Destiny Calling (2 page)

Griffith jostled Bob, who sat up rubbing his bleary eyes.

Chief observed with a narrowed gaze. “Bob, git on outta here. I don’t need the cops here again today. Oh, and you’re fired.”

“But Chief.” Bob held his pudgy hands out. “I need this job.”

“Yeah, you need it to keep drinking at my expense. Fool I was, hirin’ me an alcoholic to serve. You fix a mean drink, but most are for yourself.” Chief walked back toward the counter. “You can come back as a paying customer after today, that’s if you don’t start any more trouble.”

Chief eyed my empty glass. “You aren’t going to be drinking my profits, are you? I don’t mind a nip now and then, but you gotta be more sober than the customers.”

Observing the state of the current clientele, it didn’t appear to be a challenge.

Great. I’m on.
“I can do that.”

The strong cinnamon fragrance I’d come to associate with impending Hell filled my senses, overtaking the bar’s smell of smoke, mustiness and unwashed bodies.

I didn’t have much time to identify who the cause was, but I had to try to stop the migraine before it started. I didn’t want to lose the job before I began.

Griffith held the door open, watching Bob’s departure. I slipped under Griffith’s arm and out the door, trying to ignore the way his attention followed me. I greedily inhaled the spring breeze, trying to diminish the nauseating cinnamon scent.

Bob staggered across the lot toward a multi-colored pick-up truck, with a hodgepodge assembly of replacement parts. I caught up to him and pushed a few dollars into his shirt pocket. “Call a cab.”

“Don’t need your money,” Bob said, but didn’t give the money back.

“You shouldn’t be driving.” I touched his arm, but he jerked away. Apparently, he liked to be touched less than I did. Although I doubted he avoided it due to the pleasure or pain touching caused.

Bob slurred over his flannel-covered shoulder, “Don’t even think this is over. I know what you are, half-breed.”

Standing between the two men, I thought Bob was talking to me, but realized the taunt was directed at Griffith.

“Don’t call me that.” An odd haze formed around Griffith where he towered, dwarfing the doorway. I hesitated. The haze was not something I’d encountered before.

I looked back to Bob. The license plate on his truck blurred and changed to
It’s Me,
then back to the original state.

He was the one.

Griffith pulled his arm back and clenched his hand in a tight fist as he glared at Bob. The haze surrounding Griffith thickened.

The pounding in my head intensified. Was it Bob? Or Griffith?

The dreams had to mean something.

Laying my hand on Griffith’s arm, I pressed my fingers into his taut muscles. “It’s not worth it.” I focused all of the positive energy within me as my senses sharpened, awaiting the pain and drain.

He turned his attention from the back of Bob’s sparsely covered head to my hand on his arm.

I looked as well, because my body wasn’t reacting like it usually did when I touched someone. There was none of the serious pain I usually experienced from the hopeful energy departing from me, or even the pleasure I experienced from retrieving it back. His muscles relaxed under my fingers.

He released the door, letting it fall against his back in order to capture my hand and press it tighter against his arm before I could retrieve it.

“Smiling would do wonders for your face.” The comment slipped out. Perhaps not a good move, but my mouth tended to speak before my mind granted permission. But I’d seen his smile in my dreams.

“That’s not my style.” Griffith traced my cheek with his finger, and a question formed in his eyes.

I jerked back.

“What are you?” He studied me as if I held an answer he sought.

His gaze pulled me in, as if nothing else was important but drowning in the depths of his eyes. I looked away and took a step back to break the bizarre connection. Ignoring the betraying response of my body from his touch, I said, “I’m Hope.”

“Are you?” He appeared impatient, expectant. “How can that be, when you’ve chosen me?”

“I haven’t chosen anything.”
Had I?
I didn’t know what he was talking about, but wasn’t going to let him have the upper hand.

The fragrant cinnamon aura was dissolving. Maybe I was wrong. A glance confirmed Bob had found another way to gain hope without my assistance. Bob sighed after taking a long slug from a flask he tucked back into his pocket.

Griffith towered over me, still unsmiling, brows knit in confusion. Despite my intent to stand my ground, I took another step back not wanting to get too close or to become engulfed in the unusual haze enveloping him.
Whatever the hell that was.

