Текст книги "Reveal"

Автор книги: Elle Brooks

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I’VE NEVER THOUGHT twice about watching the girls dance. I own the club; I pay their wages, and I’m around when they practice. I observe them with my business head, looking for ways to tighten their acts, give the customers what they want and ultimately maximize profits. Viewing for pleasure has never been my thing. Sure, in the early days I got my fill of the privileges of owning a burlesque club, but it quickly aged. The enjoyment gave way to analysis, the luster rapidly dulling. The extraordinary soon morphed into the ordinary, and it became commonplace to talk to the girls in various states of undress without the awkwardness of any underlying sexual tension.

Today is the exception.

The new girl is stretching on stage, waiting for the others before their rehearsals begin. She’s in yoga pants and what appears to be a sports bra and nothing else. I haven’t been able to look away since she walked in, set her bag down, removed her sweater and began her warm up. I’ve wiped down the same spot on the bar now for the last ten minutes and I’m continually cursing myself for the lack of willpower to go back upstairs. I swear I’m getting high from the polish fumes. It was a knee-jerk reaction employing her, but I’ve never seen anyone so immersed in what they’re doing. She wasn’t just dancing; hell, I don’t know what I’d call it. She was mesmerizing to watch. Her movements fluid, full of grace and completely in tune with her body.

I know better than to place temptation under my nose, and Tweet embodies it. I called her Tweet aloud by accident yesterday when she was here; it wasn’t one of my most professional moments. When she talks her voice is almost musical, she makes everything sound like a song. She’s also small and dainty so the name kind of just fit. In my mind anyway…I’ve been calling her Tweet to myself ever since the first time I heard her speak. I couldn’t tell her that, though, and when she’d laughed and asked me why I’d referred to her as Tweet I panicked. All I could come up with was to say that she’s named after a bird, and I’d forgotten which one. She looked at me like I’d been smoking crack, so I confessed I’ve been calling her Tweet since the first day we met. It was one of those moments when you sound dumb as fuck, even to your own ears, but you’ve run with it so you see it through instead of admitting you’re full of shit. Declaring that her voice sounds more beautiful to me than the sweetest of symphonies would make one hell of an awkward working relationship, and no doubt make me sound like a dick.

“There you are.”

I glance over to see Annie rounding the bar towards me. I risk a quick glimpse back to the stage only to discover Tweet looking at us. I catch her eye and we both look away at the same time, embarrassed that we’ve caught each other staring. I really shouldn’t admit how pleased I am about that fact.

“Zane asked me to come find you; he wants to know if you managed to replace Maggie on Saturday night?”

I stop cleaning, throwing the rag under the bar and rest my elbows on it, looking down at Annie.

“You’ve lost me, sweetheart…who’s Maggie?” My face feels hot, and I bet if I were to turn around now, it would be Tweet’s stare causing the heat.

“Maggie…Mystic Maggie, you know,” she urges, rolling her eyes.

“Oh, the tarot reader for carnival night. Yeah, I’ve got a replacement coming. The lady at the agency said her name was Athena or Adelina…something like that. She’s supposed to be good, and that’s all that counts. You can tell Zane it’s all taken care of.”

“Will do,” she says, spinning on her heel and returning to the direction she came from.

I turn back toward the stage and Tweet is standing at the bar in front of me.

“Jesus!” I practically spit. “You crept up on me!” My heart’s hammering at an insane rate inside my chest from the shock of having her so close. I was expecting to turn and resume staring at her from a distance.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you…I…um, would you mind filling me up?”

“What?” I know she doesn’t mean it in the way I’m picturing mentally, but it’s taking all my energy to suppress the groan I have trapped in my throat. God, what I wouldn’t give to fill her right now.

“My water bottle.” she jangles the clear bottle in front of me. “Can you fill it, please?”

“Sure,” I tell her making absolutely no attempt to move and take it from her. I’m too busy looking at her eyes. They’re enormous, dark, almond-shaped orbs, cat-like. Sexy. They narrow, pushing me into action.

“You sure you only want water? I can grab you something else—soda, juice?”

“Water’s fine, thanks,” she lilts and pushes the bottle toward me. I take it to the fridge, filling it with a bottle of chilled San Pellegrino.

“Oh, I um…I don’t have my wallet with me. I meant just tap water,” she calls. Her words are rushed and panicked like it’s some massive problem that I’m serving her bottled water.

