Boyfriend from Hell (Saturn's Daughters) Read online

  Despite shouts of surprise and fright, I reached the Miata, gunned the engine, and got the hell out of there, too terrified to look back.

  8

  In bed, I cried my eyes out. Even Milo’s purrs and licks couldn’t comfort me. I think it was as much pity party as grief. I didn’t know what was happening to me, and I was terrified.

  I needed to know I was directing my life. For all my growing-up years, I’d had a flighty Fate in the form of my mother uprooting me from one home after another. Once on my own, I didn’t want anyone tugging my strings. I needed to make my own decisions. But suddenly, I was being buffeted and redirected by strange winds. Literally.

  Mini-tornados did not drop out of the sky to aid my escape in any world that I knew. Maybe I’d just imagined my abrupt departure from the funeral home. Or maybe I could go completely around the bend and believe the weird guy I’d been following was a Harry Potter magician. I could take that idiocy further and believe that what had happened to Max had been unnatural, but that wasn’t easing the pain.

  And neither incident had happened in the Zone. They’d happened around me— unless I was a candidate for that aluminum colander hat, which was a very strong possibility. Maybe stress had fried my brain cells. I didn’t have time—or patience or money—for counseling.

  In the morning, after tossing and turning until dawn, I decided I had to confront myself as well as the world. I had to take back my control. I got up, tore the blanket off the mirror, and, pounding the glass, shouted, “Wake up, Max, you bastard! Where are you?”

  I nearly had a heart attack when he actually appeared.

  Biting my lip to keep it from trembling, I reached out to trace the familiar face blurrily superimposed upon mine. The image looked grouchy and uncertain as I touched nothing but glass. I’d once told Max he looked like Burt Lancaster with black curls. He hadn’t appreciated the sentiment.

  So how did one confront insanity? By accepting it?

  “Where are you?” I asked mournfully, wishing he was real. My hallucination only provided his face, so I couldn’t tell if he shrugged in reply.

  “I didn’t do it, Justy,” the voice inside my head said again. “Help me.”

  Schizophrenia? I’d rather have believed in Max than in insanity.

  “How? I don’t even know where you are. Or what you are.” I was surely losing it. Guilt, I self-diagnosed. But I was ready to believe almost anything at this point. “You didn’t tell me you had a family!” I remembered to throw at him.

  “Sorry.” And then he faded.

  In frustration, I whacked my wooden hairbrush against the glass, hard. It cracked.

  Well, that was helpful.

  Having faced my worst fear and accomplished nothing, I showered and got dressed and had time to check my netbook. Nothing new from Themis Astrology. I ran a Google search and a phone/address search on the company and found nothing. Maybe its proprietor existed on an astrological plane. Wikipedia told me Themis was a Greek goddess, the embodiment of divine order, law, and custom, so I assumed I was dealing with a female with a high opinion of herself.

  I sent an e-mail to Boris, the hacker genius named on the card Cora had given me, asking if it would be okay if I dropped by around six. I had hopes of finishing early, since Wednesdays were usually slow.

  In the spirit of taking control, I decided that if I meant to confront my new life, I couldn’t continue hiding from the real world. I Googled a local news station on the Internet.

  That was almost worse than confronting Max. A video showing the melee at the funeral home was abruptly cut off, apparently when the reporter’s camera was torn from his hand by a high wind. The camera filmed tossing branches and screams before the screen went dark.

  The headlines beside the video shouted FREAK STORM DISRUPTS BIKER BATTLE OUTSIDE FUNERAL HOME. In smaller letters, it went on to speculate about the ghost of a biker lost in a fiery accident joining his friends in attacking guests at the funeral home.

  Since I knew at least half that story was lie—those weren’t guests but reporters—I snorted and shut it down. So much for the media. If they couldn’t admit the error of their own ways, they’d make up something. Ghosts!

  That was no ghost. That had been me.

  Wearing Max’s jacket.

