“I’m trying to be,” I say, my explanation coming out like a plea.
Sam bites his lower lip, uttering a thoughtful noise before dropping his hand. I drag in a trembling breath and turn my head away from him, shaking his effect from me. Sam turns back to the bar and takes up my vacated stool. I walk away from him on trembling legs, brushing past the fat doorman as I flee.
Once outside I take a gulp of cool night air and spot Luanne chatting up some seedy looking bikers. I made the right decision. Sam James ticks every box on my ‘Cons’ list and I won’t repeat my past mistakes. That he wants me is clear; it’s the what-for that concerns me. My alarm bells are stubbornly silent, but my brain’s telling me he’s no good. Now I just need my body to believe it.
Chapter 5
“First new voice message.”
“Eleanor Susan O’Keefe, this is your mother calling. Call me back the instant you get this message, missy. I have some very important news to share and you’re ruining the excitement.”
Oh no, I completely forgot to call my mom back. Ignoring her only means that the conversation will be longer and with a lot more ‘I told you so’s.’ It’s not that I don’t enjoy talking to my mom, I do, but she’s always been the one to warn and lecture me about men, and I really don’t need her to remind me that men are scum right now. Tim’s already taken care of that for me. I press the number 7 on my keypad, deleting her message.
“Message deleted. Second new voice message.”
“Ellie, it’s me. Listen, we need to talk. I know I messed things up but if you’ll just hear me out, I think we can work through this. Call me back when you get this message. I miss you, babe.”
I stare blindly at the phone in my hand. He misses me, babe? He misses me, babe! Two weeks without a peep from him and now he wants to talk? I press the keypad violently this time, deleting his message, and trying to stamp down the lump growing in my throat. I caught him making couch-coitus with ‘Suzy Botox,’ so why does my heart still flutter at the sound of his voice? I shove the phone back into my purse and make my way to the front of the Bath Shop.
It’s been a slow workday; we’ve only had a handful of customers and they’ve mostly been old ladies stocking up on rose powders and fancy talc. Amber’s been absolutely no help, working silently on some kind of doll in her shadowy corner rather than lifting a finger to help me.
I walk over to her and squint into the dim light, watching as she deftly moves a needle in and out of the doll’s side. The eyes and mouth have been replaced by black, crisscrossed x-marks. “That’s not a gift for your niece, is it?” I ask cautiously.
“No, it’s for Noel.”
“Noel? As in your ex-boyfriend Noel? What does he want with a doll?”
“The doll isn’t for him,” she says, her eyes focused sinisterly on her threadwork. “It’s for me.”
“I don’t get it.”
Amber rises from her seat and hands me the doll. It’s incredibly detailed. The doll’s wearing a tiny black and white Slayer t-shirt, skinny black jeans, and little painted on Converse shoes. Red spiky hair is sewn into its scalp and there’re little silver balls protruding from the ears. “Amber,” I whisper, following behind her, “is this a voodoo doll?”
Amber, favoring me with a smile she generally reserves to celebrate other people’s pain, takes the doll from my hands and makes her way to the counter.
“Does it work?”
“Oh, it works.” She smirks.
I wouldn’t normally give any credence to Amber’s ‘withcraftery,’ but there might be something to this voodoo doll business. I saw Noel recently and the guy looked bad, and that’s really saying something for a guy whose normal appearance might be described as vampire-on-heroin chic.
“How does it work?” I ask.
“Well, it helps if you design the voodoo doll with some of the same characteristics of the person you want to curse. The more accurate the depiction the better. Once the doll is made, you need to perform a ritual to bind its spirit with that of your victim. Then the pain comes.” She says this in such a way, I swear you would think she was a kid talking about what Santa brought her for