“No sweat, it’s on the house. I’m not about to charge you for water,” I tell her. She’s biting the corner of her lip, and she may as well have her hands down my pants, the effect would be the same. I physically have to shake my head to dislodge the thoughts.

I pass the water over and our fingers graze for the briefest of moments. She pulls back so suddenly that the water slushes out the top of her bottle. Am I having the same effect on her that she is on me? Or maybe I just intimidate her. I’m her boss and so far we’ve barely spoken, but every time we’re in the same room she catches me watching her. Okay, so intimidate might be the wrong word. Stalk would probably fit better. I’m pissed at myself for how eaten up this girl has me.

“Is that everything?” I ask. My voice has an air of impatience to it, and I almost want to wince at the iciness of my tone. I watch as she flinches.

“Yeah, thank you.”

She hurries back to the stage where a few of the girls have congregated and immediately I feel like a dick. I’m blowing hot and cold; I really need to get a grip and stop acting like a teenager with a crush. I’m her boss, and she’s an employee. It’s staying like that…period. I grab myself a bottle of beer and head on up to my apartment, putting some much-needed distance between us. What I genuinely need to do is distance myself from my own thoughts. I’m repeating the mantra: don’t get involved with the staff, over and over in my head as I climb the stairs. By the time I’m at the top I’m almost convinced that I won’t, until my hearing focuses in on the sound of her laughing with Rae, and I know I’ve screwed myself over this time.

There’s a soft knock on the door as I’m sitting on the sofa doing paperwork. Zane lets himself in, invited or not, so I know it’s not him. I flick the music down low and go to answer it. For one terrifying second before I open the door I imagine it’s Sam coming back to either a) kick my ass for the shitty way I treated her (and to be fair I’d deserve it); or b) attempt to reconcile and get something going between us again.

I’m seriously contemplating not answering, but I do anyway against my better judgment. Only it’s not Sam standing before me in the dimly lit hall. It’s Tweet.

“Hi, I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you, Mr. Speight—”

“Callum,” I correct.

“Pardon?”

“It’s Callum,” I repeat. “Mr. Speight’s my pop’s name.”

“Oh, right. Callum, I stayed late to go over the choreography for the carnival night, and I’ve kind of been locked in.”

There’s a hint of an embarrassed flush to her cheeks and she’s biting her lip again, bouncing on the balls of her feet. I check my watch and notice it’s 2:30 pm. I’ve been holed up in here for the last three and a half hours since bailing on the rehearsals this morning.

“I was going to leave, but I don’t know how to set the alarm codes, and Zane said he’d be back an hour ago, but isn’t.”

“No worries.” I smile. “I’ll follow you down and let you out.”

My eyes stay trained on her ass the whole way through the club and to the back exit, watching it sashay in an almost hypnotic rhythm.

“Here you go.” I pull the door open and rain is hammering down onto the pavement in a furious torrent. Her eyes widen, and I close the door before giving myself a chance to change my mind.

“You can’t go out there dressed in that.”

I motion to her yoga pants and flimsy pink shirt. “You’ll drown. How far away have you parked?”

She gives me a confused look. “I don’t have a car; I walk here.”

“Okay, well how about you come back inside, and I’ll call you a cab?”

“I don’t have the fare,” she says softly, and for some reason I don’t understand, I feel a pang of pity for her. The way her small confession falls from her lips, dejected and uncomfortable, makes me think it’s not that she doesn’t have any cash on her, it sounds like she doesn’t have any cash, period.

“In that case, why don’t you wait out the rain with me for a little while and I can either drive you home, or you can walk when it dries up?”

I watch as she weighs the pros and cons of my offer. She doesn’t seem happy with either option, but eventually I win and she walks back into the club with me.

“So, how’s your first three days been? Saturday will be your first night performing, right?”

I suck at small talk but to be fair, I’ve never really had to bother with it. I was with Lisa since high school. We grew up together and were friends first, so there was never any awkwardness between us. When we split earlier this year, I didn’t need to engage in small talk; hell, I didn’t really need to talk at all. The quieter and more brooding I was, the more the women liked it. It’s been a while since I’ve actually wanted to talk with a woman and not just screw her. Not that I haven’t pictured screwing Tweet seven different ways from Sunday, but she has a definite air of mystery around her, and when she’s not dancing she looks to be bearing the weight of the world on her shoulders. I want to know why, even though I have no business asking her.

