Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
“No way.” Prue handed Kate a mocha in a huge blue ceramic mug, her amber eyes wide. "No. Way."
"Way." Kate took a sip. God, she needed this. After the weirdness at Fiendish, she’d made sure the guys were off for the night. She’d insisted that IT bring down a big TV and DVD, and they were watching “non-violent entertainment,” mostly cartoons.
Al and that Yagi guy had both been adamant about that.
Now, she was finally where she wanted to be, at Jung at Heart, the bookstore/coffee shop/mystical emporium where Prue worked.
She hadn’t told Prue about the kiss. Yet. She knew she should. But taking the job there was embarrassing enough. She could only share one humiliating detail at a time.
Kissing the boss? Kissing a billionaire, uber-rich, probably evil guy?
And her parents thought her weed-dealing boyfriend back in high school was bad.
You are like the patron saint of fuck-ups.
Kate squirmed uncomfortably in the ancient, tapestry-upholstered sofa, ignoring Prue’s pointed stare. "Mmm, this is good. Ghirardelli chocolate syrup?"
“Yes, and don’t try to distract me.” Prue leaned against the counter, her gold eyes like lasers. "This asshole has trafficked, abused workers stowed down in his basement, and now you’re on the payroll?”
"He’s not exactly an asshole, and yes, I’m on the payroll." Kate sighed heavily, taking another comforting sip of mocha. "And they’re not trafficked. Although he mentioned they’re actually prisoners. Like, gnarly violent offender felons."
"So he claims. Which, by the way, doesn’t justify them being starved and beaten," Prue said, and Kate suddenly regretted calling Prue on the BART right after she’d been fired.
“Besides, why in the world would he choose violent felons to go through a bunch of weird documents? When I’m thinking of cheap labor to go through paperwork, I don’t think, ‘Hey, you know who would be perfect for this? Murderers!’”
"First, I don’t think he knew about the conditions. Second, they’re being treated fairly now— rest breaks, plenty of food, enough time to relax at night,” Kate interjected, ignoring Prue’s sarcasm. “It was one of the conditions of me working there.”
“Oh really?” Prue rolled her eyes. “And how long do you think that’s gonna last? You actually trust them?”
“Prue, damn it, I’m doing the best I can.” The words were torn from her. “You didn’t hear my father’s voice when he was talking to Uncle Oscar. The thought of losing the house... it’ll destroy them. Dad and Mom, I mean.”
Prue’s gaze softened, and she sank down on the couch next to Kate, giving her a shoulder hug. “It sucks,” she said, nudging Kate’s head with her own. “All the way around.”
“Yeah, but it’s what I’ve got.”
They sat there, silent, for a second.
“There’s no other way you can make money?” Prue finally asked.
Kate shrugged. "I could always hook."
Prue snorted. "Yeah, I hear flat, short, Viet-Irish chicks are all the rage on the streets these days."
"Bitch." Kate nudged her hard with her shoulder, and Prue laughed. Kate chuckled with her. It was a relief, a little pressure release.
“Besides, it’s been like, what, a year since you got any play, yeah?” Prue shook her head. “Ever since that dweeb. What was his name?”
“Topher.” Kate shuddered. “The slam poet?”
“The limp kisser.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”
“You need to get some,” Prue declared. “That might at least help put a rosier glow on the rest of the crap.”
“Yeah,” Kate agreed, then hastily picked up her mocha and took a sip, hoping the soup-bowl sized cup would hide any tell-tale blush.
She’d done plenty of stupid stuff in her past—age twenty-four to twenty-six qualified in their entirety—but she’d never, ever gone so far as to kiss her boss.
He kissed me first. I kissed back in self-defense.
She sighed heavily, drinking the rest of the mocha in a few large gulps, like a gunfighter taking a slug of whiskey.
Prue smiled, shaking her head hard enough for her dreads to bounce around like snakes doing aerobics. "You know what they say—the universe doesn't close one door without opening another one."
"Yeah, but those hallways are a bitch.”
“You need a reading,” Prue said, patting her knee. "Let me get my cards."
Prue came from a long line of psychics and Tarot readers, so she really did feel that was a useful, even practical, line of action. She was good, too.
What the hell. I could use all the guidance I can get.
"You know," Kate said, as Prue pulled out a small ebony box and cleared off the coffee table, "I still think you could have a rockin' online business."