  With no better idea of how to research the impossible and ridiculous, I went to where idiocy lurked and Googled Saturn transit and Satan’s daughter. The first site gave me pages and pages of gobbledygook about Saturn causing negative and positive changes depending on what house the transit occurs in or some illogic like that. I snorted in disbelief, although I did note that a complete transit happens roughly every twenty-eight years. I had my twenty-seventh birthday coming up, which was a little close for comfort. I couldn’t believe I was that old already and had accomplished so little.

  The second search gave me even worse crap about Satan having no daughters because he can’t reproduce, plus a lot of websites for people with unhealthy perversions. Googling Saturn’s daughters opened a site that claimed they were ruled by the planet of justice—shades of Themis! But when the blog went on about the daughters not living long because they were either punished for vigilantism or sent to hell for misuse of power, I bookmarked it for further examination and shut it down. One of these days, maybe I’d figure out how to investigate Internet scam artists and fear-mongers.

  Deciding I just had to get back into my routine, I drove downtown to school. This was Wednesday. Thursday of next week was my last final. Providing I passed, I was less than two weeks from being a law school graduate. I had no intention of piling up those loans and not finishing. After watching the news, though, I was tense, anticipating trouble.

  But my classes were so huge, and I was so totally anonymous behind my black-framed glasses and limp that no one seemed to connect me with the ugly stories. Or maybe they didn’t read newspapers, either. My kind of people. We kept our noses to our books. For a few hours, I reveled in the straightforwardness of rules and regulations, the normalcy of books and teachers.

  • • •

  Once the last class was done, I heaved my backpack into my plastic car, left the real world, and cruised home. Maybe the rationality of law classes would end my episodes of insanity.

  Milo was growling when I entered my apartment, so I had to assume someone had been prowling in the hall, but they were gone now. I glanced around to see if anything had been disturbed—but who could tell? A carton of old clothes I’d meant to take to Goodwill looked as if it had been moved, but Milo could have been jumping on it. I was nervous over nothing. I’d lived here for two years and no one had bothered breaking in to steal my netbook.

  I cuddled the kitty, called him my guard cat, and fed him an extra fishy treat until he was purring happily again. Forget boyfriends. Cats were easier.

  To keep up my new proactive attitude, after I grabbed a sandwich, I ran into the bedroom to glare at my cracked mirror. My newly thick hair still startled me, but I was learning to get past it. “Why Satan’s daughter?” I yelled at the glass, hitting it with my fist until shards fell out. “You almost killed me! I didn’t do anything to you.”

  Damn if I didn’t see Max’s image instantly wavering over mine. I could almost swear he was glaring.

  “Did not!” he shouted in my head.

  Okay, definitely guilt talking. I was arguing with myself. “Then tell that to Detective Schwartz. He thinks you did,” I reassured myself.

  “You,” he tried to say, but he was fading fast. “Saturn, not Satan.”

  “Saturn is a damned planet!” I shouted, but the image was gone. I wanted him back. Other people just told their boyfriends to go to hell and could take back the words later and make up. Me, I had to actually send mine there.

  I wasn’t ready to believe I was actually seeing Max and not experiencing hallucination-by-guilt, but where had the Satan/Saturn nonsense come from? Maybe that weird Themis message had sunk into my psyche and my hallucination had reproduced it.
In mirror writing? I’d have to ask someone else if they could see it, but I didn’t want confirmation of my mental state.

  Thinking uneasily of the website about Saturn’s daughters dying young, I figured my mind was simply feeding on my fears, like nightmares do.

  Not entirely certain proactive insanity was working for me, I tucked Milo into my messenger bag and headed downstairs with catching the bus in mind.

  Andre was waiting for me in the parking lot. He threw open the passenger door and gestured for me to climb in.

  I had half a mind to walk on by, but he was my boss. My lunacy has its limits. I slid in and lifted my eyebrows questioningly.

  “We have to talk.” His pretty-boy visage looked grim as he shifted into gear and peeled onto the street.

  My stomach knotted. If he meant to fire me, I’d never find another job as convenient as this one. Sure, the pay sucked, but at what part-time job didn’t it? There probably ought to be combat pay included for working in the Zone, but nasty jobs like mine went to beggars who didn’t have the resources to fight for their rights.