“Yeah, carnival night will be my debut. I’m really looking forward to it. I’ve got the dance routines down now, and if the costumes are anything to go by, the night is going to be spectacular. I didn’t know you could get that many jewels on such small scraps of material.”

Her eyes light up when she talks about dance. I need to make a mental note to ask her more questions about it. I pull a chair out for her and she sits, dropping her bag underneath the table.

“I’m gonna have a beer. What can I get you to drink? And I don’t expect you to pay; it’s one of the perks of knowing the boss.” I grin and shoot her a wink. I’m trying to put her at ease and not make it sound like I know she can’t pay.

Her eyes flick to the coffee machine at the end of the bar and then back to me.

“You know what, I’m gonna make a coffee instead. You want one?”

“I’d love one,” she answers. “I’m in serious need of caffeine.”

I busy myself trying to figure out how to work the machine. Jordan, one of the bartenders, has shown me at least four different times and each time I’m sure I have it until I need to use it again and realize that I don’t. It’s not even a fancy, complicated machine; I think it just hates me.

“Zane mentioned that you were asking about making some extra money serving tables when you’re not dancing. You trying to pay your way through college or something?”

“Or something.”

I turn from wrestling with the lever that lets you insert the little coffee pods and look at her, waiting for her to elaborate.

“It’s a long story.”

“Hmm…if only we were stuck inside with nothing to talk about waiting for the rain to stop!” I deadpan.

She lets out a small chuckle before standing and walking towards me. She rounds the bar and I watch in confusion and a sorry state of arousal as she comes to a stop only inches away. She smells like coconut. Jesus, I hope she didn’t notice me sniff her.

She leans in close.

What the hell? Damn, she’s coming in for a kiss.

I’m about to oblige and murky the waters of what’s sure to be a short-lived working relationship, when she grabs the coffee machine handle and does some weird voodoo trickery that everyone in this place seems to know except me. I stand back stunned as the machine pops open and say a silent prayer of thanks that I didn’t lean in and kiss her.

“You looked like you were struggling.”

Yep, I’m struggling all right, and it’s definitely not in the way you’re thinking.

“I have a love-hate relationship with this thing. I love coffee, but the machine hates me.”

She smiles, passing me a coffee pod, and I set the machine to work…I think.

“Do you have any extra availability for another server? Zane was right, I did ask about more work. I could really use the cash right now. From what the girls have told me, the customers tip well, and I’m a hard worker.”

She’s flustered. I can see from her expression that she’s doesn’t like asking and I’m intrigued as to why.

“Have you waited tables before?”

“Sure, through college. I’m no novice,” she grins.

“I suppose we could put you on the roster, then. The pay isn’t the same as what you’ll get for dancing, but all the girls keep their own tips. There’s no pooling the cash at the end of a shift. If you work hard, treat the customers well and are attentive, you’ll make more. It’s as simple as that.”

Her sigh of relief is audible, and I give her a quizzical look.

“That something else I mentioned,” she begins. “My boyfriend ran up some debts and skipped town. I need the extra work to pay them off.”

I don’t know who her boyfriend is, but I have a sudden urge to kick the shit out of him.

“You don’t need to explain,” I tell her, and it’s the truth, she doesn’t. I’d like to know more, but I’m not about to press her for the information. We’re still standing close. Too close and there’s a mad chemistry between us that I’m not comfortable with at all.

“You take sugar?” I ask as the coffee machine beeps, and I take a step back.

“No, I’m sweet enough.”

“You sure are,” I say under my breath as I pass her a cup. “Take a seat, I’ll make mine and join you.”

She practically skips back to the table, the earlier signs of stress retreating with each sip of her coffee. I have a feeling there’s more to the story of her needing extra work. I just need to be patient and let her tell me in her own time.

“AFTER YOU,” CALLUM says, holding the door open for me. I step outside and rub my arms in an effort to ward off the chill from the rain. I wait for him to lock the doors, and then he points over to a black and chrome Harley parked at the side of the building.

“Is that yours?”

“She is. You ever been on one before, Tweet?” he asks with a boyish grin. I love how he’s nicknamed me. I’ve never really had one before. People often shorten my name to Robz, but that’s not the same. It’s laziness on their part that they can’t be bothered with the extra syllable. The whole cute name thing he has going on is at war with his appearance. He’s a tall, lean, muscular man with just the right amount of scruff on his face, piercing light blue eyes and messy dark hair. He looks anything but soft, all sleek hard lines visible under his tight black t-shirt. But when he says Tweet it’s smooth and quiet and sweet. Not at all what I was expecting. I can see the attraction all the girls seem to harbor for him; he’s a ridiculously good-looking man. There’s a familiarity to him that I can’t quite place.