Prue made a face. "Online readings," she muttered, the same way most people said "bestiality."
"Hey, it could work."
"I live simple, and I like working for the Madame."
Kate giggled. "Now that sounds like you're the hooker."
Prue let out a long-suffering sigh. "Focus, Pinky. Okay?"
Kate closed her eyes, stifling any further humor. She took a few deep breaths, just like she’d been taught her when Prue still held out hope that Kate could meditate. "Okay, what am I thinking about?"
"Think about what you need to know."
Kate got a little somber as she cleared her mind.
I want to know if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life. I want to know if I’ll be able to get my parents out of this jam. I want to know if I’ll ever find work that makes me feel like I’m finally doing something good.
She squinched her eyes shut, adding: Oh, and I’d like to know if I’m going to find love or at least get laid. It’s been a while… my boss notwithstanding.
And no, he does not count.
She finished shuffling the heavy, slippery cards, and handed them in a pile over to Prue. A card fell out during the transfer, and Kate moved to retrieve it.
"Nope, we've got a jumper," Prue said, grabbing it herself and putting it face-up on the battered oak table. A hooded skull with a scythe grinned back at her. "Oh, good. Death card."
"That’s promising,” Kate noted sarcastically.
"Remember? Death card's a good one," Prue said. "It means change, which you've got in spades. Your uncle’s publishing company going under, moving back in with your parents..."
"Again, whoopee."
“Relax. It rarely means physical death.”
“Rarely?” Kate squeaked, thinking back to what she’d overheard.
“Hush,” Prue said, starting to flip cards like a blackjack dealer. Then her face turned into a blank mask—the look that Kate knew, from experience, meant she’d seen something bad. "Hmmm. This is… um, interesting."
There was a picture of what looked like part of a castle getting struck by lightning. People were falling headfirst out the windows, which were filled with fire.
“That can’t be good,” Kate muttered.
“It’s The Tower,” Prue said, and she sounded apologetic. “It means… well, change, basically.”
“So it’s like the Death card?”
Prue bit her lip. “The Death card is good change—when you let go, surrender to what’s coming, and ride the wave.”
“So what’s the difference with the Tower?”
“The Tower is when the Universe has been trying to tell you something by tapping you on the shoulder, and you’ve been ignoring it,” Prue answered. “After a while, it stops tapping and just, um…”
“What?”
“Smacks the shit out of you.”
Kate stared at Prue, wondering if she was joking. The nervous look in her friend’s eyes suggested she wasn’t.
“Great. Just great.” She picked up her cup. “Barista, I’ll take another, please. Triple chocolate this time. I need a belt of the hard stuff.”
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” Prue said, trying to comfort her. “I’ll be here. Besides, the Death card jumped out. If you just learn to go with the flow, odds are good you’ll be carried to a great new adventure.”
“Sure, sure,” Kate said, as Prue made her a hot chocolate. “Besides… how bad could it be, right?”
The bell on the door rang out like a gunshot as someone shoved the door open. Jumping, Kate spun.
“What the hell?” she blurted.
Nan Temper walked in, holding a rosewood cane and shuffling.
She was wearing a blousy white shirt and long, flowy skirt of yellow and purple plaid, a contrast to her practical blue high-top sneakers.
Her skin was a little darker than Prue’s, a touch more ochre.
She had the same dark brown ringlets as Prue, except down to her waist, harnessed by a loose braid.
She tilted her head, eyes a dark brown, bright as a bird's.
“Nan Temper?” Prue said, her mouth dropping open as she rushed around the counter to the smaller woman. “What are you doing here? Is everything all right? You know you’re not supposed to drive at night.”
“Is this her?” Nan Temper said, shoving off Prue’s well-meaning hands. “Is this the girl who gave you that filth?”
“Pardon?” Kate asked, taken aback.
The little old woman stood in front of her, eyes blazing like coal. “Do you even know what you gave her?”
“You mean the symbol?” Kate ventured.
“You knew!” Nan’s hand shot out, and she gripped Kate’s wrist in a painful vise. “You knew, and you let her handle something so evil?”
"Ouch! What?" Kate yelped. “What are you talking about? It was just some paperwork from my office!”
“Oh, it’s paperwork, all right,” Nan muttered darkly, not releasing her grip. "Someone sells their soul to the devil, this is the paperwork. It's binding, and unbreakable except by death."