He nods, perching on a stool, grabbing a purple cardboard box from a drawer and flipping through a bunch of receipts. “She’s on one of her annual retreats. Picks a different one each year. This time it’s Mexico. Trying to determine if the Mayans were right and the world will end in 2012. What’s your take?”
He looks at me, green eyes curious, insistent, boring right into mine. But I just scratch my arm and shrug, never having heard that particular theory before and wondering if it applies to Damen and me. Is that when we’ll head for the Shadowland, or will we be forced to wander a barren Earth—the last two survivors responsible for repopulating the land—only—irony alert—if we touch, Damen dies—
I shake my head, eager to escape that particular thread before it can really take hold and mess with my head. Besides, I’m here for a reason and I need to stick with the plan.
“So how do you know her? If you weren’t exactly friends.”
“I met her through Ava,” I say, hating the feel of her name on my lips.
He rolls his eyes, mumbling something unintelligible and shaking his head.
“So you know her?” I look at him, allowing my gaze to travel his face, his neck, his shoulders, his smooth tanned chest, making my way down to his navel, before forcing myself to look away again.
“Yeah, I know her.” He pushes the box aside, gaze meeting mine. “Just up and disappeared the other day—into thin air from what I can tell—”
Oh, you don’t know the half of it, I think, carefully watching his face.
“—called her house, her cell, but nothing. Finally did a drive-by to make sure she was okay and the lights were on so it’s clear she’s been dodging me.” He shakes his head. “Left me with a bunch of angry clients, demanding a reading. Who would’ve thought she’d turn out to be such a flake?”
Yes, who would’ve thought? Certainly not the person who was foolish enough to place her deepest darkest secrets right into her greedy, outstretched, hands . . .
“Still haven’t found anyone good enough to replace her though. And let me tell ya, it’s pretty much impossible to give readings and take care of the store. That’s why I stepped out just now.” He shrugs. “Surf was calling and I needed a break. Guess I left the door open again.”
His eyes meet mine, sparkling and deep. And I can’t tell if he truly believes he left the door open, or if he suspects me. But when I try to peer into his head to see for myself I’m stopped by the wall he’s erected to safeguard his thoughts from people like me. All I have to go by is the brilliant purple aura I failed to see before—its color waving and shimmering, beckoning to me.
“So far all I got are a stack of applications from amateurs. But I’m so desperate to get my weekends back, I’m ready to toss their names in a bowl and pick one just to get it over with.” He shakes his head and flashes those dimples again.
And even though part of me can’t believe what I’m about to do, the other part, the more practical part, urges me on, recognizing the perfect opportunity when it’s standing before me.
“Maybe I can help.” I hold my breath as I wait for his reply. But when my only response is a set of narrowed lids accompanied by the slightest curling of lips, I add, “Seriously. You don’t even have to pay me!”
He squints even further, those amazing green eyes practically disappearing from sight.
“What I meant was you don’t have to pay me all that much,” I say, not wanting to come off as some weird desperate freak who gives it away for free. “I’ll work for just over minimum wage—but only because I’m so good I’ll be living off the tips.”
“You’re psychic?” He folds his arms and tilts his head back, gazing at me with complete disbelief.
I straighten my posture and try not to fidget. Hoping to appear professional, mature, someone he can trust to help run his store. “Yup.” I nod, unable to keep from wincing, unused to confiding my abilities to anyone, much less a stranger. “I just sort of know things—information just sort of comes to me—it’s hard to explain.”
He looks at me, wavering, then focusing just to my right as he says, “So what exactly are you then?”
I shrug, fingers playing with the zipper on my hoodie, drawing it up and down, down and up, having no idea what he means.
“Are you clairaudient, clairvoyant, clairsentient, clairgustance, clairscent, or clairtangency? Which is it?” He shrugs.
“All of the above.” I nod, having no idea what half those things mean, but figuring if it’s got anything even remotely to do with psychic abilities, then I can probably do it.
“But you’re not mediumistic,” he says, as though it’s a fact.
“I can see spirits.” I shrug. “But only the ones that are still here, not the ones who’ve crossed—” I stop, pretending to clear my throat, knowing it’s better not to mention the bridge, Summerland, or any of that. “—I can’t see the ones who’ve crossed over.” I shrug, hoping he doesn’t try to push it since that’s as far as I’ll go.
He squints, gaze roaming from the top of my pale blond head and all the way down to my Nike clad feet. A gaze that makes my whole body quiver. Reaching for a long-sleeved tee stashed under the counter and yanking it over his head before he looks at me and says, “Well, Ever, if you wanna work here, you’re gonna have to pass the audition.”
CHAPTER 15
Jude locks the front door then leads me down a short hall and into a small room on the right. I follow behind, hands flexed by my sides, staring at the peace sign on the back of his tee and reminding myself that if he does anything creepy I can take him down quickly and make him regret the day he ever went after me.