“I’ve never been on a motorcycle. To be honest, they kind of scare the crap out of me. You know, the whole insane speeds and nothing to protect you.”

“That’s maybe more true of a superbike. They’re built for an adrenaline rush; this baby’s built for cruising. You want to hop on? I promise to drive slow.”

When he offered me a lift home, I almost said no. Now I wish I had.

“Come on, you’ll love it,” he urges, and I figure he’s going out of his way to help me, the least can do is accept.

“Okay.”

He tosses me a helmet and puts my bag under his seat as I fiddle with the strap under my chin.

“Jump on behind me and hold on. If you really don’t like it, just tap me and I’ll pull over and let you off. Sound good?”

“Not really, but I’ll trust you anyway.”

He laughs and pats the space behind him. I’m not laughing, though. The thought of being pressed up behind my hot boss is almost as flustering as the thought of how embarrassing it’s going to be when he sets off and I squeal like a little girl and cry to get off.

“Wasn’t so bad, was it?” he smiles as I climb off the back of his bike and stretch like a lazy house cat.

“It was fun…well, it was after I opened my eyes. You said you wouldn’t go fast,” I scold jokingly.

“I wasn’t! We didn’t breach the speed limit once. In fact, I don’t even think we managed to reach the limit.”

“Is it normal to walk like John Wayne after dismounting a bike?” I say, bending my legs a little and exaggerating the ache from having them spread for so long.

“That’s what all the women say after I’ve been between their legs!”

“Oh my God, you’re my boss! You didn’t just say that!” I can feel my face flaming and I can’t look him in the eye.

His laughter rings out above the busy streets, and the stir it provokes deep inside is unnerving.

“It’s a joke, Tweet. I’ll see you at work later.”

With a loud rev of his engine he speeds away, leaving me at the door to my apartment complex with Mrs. Heckles sitting at the entrance smoking.

“Robyn, sweetheart, how are you?” she asks, patting a spot next to her.

“You heard anything back from that darn boy of yours?”

“Daniel? No, not a word. I’m not going to hold my breath—I’d suffocate.”

“Well,” she says shaking her head. “More fool him, I say. Stupid boy will regret it, I’m sure. A nice pretty young thing like you doesn’t stay single for long.”

She blows out a puff of smoke and the scent of pot hits me full force.

“Um, Mrs. Heckles, are you smoking marijuana?”

“It’s medicinal honey, for my arthritis.” She giggles and scrunches her eyes up. I can’t help but laugh. “It’s wonderful…I have a little smoke and then when Stanly from 4b comes to play bridge, I can just about tolerate his jokes. I wish I’d started smoking these years ago. It would have made my Arthur, God rest his soul, so much more interesting.” A slow smile crosses her face, and I return it, knowing full well how in love Mrs. Heckles was with her late husband.

When I first moved in and was midway through unpacking, she’d ushered me over to her apartment. She’d insisted on feeding me sweet tea and macaroons while telling me all about her Arthur. I remember going back across the hall to Danny and telling him that I wanted us to be just like the Heckles when we were old and had lost the ability to care if you were interrupting someone. He laughed and joked that I was aspiring to be a crazy old lady with no filter. I’d playfully smacked him for being so crass, and we’d ended up having sex in the living room amidst all the half-opened boxes and mess. Later that afternoon, Mrs. Heckles had passed Danny in the hall and mentioned something about youth being wasted on the young and missing nooners. From that point on I’ve loved her. She’s the eccentric old Grandma I never had.

“Trouble with smoking though, Robyn,” she interrupts and pulls me from the memories suddenly weighing heavily in the bottom of my heart, “is that I’ve gained almost fifteen pounds.” She reaches beside her and lifts her purse, retrieving a pack of half-eaten Oreos.

“Ah, the munchies…maybe you should cut some fruit up and keep it in a little tub to snack on when you finish your medication,” I smirk.

“Where’s the fun in that?” She smiles. “Speaking of fun, did I see you leave with a dashing young man in a dinner suit last week?” She nudges me. “And if I’m not mistaken, the equally handsome chap whose motorcycle you just climbed from is someone different.”

“Nothing gets past you, huh?”

