Total Rush (9 page)

“Sean?”

He'd woken her up.

“Just making some tea,” he called out. He turned off the kettle and poured the hot water into the cup. His chest now felt tight with anxiety. Between the vegetarianism, the herbs, and now this, he was having a hard time picturing Gemma hanging out with his friends. She just didn't fit in. Not only that, but she owned her own business. Were he still a stockbroker, it wouldn't be a problem. But some of the guys at the firehouse could be real pricks about this stuff. He could hear it already: You pussy-whipped, Kennealy? Does she give you an allowance? She your sugar mama or what?

“Can you bring me some, too?” Gemma called.

“Sure,” he replied, forcing himself to sound calm.

“Bengal spice, please.”

“You got it.”

He extracted another cup from the cupboard as well as the tea in question. Tea steeped and ready, he picked up both steaming mugs and started back to the bedroom, acutely aware of his nakedness. He felt like the butler in a porn film.

Propped up in bed, Gemma smiled as Sean came through the bedroom door nude bearing two cups of tea. “You should have woken me,” she said, eyes following him as he sat down atop the covers beside her. “I could have fixed you something.”

“What? Yogurt pie? All you've got is yogurt and graham crackers.”

“I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting company. We could order in; the Indian place around the corner doesn't close until one A.M.”

“If I eat Indian food at this hour, I'll be up all night with heartburn.” He shook his head, biting into one of the graham crackers he'd brought with him. “This'll tide me over.”

Gemma sipped her tea, the taste of cinnamon and cardamom making her mouth tingle. She turned to thank him; that's when she noticed the pensive look in his eyes.

“Sean? Are you okay?”

He peered at her as if he needed to make out more clearly whom he was speaking to. “Yeah. I just . . .”

“What?”

Sean drew a deep breath. “While the water was boiling, I looked around the apartment and found—”

“My altar,” Gemma finished for him, leaning back against the wall of pillows.

“Yeah.” His expression was troubled. “You don't put dresses on cats and sacrifice them, do you?”

“What?” Gemma broke into laughter. “No! I practice Wicca, Sean. I'm not into Voodoo or Satanism.”

“Wicca,” he repeated.

“It's an earth-based, Pagan religion,” she began explaining.

“I know what it is,” he cut in impatiently. “It means you're a witch. Should I call you Sabrina or Samantha?”

“Neither. I don't wiggle my nose and turn people into bunnies. I do not own a black cat, a broomstick, or a big black hat.”

Sean rubbed his forehead. “And your store?”

“What about it?”

“What do you sell?”

“Books and occult supplies.”

Sean groaned.

“What? What's wrong?”

“It's nothing. Just forget it.”

Gemma hopped out of bed, putting on her kimono. “You're completely weirded out, aren't you?” she sighed, settling down next to him.

“I guess.” Sean peered at her nervously. “Are you in a coven?”

“No. I like to worship on my own.” She seemed somewhat bemused. “Anything else you want to know?”

“Anything else you want to tell me?”

“Hhmm, let me think.” Gemma rested her head on his shoulder. “Well, my best friend is a DJ and I give tarot card lessons.”

“Great,” Sean muttered.

Gemma lifted her head slowly and looked at him. “I'm the same person I was an hour ago, Sean. Nothing's changed.”

“Except you might turn me into a toad.”

She elbowed him in the ribs affectionately. “Don't be an ass.” Taking the teacup from his hand, she put it on the nightstand with her own. Then she wrapped her arms around him.

“Ask me anything,” she murmured tenderly. “I'm not embarrassed or shy about anything in my life. In fact, I'm pretty proud of the life I lead.”

Lightening up a little, Sean kissed her forehead. “At least we've got that in common.”

Trying to recapture the magic he'd felt earlier in the evening, he lay down with her, plying her with questions. She told him about the Golden Bough, and how happy she was to be able to run a business that reflected her beliefs. About Frankie, and how they'd known each other since they were little girls. Finally she talked about her family, and how much she loved them. Time passed, and their tea grew cold. Eventually, to Sean's relief, Gemma fell asleep.