Millions of tiny lights surrounded his head, flickering and fading. I’d seen some weird things in the past months, but the haze surrounding Griffith and the blackness making up the other creature that killed Tessa had an unpleasant
feeling
about them.

Griffith continued to stare, as if looking into my very soul. I’d like to ask him what he saw, if only to satisfy my curiosity. Otherwise, his interest was making me uncomfortable, especially with an audience.

“Did she send you?” Griffith’s deep baritone brought me back from my concern regarding the essence of my soul. “You shouldn’t have come. It’s not safe. You don’t understand enough yet because you’re not from around here.”

Jerking my arm down freed my hand from his grip. The ghost of his touch lingered on my skin. I forced some confidence into my swagger as his gaze followed me back into the bar.

Opening what I assumed was the ladies’ room door with the word
Babes
painted on the old wood, choosing it over door number two labeled
Bikers,
I said, “I am now.”

****

“Nobody workin’?” A spindly legged, barrel-bodied woman called out. With a huff of breath, the cotton-candy textured hair escaping the long braid hanging over her shoulder rose, exposing a wrinkled forehead. Despite sagging skin on age-spotted arms, she hoisted two bags of groceries onto the counter with one hand.

I’d stayed in the restroom long enough for Griffith to leave. When the roar of a motorcycle announced his departure, I hustled out, unable to resist peering out the window at his retreating form straddling the same huge, black motorcycle he rode in my dreams. He slid into the studded, leather jacket hanging over the handlebars. With not one strand of his wavy, black hair out of place, he was a man worthy of dreaming about, except when the dream turned into a nightmare.

He tore down the road, spraying gravel and slushy snow as he went.

Who rides a motorcycle in April?
Trouble all right. Like I didn’t have enough.

Ritchie swiveled his stool. “Hey, Ruthie, what took you so long? You missed all the fun.”

“How could that be? I’m here now. That’s when the party gets started.” Ruthie gyrated her wide hips, which strained against khaki shorts and a stained
Kiss the Cook!
apron.

She laughed, while strolling to the interior of the bar. With her free hand, she straightened the baskets of peanuts then refilled the napkins without stopping, as if having difficulty containing the energy within. “What’s up?”

“Bob’s outta here,” Chief said.

“I’m surprised it took you that long,” Ruthie said. “He’s a nice fella, but working here isn’t the best environment for him.”

She turned so quickly her braid smacked her in the chin, her movements slowing as she approached me. Peering through thick, pop-bottled glasses, her blue eyes looked like a deranged fish. “Well, I’ll be.”

Shaking her head, Ruthie squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. “It’s about time, I say. Who might you be, girl? What do you call yourself, that is?” Ruthie extended a hand in greeting.

I didn’t touch her hand. “I’m Bob’s replacement, Hope. The new bartender.”

“Sure you are. Hmmm, makes sense.” She lowered her hand. Taking a step back, she pulled out a glass and filled it with seltzer and ice, chugged the drink, then slapped the glass onto the counter.

Chief shrugged and slid off the barstool to head down the hallway adjacent to the bar. Wearing a scowl, he shook his head. “Don’t be long with a bunch of women talk, Ruthie. You gotta get some fixin’s started in the kitchen. Send her to Mrs. Shaw after you say your hellos and all.”

“Bob Hope, huh?” Without taking her eyes off me, she reached under the bar and located the seltzer to refill her drink. “You have a place to stay yet, Bob Hope?” As she waited for my reply, she filled and straightened things above and below the counter.

Where does she find the energy?
“Well, I…”

Ruthie pulled a key ring out of her pocket and bent toward me, the smell of grease emanated from her pores. Swiftly flipping through the keys, she slid one off and pushed the key across the counter. “Don’t bother with any stories. I’ve been around a long time and know a lot more than a woman ought to. Working in places like this taught me things you’ll never learn in any school.”

She shuddered. “Plus it’s my guess you’ve heard a lot of stories.” She pointed her finger at me. “Just so you know, they’re not all stories.”

I jerked back, unsure if she meant the stories Tessa always used to spout, or the ones I’d heard about this town. I’d been starting to wonder if they were one and the same.

“I also know as far as bartending, you’re as green as the beer on Saint Patrick’s Day. I have a house in town with an apartment over my garage. You can stay there. It’s not much, but it’s bigger than that car you’ve been squatting in.” She inclined her head toward the door.

