Fortune. Erica Spindler
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you did, anyway.” The woman looked down at her daughter, obviously angry. “Get inside. Now.”
“But, Mom—”
“Now!”
The girl obeyed, but not before sending her mother a petulant look. The fortune-teller turned to Chance. “I’m sorry. Skye is a bit strong-willed.”
“That’s what you call it. I call it spoiled. And selfish. Keep her away.”
He turned and started off. The woman stopped him. “What was she trying to help you with that almost got you killed?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Some of the other boys gave you that shiner, didn’t they?”
“What if they did?”
The woman’s lips lifted. “Skye always roots for the underdog. She can’t stand to see other people being mistreated. I think it’s because she’s been the underdog so often.”
“That’s her problem. I don’t need any help.”
“I can see that.” Her gaze seemed to see much more than his surface bruises as it settled on his face—she seemed to see clear to his soul. He shifted uncomfortably.
“There’s nothing wrong with needing help,” she said softly.
“I don’t need help.” He scowled as ferociously as he could. “Especially hers. Just keep her away from me.”
He took a step backward, then with a final glare, swung in the direction he had come.
“I’ll tell your fortune for free, if you’d like. To repay you for your trouble.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “No, thanks. I already know what my fortune is. I don’t need some sideshow huckster to tell me.”
She arched her eyebrows. He sensed, rather than saw, her amusement. “Really? Are you a clairvoyant?”
“I don’t need to be.” He tipped his chin up, daring her—or the whole fucking world, for that matter—to defy him. “I know what my fortune is, because it’s in my own hands. And I know I won’t let myself down.”
“And you’re the only one who won’t. Is that it?”
“That’s right.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I suppose you’re going to tell me differently?”
“Not me. Life’s rough all over.”
Something in her knowing expression grated. He narrowed his eyes. “Screw you. Leave me alone.”
Again he turned and started to walk away. Again she stopped him, though she spoke so quietly he could hardly make out what she said. Even as he told himself to keep walking, he swung to fully face her. “What did you say?”
“Forgive the man with the long beard and plain ways, he was only doing what he thought best.”
She was talking about his uncle Jacob. Prickles ran up his spine. How did she know about him?
A trick, he told himself. She had looked him over; she probably knew about the circumstances of his coming on at Marvel’s and had figured out his background. People like her, who made their living tricking people, were adept at putting two and two together in a convincing way.
Hell, considering that they had been in the heart of Amish country, it wasn’t even that good a trick. He told her so.
She simply smiled. That small, knowing smile bugged him, and he stiffened, angry. Defensive. “You, lady, are a fraud, your powers are no more than a parlor trick. A sideshow gag. In life what you see is what you get. Period.”
At his own words, his mother’s image filled his head. With it, thoughts of her and all the things she had seen and wanted. All the things she had never obtained.
As he looked at Madame Claire, he thought—believed in his gut, startlingly—that she knew exactly what he was thinking. That she, too, could see his mother as clearly as he did.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he backed away, understanding now why all the other troupers steered clear of Madame Claire. Understanding her power over them.
“Just leave me alone,” he said finally when he had found his voice. “And keep your brat daughter away from me, too.”
Chapter Ten
Skye sat cross-legged on the bed, her sketch tablet before her, open to a drawing in progress. It was a drawing of a toad—an ugly one with warts and a distorted face. He was cowering before another creature, a princely, handsome frog, one complete with bulging muscles and a gold crown.
Skye selected an emerald green pencil and carefully added a few final strokes of color to her handsome frog. She had been working on the drawing for days. It was for Chance. A peace offering. An apology.
The toad was Len. The frog Chance.
And she was the pesky little fly, buzzing around his head.
Skye frowned, remembering the way she had acted and the things he had said to her. In truth, in the past week she had thought of little else.
You’re a know-it-all and a pest. You’re ruining my life. I want you to buzz off, scram, get lost.
Make me. It’s a free country, and if I want to follow you I will.
Skye moaned, her cheeks hot. How could she have acted that way? How could she have been such a jerk? Such a spoiled brat, just like he’d called her?
Skye moved her gaze over the drawing. She had only wanted him to like her. She had only wanted to be his friend.
She still did.
Tears stung her eyes and she tossed the colored pencil back into her box. She hated that. She hated that she cared what he thought about her. That she wanted him to like her. She had never given two flips what anybody thought about her before, and she didn’t like the way caring made her feel.
Really crappy. Like something that had crawled out from under one of the show’s Port-o-lets. Ugly and unlikable. No, she corrected herself. Unlovable.
That’s what she was—unlovable. The only person who had ever loved her was her mother. Even her father, despite what her mother said, hadn’t loved her. He hadn’t wanted her.
Skye squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the tears. The other day, after Chance left, she had told her mother everything. And her mother had sided with Chance.
That had hurt. Her mother had always sided with her before; she had always championed her daughter—even times when Skye had landed in the principal’s office. Skye had believed she always would.
That, more than anything her mother had said, made Skye see how badly she had behaved.
Skye drew her knees to her chest and pressed her face to them. She had been a bossy, little know-it-all pest. A big creep, she thought, her chest aching.
She didn’t like her either.
But she still liked Chance. She still wanted him to be her friend.
He wasn’t like the other boys with Marvel’s. He was smarter, for one thing. He worked harder, he didn’t drink or smoke pot or chase the local girls. And he always smelled good, even when he was working. She hadn’t figured that one out yet; the other boys sometimes smelled so bad she wanted to retch.
She liked his smile and the way he laughed. She liked the way he had faced down Len and his gross, toady friends—like the hero in a story would. Cool and kind of smart-alecky. As if he wasn’t afraid, not one bit.
She sighed. He was the coolest boy she had ever met.
Straightening, Skye cocked her head to the side, assessing