“Not if I can help it, dear. Now my sister always used to say that the best way to get over a man is to get under a new one, so which one are you getting under—or maybe it’s both?”

I choke on nothing but air and the smoke billowing from her doobie. She seems to think it’s hilarious, and I’m sure to anyone passing by, a high eighty-five-year-old woman trying to get the lowdown her neighbor’s sex life would be pretty funny. Mrs. Heckles on a normal day has no filter; stoned she’s flat-out rude and yet completely endearing.

“I’m not under either of them,” I tell her and her face falls a little.

“Why ever not, dear? If I were twenty years younger there’d be no stopping me,” she announces, stomping out her joint and immediately reaching for an Oreo.

“You want one?”

I take a cookie and nibble the edge.

“The guy in the dinner suit is a man I met by chance last week in Starbucks. He’s called Cole. I spilled my coffee on him and he asked if he could take me out to dinner, that’s all.” I take another bite of the cookie and continue. “You’d like him. He’s a nice guy. The man that just brought me home is my new boss, Callum. There’ll be no getting under him. You’d like him, too. In fact, I’m pretty sure the two of you would get on like a house on fire. You both say whatever passes through your mind.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with that, Robyn. When you get to be my age, you’ll look back and wish you’d spoken your mind more often.”

I stop looking at her and stare out at the street, watching the waves ripple as the traffic moves through the puddles left behind from the earlier rainfall. I can’t help wishing that Danny had that attitude. At least then I could maybe understand what went wrong.

Friday nights at Reveal are brutal. Annie had told me to prepare for a busy shift, and I should have taken her warning more seriously. My feet ache like hell today from running drinks back and forth wearing heels. A requirement and staple of the uniform, Zane had said. Flapper-style fringed red dress, black gloves, and matching black pumps. I have to admit, the girls waiting tables look equally as good as the ones on stage. Everyone plays their part and keeps up the speakeasy theme the club adopts. Everything from the table decor to the uniforms and the music, it all plays a part in pulling the customers back in time to an age where women were ladies, guys were gentlemen and everything had an air of grandeur to it. With last night’s tips, I’m only $300 short of the money I need to pay back Mr. Carter. Zane had said that I could wait tables between performances tonight, so I’m hoping I can make the full amount and buy myself more time before the next installment is due.

I’m stunned when I walk into Reveal before it opens tonight. The whole place has transformed. The Gatsby styling has made way for the carnival theme that happens once a month.

“You’re here! Give me a hand, will you?” Annie asks, passing me a pile of brightly-colored organza.

“Zane and Callum are in the back, and nobody set up the booth for the tarot reader. She’s in the bathroom at the moment. Everyone’s busy, would you mind decorating that booth over there? Just throw the material around the table and the back of the booth—you know, make it look gypsy-ish.”

“Gypsy-ish? Is that even a word?”

“It is now!” she fires back, rushing off in the opposite direction and grabbing a pile of costumes from one of the tables.

I walk over to the booth Annie pointed me to and begin laying out the organza as best I can.

“Hello!” I startle and step back, knocking into a tall, billowy woman with wild, raven hair wearing a long, deep moss-colored dress that pools at her feet. The cards she’s holding drop to the ground and I immediately bend to retrieve them while apologizing.

“Stop!” I jump again at the shrillness of her voice and pause, looking up at her.

“Don’t touch them,” she says, looking from me to the ground and then repeating the motion. Slowly she bends and retrieves the three upturned cards, placing them on the table I was dressing, completely disregarding the rest of the pack scattered across the floor.

“I’ve never seen this before. Come sit down, if you will.”

I swallow and stand up. “Okay,” I mumble. I’m nervous about things like this; my mom always used to laugh that I’d never cross paths with a black cat, walk under ladders or step on cracks in the pavement. I’m a superstitious person. I always have been. I whole-heartedly believed in fate and destiny when I was younger. I guess I still do to a degree, even if the universe has been kicking my ass lately. I slide into the booth and wring my hands. I’ve never visited a spiritualist or had my cards read. I’ve always been too scared, you know, in case they tell you that your fate is doomed, and you’re about to die.

“I’m Athena,” she offers taking a seat in front of me. Her features are striking, from the coffee-colored pallor of her skin to her bright green eyes. They must be contacts, I decide. They’re so unnaturally vivid I can’t seem to look away. She’s stunning and intimidating all at once.

“This card here.” She points to a knight riding atop a white horse and carrying a black and white flag. “Don’t be alarmed, but this is the card of Death.”