  “There are reporters crawling all over Edgewater Street,” he finally said when I refused to encourage him. “They’re looking for you, but they’re asking questions we don’t want asked.”

  I hid my surprise. Had Jane really sicced her fellows on the story I’d fed her? Or was this a different vendetta, created by the little episode last night?

  “Personally, I think it’s time people started asking questions,” I said, before I could bite my tongue. So much for keeping my head down and my mouth shut.

  “You want to ask questions, ask me. But the media is only out for sensationalism and page views, and that’s not going to help us. Next thing we know, they’ll have a congressional committee down there wanting to turn the area into a landfill. Then where will we go?”

  With his serious face on, Andre looked manly and intriguing instead of sly and irritating. I still didn’t trust him. “You’ll just take all the money they give you for your property and find another impoverished slum to infect. Do you really care what happens to the rest of us?”

  “The Miss Snide act is going nowhere,” he informed me curtly. “You know nothing about the Zone. You don’t live there. You come and go without getting to know any of us. And that’s not lasting much longer. I’ve set up an office for you at Chesty’s. Everyone will carry their cash receipts to you there so you don’t have to be on the street until the reporters clear off.”

  “Wow, my very own office,” I chirruped, clearly out of my mind. Was I looking to get fired? “Does it come with my very own porn on the walls?”

  “I’m covering your ass, which isn’t half as good as the ones on Ernesto’s walls, so shut up until you know what you’re talking about. Your fancy college degrees haven’t taught you anything about real life.”

  Andre looked pretty hot when he was mad. Not John Wayne studly, but better in a slick Maverick sort of way.

  “I think I’ve seen plenty of real life,” I reminded him. “It sucks. And it’s getting suckier by the minute.”

  “That’s the kind of argument they teach you in law school these days?” he asked with almost a laugh. Maybe a snort of derision. “I think I like you better when you don’t say anything, but you have to keep your eyes and ears open if you want to stay alive.”

  “Will you quit being so damned mysterious and just spill it?” I demanded as he swung into Chesty’s parking lot. “I’ve had a crappy week, and I’m starting to really, really hate changes in my routine.”

  “We’ll talk tonight. I’ll have Cora make the bank deposit. I’ll buy you dinner at Chesty’s.” He stopped the car and waited for me to climb out.

  “I have plans for later this afternoon,” I informed him, aiming for aloof and not pathetic, and not exiting at his command. “What time do you want me back for dinner?”

  “I don’t want you on the street at all!” he shouted.

  Nice. I’d finally crawled under his skin. I kind of liked that, since he’d already gotten under mine. “Well, isn’t that just ducky dandy. You want to tell Geek Boy to come visit me at Chesty’s so I don’t have to go to him?” That was the unoriginal company name on the business card Cora had given me. Since she said the owner knew Andre, I assumed he knew Boris.

  Andre clenched the steering wheel in much the same way Max had that last time I’d seen him alive. I took the emotional punch to the gut without flinching. Much. Milo poked his head out of my bag to see what was happening. I scratched the spot between his ears and hoped it would unknot my insides.

  “What the devil do you want with my geek?” he asked, narrowing his eyes and releasing his grip on the wheel.

  “You don’t own me, Andre,” I warned. “You don’t have to know everything about me. Don’t even try or I’m outta here.” I gathered my courage and asked, “Or is that what this is all about? Do you want me gone? If you do, say so. I’ll go.”

  I tried not to hold my breath. I was just starting to think I had friends down here. If he fired me, I’d probably never see them again. I desperately needed a few friends right now.

  “You are the most obtuse female who ever walked the planet!” He grabbed the back of my head, dragged me half across the console, and planted a hot one on my mouth.

  Before I could even respond to the electric shock spiraling from my lips down to lower parts, he jerked away. “I’ll send the geek to your office. Get inside before that flake over there recognizes you.”