He motions toward a padded foldable chair facing a small square table covered by shiny blue cloth, taking the seat just opposite me and propping his bare foot on his knee as he says, “So, what’s your specialty?”
I gaze at him, hands folded, focusing on taking slow deep breaths while trying not to squirm.
“Tarot cards? Runes? I Ching? Psychometry? Which is it?”
I glance at the door, knowing I could reach it in a fraction of a second, which might cause a stir, but so what?
“You are going to give me a reading, right?” His gaze levels on mine. “You do realize that’s what I meant by audition?” He laughs, displaying a matching set of dimples as he swings his dreads over his shoulder and laughs some more.
I stare at the tablecloth, tracing the bumpy raw silk with my fingers, heat rising to my cheeks when I remember Damen’s last words, how he can always sense me, and hoping he was just saying that—that he can’t sense me now.
“I don’t need anything,” I mumble, still unwilling to meet his gaze. “All I need is a quick touch of your hand and I’m good to go.”
“Palmistry.” He nods. “Not what I would’ve expected, but okay.” He leans toward me, hands open, palms up, ready to go.
I swallow hard, seeing the deeply etched lines, but that’s not where the story lives—at least not for me. “I don’t actually read ’em,” I say, voice betraying my nervousness, as I work up the courage to touch him. “It’s more the—the energy—I just—tune into it. That’s where all the info is.”
He pulls back, studying me so closely I can’t meet his eyes. Knowing I need to just touch him, get it over with. And I need to do it now.
“Is it just the hand, or—?” He flexes his fingers, the calluses lining his palms rising and falling again.
I clear my throat, wondering why I’m so nervous, why I feel like I’m betraying Damen, when all I’m trying to do is land a job that’ll make my aunt happy. “No, it can be anywhere. Your ear, your nose, even your big toe—doesn’t matter, it all reads the same. The hand’s just more accessible, you know?”
“More accessible than the big toe?” He smiles, those sea green eyes seeking mine.
I take a deep breath, thinking how coarse and rough his hands appear, especially compared to Damen’s whose are almost softer than mine. And somehow, even just the thought of that makes this whole moment feel off. Now that our touch is forbidden, just being alone with another guy feels sordid, illicit, wrong.
I reach toward him, eyes shut tight, reminding myself it’s just a job interview—that there’s really no reason I can’t land this thing quickly and painlessly. Pressing my finger to the center of his palm and feeling the soft, gentle give of his flesh. Allowing his stream of energy to flow through me—so peaceful, serene, it’s like wading into the calmest of seas. So different from the rush of tingle and heat I’ve grown used to with Damen—at least until the shock of Jude’s life story unfolds.
I yank my hand back as though I’ve been stung, fumbling for the amulet just under my top, noting the alarm on his face as I rush to explain. “I’m sorry.” I shake my head, angry with myself for overreacting. “Normally I wouldn’t do that. Normally I’m way more discreet. I was just a little—surprised—that’s all. I didn’t expect to see anything quite so—” I stop, knowing my inane babbling is only making it worse. “Normally, when I give readings, I hide my reactions much better than that.” I nod, forcing my gaze to meet his, knowing whatever I say won’t hide the fact that I choked like the worst kind of amateur. “Seriously.” I smile, lips stretching in a way that can’t be convincing. “I’m like the ultimate poker face.” Peering at him again and seeing this isn’t quite working. “A poker face that is also full of empathy and compassion,” I stammer, unable to stop this runaway train. “I mean, really—I’m just—full of it—” I cringe, shaking my head as I gather my things so I can call it a day. There’s no way he’ll hire me now.
He slides to the edge of his seat, leaning so close I struggle to breathe. “So tell me,” he says, gaze like a hand on my wrist, holding me in place. “What exactly did you see?”
I swallow hard, closing my eyes for a moment and replaying the movie I just saw in my head. The images so clear, dancing before me, as I say, “You’re different.” I peer at him, his body unmoving, gaze steady, allowing no clues as to whether or not I’m on track.
“But then, you’ve always been different. Ever since you were little you’ve seen them.” I swallow hard and avert my gaze, the image of him in his crib, smiling and waving at the grandmother who passed years before his birth now etched on my brain. “And when—” I pause, not wanting to say it, but knowing that if I want the job, then I’d better get to it. “But when your father—shot himself—back when you were ten—you thought you were to blame. Convinced your insistence on seeing your mother, who, by the way passed just one year before, somehow sent him over the edge. It was years before you accepted the truth, that your father was just lonely, depressed, and anxious to be with your mother again. Even so, sometimes you still doubt it.”
I gaze at him, noting how he hasn’t so much as flinched, though something in those deep green eyes hints at the truth.