 

 

“Sean?” Gemma reached out to touch the body slumbering beside her. But there was only a tangle of sheets and an empty pillow. Concerned, she switched on the light. The clock on the nightstand read 4:00 A.M. Maybe he was in the bathroom?

She waited a few minutes, determined not to immediately assume the worst. Donning her kimono, she made her way out into the silent living room and turned on the light.

That's when she saw it.

A note in the mouth of the stuffed wildebeest.

She stared at it for a long time, then crumpled the note and let it drop to the floor. Picking up the wildebeest, she trudged back to her bedroom. The two cups of tea were still sitting there on the nightstand. Clutching the stuffed animal to her, she lay atop the covers, curling up in a ball. There were lots of ways to keep pain at bay; holding on tightly to something was one of them. It wasn't what she'd imagined holding through the night, but Sean had left her with no choice.

“Birdman, you gonna
take that lasagna out or what? It's startin' to smell like that warehouse fire on Forty-third.”

It was Sean's turn to cook and he was making lasagna, tossed salad, and garlic bread. But Leary was right: He'd totally spaced on the lasagna, which now smelled more than well-done. Grabbing a pair of oven mitts, he hustled to the oven and opened the door. A wall of heat smacked him in the face, along with acrid smoke. The top of the lasagna was charred.

“Way to go, Chef Boyardee. Your head up your ass tonight or what?”

“Shoulda stuck with crunching numbers, boyo.”

“Up yours,” Sean called over his shoulder good-naturedly. His head was up his ass, it was true. But right now, his primary concern was salvaging dinner. He peeled the top layer off the lasagna and brought the rest to the table.

“You expect us to eat this?” Lieutenant Peter Carrey asked. Carrey had been with the FDNY for twenty years and was highly respected.

“Yeah, really,” Leary echoed. “It's dryer than an AA meeting.”

“You'd know all about that, Mikey, wouldn't ya?” Sal Ojeda ribbed.

“Damn straight. I've been free of Irish handcuffs for years.”

Bill Donnelly looked at him questioningly. “Irish handcuffs?”

“Beer in each hand.”

Everyone laughed.

Sean sat down beside Leary, who was eating like a man breaking a fast. “Not bad considering you burnt it to shit,” he commented.

“Thanks,” Sean said, taking a mouthful. Carrey was right: The lasagna was dry, but it wasn't inedible.

“So what's up with you?” Leary asked curiously. “You've looked like a zombie since you got here.”

“Ah, it's nothing.”

“C'mon, Sean.” Leary draped an arm around Sean's shoulder. “Tell Uncle Mikey all your problems.”

Sean hesitated. If he spilled, he wouldn't just be telling “Uncle Mikey,” he'd be telling everyone on his shift. But maybe the more opinions he got, the better. “I met this girl, right?” Wolf whistles started immediately. Sean rolled his eyes. Maybe he didn't need more opinions.

“Go on, my son,” said Leary solemnly, folding his hands on his chest in imitation of a priest hearing confession.

“She's kind of unusual.”

“‘Unusual,'” Bill Donnelly snorted. “What the hell does that mean? She got three tits?”

Laughter erupted around the table.

“No, she's into herbs and stuff. She's a vegetarian.” No way was he going to tell them she was a witch. Not now, at any rate.

“Lots of people are vegetarians these days,” probie Ted Delaney said knowingly. “That's not so weird.”

“She meditates.” His eyes shot to Leary's. “She burns incense.”

“Sweet mother o' God.” Leary let out a whoop of disbelief. “It's The Stinker, isn't it?”

“The Stinker!” Joe Johnson, ladder truck chauffeur, looked shocked. “You mean, the loony who lives below you who was burning garbage?”

“She's not burning garbage,” Sean clarified, sounding—and feeling—semimiserable. “It's incense.”