Don’t be alarmed! What the hell?

I sit back wide-eyed and filled with a sudden burst of anxiety.

It’s not real.

It’s not real.

It’s not real.

The chant doesn’t soothe the panic, and I can feel my pulse begin to race at the mere mention of the card’s name. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m shaking. She senses my discomfort and begins to explain.

“People often take the meaning of this card far too literally. They fear that the indication is for the death of either themselves or others around them. You can relax; it’s not the case for you. Death is symbolic of the ending of a major phase or aspect of your life. It symbolizes the beginning of something far more valuable and important. You must close one door to open another.”

“I’m not sure I’m following what you mean,” I confess.

“You need to put the past behind you and part ways, ready to embrace new opportunities and possibilities. It may be difficult to let go of the past at times, but you will soon see how important it is in order to bring renewal and transformation into your life. If you resist these necessary endings, you may experience pain, both emotionally and physically.”

Physical pain, well that sounds horrific.

“Okay, put the past behind me. I can do that,” I mumble. It’s a concept I really would like to adopt. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than put Danny and his debts firmly in my past. If only life were that simple.

“This next card is the Ten of Swords,” she says. I don’t need an explanation of the picture; it’s a person dead on the ground with ten swords protruding from their chest. I think I dislike this card more than the last.

“The Ten of Swords usually symbolizes a sudden and unexpected failure or tragedy, a power beyond your control crushes you without warning or mercy. I can tell you that you may be able to alter the course of this impending disaster, but most of the time you will simply have to let go and accept your fate.”

I drop my face into my hands. I shouldn’t be listening to this. It’s not constructive at all and rings scarily true to my current situation. I’m not sure if that’s the case, though. It’s the same when I read my horoscopes. I subconsciously twist what’s happening in my life to fit the words I’m reading. Maybe that’s what I’m doing now. Maybe I’m not as doomed as I feel.

“Are you okay to continue?” She looks concerned, and I’m hoping that I’m reading her wrong. The narcissist in me is screaming to let her continue, but there’s a niggling feeling in the pit of my stomach that makes me think I should ask her to stop.

Suspicion wins out, and I give her a smile I in no way feel. “Please go ahead.”

“You know, this card can also indicate a time when you have been backstabbed or betrayed by someone you thought you could trust. You feel incredibly hurt and shocked by such a betrayal. The Ten of Swords is often associated with feeling the ‘victim’ in a situation. However, the saving grace is that you have a new awareness that the difficulty and pain will soon be over and will evolve into something new. As with all endings there will be a new beginning, so while this card may seem negative to you, it is really a card that can symbolize hope.”

I’m finding it difficult to focus on hope at the moment. All my energy is going toward trying to make the stupid payments that bully Carter has demanded. She’s right, though, I do feel like a victim and I hate it.

“Is the next one good news?” I ask with a small hint of optimism. Surely they can’t all be bad.

“They’re not bad news. It’s how you choose to interpret them and what you do as a consequence that is what’s really important. The last card is the Two of Swords; this card indicates to me that that you are currently being faced with a difficult decision, but you’re hiding from it. You’re hoping that if you ignore the decision long enough, it will go away on its own. However, it won’t go away by you simply willing it to. Your conscience will eventually force you into facing your problems directly.”

So it’s not good new then…great.

“Is this all supposed to make sense to me now? Because I’m not going to lie to you, Athena, I’m drawing a blank as to what this is all supposed to mean and what I should do to change my fate. Is there a timeframe for this sort of thing? Do these cards refer to something that has happened, or something that’s going to happen?” I’m aware that I sound ruffled, but I wasn’t expecting this impromptu reading, and I certainly wasn’t ready to hear that there’s seemingly more trouble ahead for me. I don’t think I’m strong enough to take much more.

“Robyn!” I turn to see Lauren waving me over from backstage. “Girl, what are you doing? You need to get changed!”

“Coming!” I stand from the table. “It was nice meeting you, Athena. I’ll try and seek you out throughout the night if it’s not too busy. I have a few more questions…if that’s okay?”

“I’ll look forward to it,” she says before bending to collect the cards I’d forgotten were scattered across the floor.

I make my way backstage with a swarm of butterflies dancing in my belly. Being issued the card of Death before my first night performing as a burlesquer definitely doesn’t bode well. I’ve always considered it bad fortune for someone to wish me good luck and to break a leg before a performance. Handing me a death card is infinitely worse.