The warmth from a flush heated my neck. I stared at the key still partially covered by her hand as the fatigue of the past month settled upon my shoulders.

She slid the key closer, and I reached for it. As I grasped the key, she snatched her hand back before my fingers got too close.

“No offense, sweetie.” Ruthie smiled, revealing amazingly white teeth. “But like you, I don’t want to take any chances.” She placed her hands on her ample hips.

“I’ve been waiting on you. Now stop gaping at me like I’ve grown another head and get on back to see Mrs. Shaw.” She scanned over her shoulder. “Don’t let her scare you, now.” She winked. “Then get on over to the apartment and settle in. We’ll talk rent later. You’ll have to be back here tomorrow evening to start your shift.”

I slid off the stool.

Ruthie glanced at the clock. “You see, there’s others been waitin’ on you too, and they’re not all as friendly as me.”

“Others?” I furrowed my brow. “What are you talking about?”

“You notice things, and they notice that you notice. Most people can’t or don’t.” She waved her hand. “You’ll find out soon enough.” Ruthie paused, and narrowed her eyes. “What in tarnation did you do to your hair?”

“What?” I fingered my poor attempt at being a hairstylist. “There’s nothing wrong with my hair.”

“I’d say there was nothing wrong with your color before.”

“Before?” How Ruthie knew what my hair looked like before baffled me, as much as why I’d tried to color it black. Perhaps seeing my red hair every day reminded me of the blood pooled around Tessa’s lifeless body. The memory I’d been unable to get out of my mind for the past month.

I repeated the question Griffith asked me that I couldn’t answer. “What are you? Are you…”

She snorted, and then peered around to ensure no one was listening. “I’m a witch, of course.”

I’d been about to ask her if she was my mother, so I felt a little foolish. Even though it didn’t feel exactly right. I thought I’d be able to tell if I actually found her. But nonetheless, I felt a kinship with Ruthie. “Is that what I am?”

“No, honey.” Her tone became serious. “You’re nothing like me.”

Chapter Two

“I’m sure you’re familiar with an employment application.” Mrs. Shaw drew her lips back into a thin line. Her bony hands rested on the form with each of her fingernails filed to a point.
Odd
. Large, gaudy rings dwarfed her tiny fingers.

“I find it unorthodox to hire someone prior to finishing the normal process of employment,” said Mrs. Shaw.

“Yes, I understand.” I nodded, picking up the paper. Place of employment, length of time working and references were all required.
Crap
. “I’m not sure I can remember all of the phone numbers from my prior jobs.” I’d been counting on this place not caring about these little details, but I hadn’t counted on the likes of Mrs. Shaw working here. She was as out of place here as an office manager, as I was as a hairstylist.

“It’s not that I’m saying you wouldn’t make a good underling, I mean, employee.” Mrs. Shaw sank into the leather chair, which practically swallowed her up. So far, the scariest thing about her was her dress. The flowers covering the polyester material shimmied as she swayed back and forth in her chair, as if longing to return to the sixties when the dress was made.

My eyes were drawn to her necklace. The tiny silver masks were similar to the ones hanging on the sign outside. I placed my hand on the desk.
If I could only touch her arm.

“I understand.” Having endured rejection many times, I understood all too well. “I need this job, Mrs. Shaw.” That is, if I valued food and shelter.

She peered over her tiny-black rimmed bifocals and sighed. “I know you do. They all do.” She raised a carefully penciled eyebrow so high it almost met the fringed bangs complementing her salt and pepper pixie haircut.

She picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. “If Miss Ruthie feels you’re appropriate.” She cleared her throat. “Despite not yet completing the process of an employment record.” She took a sip from her herbal tea. “And Chief, of course, he is the boss.” She smiled.

I was surprised she referred to him by his nickname, since she was so formal with everything else. With one look at her face, the reason was obvious.
He
was why she worked here. Guess there is someone for everyone.

A dull ache started behind my brows. I rubbed my head.

“Have you tried taking medicine for your headaches?” Mrs. Shaw reached into her desk and took out a bottle of over the counter tablets, gave it a shake, and then held it up for my inspection. “These work wonders for me.”