“Incense that smells like Elizabeth, New Jersey, on a bad day,” Leary added.

“You've been bitching about The Stinker for months, bro!” Ojeda pointed out.

Ted Delaney looked confused. “And now you like her?”

“Yeah. I mean—she's really nice. And sweet. But she's, you know, different.”

“Different can be good,” Joe Johnson opined. “My wife changed her hair color last week. She looks ten years younger.”

“We're talking about a woman here, you moron, not the pros and cons of Clairol.” Leary gave Sean a penetrating look. “You've talked to her since—?”

Sean gave a quick nod. “Yeah. And we get along really well. But she's quirky. I mean, I told her about eating smoke and getting headaches and she told me to chew on some kind of root.”

“Bet you want her to chew on your root,” Ojeda cracked.

Sean seared him with a look and Ojeda slumped in his seat. The innuendo served only to remind Sean of how un-gallantly he'd behaved. He had woken up in a room that wasn't his own with the backache from hell, beside a woman with an altar and a ritual knife, and his reflex was to run. So he left. It wasn't until he was stretched out in his own bed that it crossed his mind how Gemma might feel, waking up to an empty bed and a hastily scribbled note.

“Here's some food for thought, Kennealy.”

Sean turned to the far end of the table, where Chris “Socrates” Campbell sat. Socrates had earned his nickname because he felt compelled to add what he thought were insightful comments to any conversation. Sometimes they actually
were
insightful.

“If you like this woman, what do you care if she's different?”

Because if there's one thing I want, it's to continue fitting in. I want to be normal,
Sean answered to himself. Hooking up with a witch who ran an occult shop was not a smooth fit for the company's summer barbecues. Still, Socrates had a point.

 

 

“
Am I doing
this right?”

Uther Abramowitz's reedy voice brought Gemma back to herself. They were in her store, nearly done with his first tarot lesson, and somewhere between explaining to him why he needed to learn the meaning of each card and showing him how to do a three-card spread, her mind had drifted back to her night with Sean. The neediness in Uther's voice made her feel guilty. Here he was paying her money to learn tarot, and what was she doing? Daydreaming. Gently removing the tarot deck from his grasp, Gemma showed him again what to do.

“You shuffle the deck, and then you ask the querent—remember, that's the person who wants the reading—to cut the deck into thirds with his left hand. Then have them turn over the top three cards, and put them in any order they want. The first card denotes the past, the second the present, the third the future. This reading is good for someone who wants a specific question answered. You can also do the one card read I showed you earlier.”

Uther stroked his straggly beard. “Can we try it? I mean—can I ask a question and see what happens?”

“Of course.”

Gemma handed him the deck, unprepared for the directness in his eyes as he shuffled the deck.

“Will I ever find my lady love?” he intoned solemnly, staring straight at her.

“You don't have to ask the question out loud.”

“Oh.”

Uther shuffled . . . and shuffled . . . and shuffled, giving Gemma time to process the fact that he obviously had a crush on her. This wasn't good.

“Done.”

Excited as a child completing his first finger painting, Uther turned over the top card. It was the Nine of Swords.
Damn,
thought Gemma.

“Do you know what card it is?” she prompted.

Uther's scrawny chest puffed up. “Nine of swords, obviously.”

Gemma nodded approvingly. “Any idea what it signifies?”

“You tell me.” His gaze hinted at seduction. “I am but your humble pupil, Lady, and hope always to be.”

“It's symbolic of suffering,” Gemma explained, ignoring his lame, faux-Shakespearean attempt at flirting. “Patient suffering that has to be borne with courage.”

Uther deflated. “Oh.”

“It's not absolute, you know,” Gemma reminded him. Much as his blatant staring was beginning to unnerve her, she still felt sorry for the guy. He was obviously lonely. She tried to think if she had any girlfriends she might hook him up with, but came up blank.

“We need to wrap up,” she told him. “The hour's up and I need to reopen my store.”

“Okay.” Uther looked almost petulant. “What task hast thou set for me this week?”