  My head was reeling so badly that I could barely glance out the window to the blue-jeaned kid studying Andre’s slick Mercedes. I pushed open the door and slid out without comment. I was so not ever opening my mouth again.

  Andre kept the car between me and the door until I slipped inside. He’d probably only been hiding me from reporters, and I’d been imagining the passion but . . . wow. Just wow. Four-eyed gimps simply didn’t get kissed by sex machines. Ever.

  Still trying to wrap my head around that spit exchange, I checked the darkened interior of the club. Sarah was sweeping the floor on the far end by the stage. She glanced up at my entrance.

  I’d have to open my mouth to talk. I couldn’t walk around in a daze like a high school nitwit who’d just locked braces. I didn’t want to be fired, but I didn’t want Andre taking advantage of me, either. My head said, Back off. The rest of me wasn’t so sure about that. The man kissed like dynamite.

  He kissed like dynamite because he had experience, my head corrected. And he’s dangerous. The man had had more women than I’d had years, months, and probably weeks. I didn’t want to be anyone’s special of the day.

  “Andre says I have an office,” I said to Sarah, passing the bare tables with chairs slung over them. For some reason, half the tables had turned a bilious green—the Zone’s opinion of last night’s act or the food? “Tell me it isn’t the broom closet.”

  Sarah smiled tentatively and laid the broom against a table. “Andre had them partition off Ernesto’s office. I’ll show you.”

  “Did you hear any of the discussion?” I asked, feeling safe talking to someone who practically disappeared into the woodwork, except for the hooters, of course. Maybe Sarah’s diffidence was a result of the stares she attracted. “Why did they decide I needed to be hidden?”

  “I try not to listen,” she said apologetically. “It’s not any of my business.”

  “I’m beginning to suspect that in the Zone, everything is everyone’s business. Keep your ears open, if only for your own good.” I was regurgitating Andre’s earlier speech, I realized. I hated to admit it, but he had a point.

  A strand of her frizzy hair fell across her face as she stared at her feet and nodded. She was starting to remind me too much of me, and I wasn’t liking the picture.

  Ernesto had a fancy mahogany paneled door with an engraved brass name plaque. I entertained evil ideas of insisting on a plaque of my own as Sarah turned the knob and showed me what they’d done.

  The f
ront right-hand corner had been partitioned off into a cubicle so my desk was the first anyone saw as the door opened. Ernesto would be livid. I wasn’t much happier, since my cubicle had no door and no way of shutting out his wandering hands. I contemplated fastening a paintball machine gun to the battered metal desk they’d found for me. The ugly fluorescent overheads cast a bad light across both spaces. Ernesto’s desk was black and shiny and littered with expensive chrome accessories. Mine was empty.

  Still, it was a desk, when I’d had none before. I just couldn’t figure out what I’d do with it.

  A male voice suddenly erupted from the barroom. “Anyone here?”

  In an instant, Sarah had vanished. In her place, a chimpanzee wearing baggy jeans clung to the top of the partition.

  And just like that, with Milo leaping from my bag to examine the chimp’s feet, I knew I could no longer blame these Zone phenomena on hallucinations.

  9

  “Okay, I didn’t see that coming,” I muttered, wondering if I ought to reach up and haul the chimpanzee down before she collapsed the partition of my brand-new office.

  The Zone could turn us into chimps? Should I run like hell or admire the entertainment?

  “Who is it?” I yelled back instead, afraid to leave Milo alone with a chimp. Or Sarah. Or whatever in hell had happened here. Those sure looked like Sarah’s shoes discarded on the floor, and that was Sarah’s tank top clinging to monkey shoulders. The baggy jeans had slid off but the top covered her.

  “Andre said someone named Clancy needs a geek?” called a voice from the lounge.

  “Okay, be right there.” I studied the chimp. “Sarah? Will you be all right if I go out there and close the door?”

  The chimp glanced at the drop to the floor, and I caught on. I dashed back to the lounge, waved at the short guy nervously peering at obscene murals, grabbed a chair, and zipped back into my office. I set it beneath the chimp’s feet, and she nodded, reaching for the chair back with her toes.