were ten years younger. Champagne Rolex on his wrist, french-cuffed shirt with gold cufflinks. Tells me he manages a mutual fund. I’m wondering why the hell a guy who looks this good and is obviously loaded needs help with romance.

And then he tells me. “I’m thinking my fiancée is cheating on me.”

“I’m thinking your fiancée is an idiot,” I mutter.

Oops, he heard me. He furrows his brow. “Excuse me?”

I smile and laugh a bit. “Forgive my attempt at humor. But what you said surprised me. I mean, well, I would guess women would be beating a path to the door of a guy who looks like you and wears a watch that costs more than most cars.”

He offers a sheepish grin. “That, uh, used to be the case. But I’m ready to settle down. I need to be sure my fiancée is as well.”

“Any particular reason you think she’s cheating?”

“Well, lots of calls to our apartment lately that hang up when I answer. She’s working late a lot. And, she, uh, had a reputation as a party girl a few years ago.”

“Fair enough. You brought a picture of her?”

He nods and reaches into his back pocket, then pulls out his wallet. “Sure.” He removes a small photo and hands it to me.

I can see why he’s worried. Blonde, stunning, holding a drink, obviously hammered past the legal limit, wearing a skirt up to her ass. “She’s really pretty,” I say, as I hand it back to him.

“Sometimes they’re too pretty, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t, but let’s get started. I want you to take my hands for a moment, look at me, and ask a very specific question.”

“Okay.” I reach out and he takes my hands, then looks at me with those incredible eyes that make me gulp. “Is Jennifer Logan cheating on me?”

“Now close your eyes and focus on your question, and only your question.”

He closes his eyes. I do the same as I let go of his hands and take the crystal ball in mine. I focus on this Greek god sitting five feet away, then on his bimbo fiancee. I’ve got a pretty good idea what the future will reveal. A minute later I look at him. “Okay, open your eyes.”

He does, and I look at the ball.

Which is already fogged up.

Emotion. But it’s all his this time. I personally don’t feel anything one way or the other.

“Well?” he asks.

I put up one finger. “Patience. The image is clearing.”

It does and reveals an image of his fiancée actually working late. But she’s doing so with another man, and it’s obvious they’re attracted to each other. The clothes come off, the image begins to get a bit X-rated, my eyes grow wide as I can’t help but blush at a scene that belongs on late night Cinemax.

“You see something?” he asks.

I nod. “You were right. She’s with another man. Someone at her office. The name on the door reads…Dan Jellison.”

His hands ball into fists, the blue eyes narrow and fill with hate. “I’ll kill him,” he says.

And then I see him do it.