Breaking the Rules

Breaking The Rules

Jennifer Lewis

Prologue

“I
t’s your last night of freedom, Joe. Your choice. You get your future foretold or you get a tattoo.”

Joe Figueroa adjusted his white sailor hat and looked from one Second Avenue storefront to another. A neon hand crisscrossed with lines hovered in front of a velvet curtain in the first. A thousand wrinkled, yellowed drawings clung to the glass of the other.

“What happens if I don’t want either?”

“Then you’ll have to fight me and you don’t want to get your pretty white uniform all dirty.”

Joe looked at the scrawny pink-faced kid making the threat and laughed. They all wore the same “milkman” uniform that identified them as raw recruits in the Navy.

“Go on Joe, get the tat,” called the big kid from Philly.

“Yeah, a well-stacked broad, right there on your chest where you’ll appreciate her assets when you’re alone in your bunk out on the ocean.”

“Nah, Joe’s going to get ‘mom’ tattooed over his heart. He’s a momma’s boy, you can tell.”

“Leave my mom out of this.” His words emerged with an unintended edge that spoke of the guilt he felt at leaving her alone. But his dad would have been proud to see him join the Navy. He planned a life that’d make his dad smile down from heaven.

“No way I’m gonna mark up this perfect physique. I’ll take my chances with the fortune-teller. Let’s see what my grand future has in store for me. You lugs wait out here.”

A bell tinkled as he pushed open the heavy steel door and stepped into the darkened space behind the curtain. An unusual aroma filled his nostrils, an exotic incense that made him smile. A taste of the strange and exciting experiences waiting for him on the other side of the world.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he made out a small, round table with a crystal ball sitting all alone on the black velvet cloth. Something brushed against his ankle, and the resulting shot of adrenaline made him flinch.

Just a cat. A black cat.

“Hey, anyone here?” His voice, deep with forced bravado, swirled around him like the scented smoke that curled in the air.

Maybe just a small tattoo on his back…

A door creaked open in the wall behind the table, and a dark-clad figure entered the room.

“Be seated.” The soft voice surprised him, feminine, the voice of a young woman. A furtive glance suggested she was about his own age. And pretty.

Joe lowered himself into the wooden chair, hitching up his fitted sailor pants.

“You have three choices.”

“Yeah?” Another flash of nervous energy jolted him. She could just look at him and tell he had three choices in life?

“I read your palm for five dollars, I read the tarot cards for ten dollars, or for fifteen I look into my seeing globe.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” He wanted to laugh at his own seriousness, but the solemn atmosphere silenced him.

He glanced at the ball sitting on the ornately carved black stand. The orb shimmered in the flickering light from the incense burner, opaque, mysterious, promising a glimpse of the bright future he was eager to begin. “The crystal ball, please.”

She held out her hand. Slim, long fingered, pale in the half-light, palm raised toward him. He battled a sudden, unexpected urge to seize it and press his lips into the soft flesh.

“Fifteen dollars, please.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his billfold, carefully separated the crisp notes, then placed them on her palm. As she curled her fingers around the notes, he looked up into her face. What he saw there made him catch his breath.

Dark eyes shaded by thick lashes fixed him with an inquisitive stare that made his palms tingle. Her lips parted slightly, as if in surprise, and she blinked shyly. The sloe-eyed beauty looked almost as nervous as him.

He pushed a smile to his lips, wanting to set her at ease, wanting to set himself at ease. But she simply looked down at the ball as she slid his money into a fold of her shapeless black garments.

“Can you really see the future in that thing?” He shifted in his chair, trying to diffuse the tension, make some small talk with the pretty fortune-teller.

“Quiet please. I must concentrate.” She pressed her lips together. In the dim light they were dark, the color of rosy fall apples, of temptation. Quite a babe, this fortune-teller. Joe settled back in his chair, ready to enjoy the view for a few minutes. Get his fifteen bucks’ worth one way or another.

Her straight, shiny black hair hung past her shoulders to where her breasts must be hidden beneath her black top. He wondered what kind of breasts she had. Small and pert, or full and heavy? Were her nipples pale shell pink or dark like the bruise from a love bite?

Ouch. He shifted again. These tight white pants didn’t hide much.

She didn’t wave her hands around the ball or mutter any incantations the way he might have expected. She simply looked into the milky sphere, eyes keenly focused, face taut with concentration.

Her features were delicate yet strong, proud cheekbones and slightly pointed chin forming a heart shape. The dark fall of hair hid her ears and he wondered if she wore big hoop earrings like a fairground gypsy.

“Are you a gypsy?” He couldn’t resist asking as the thought occurred to him. There was something exotic and otherworldly about her that triggered his imagination.

“Yes.” She looked up, startled from her intense contemplation. “I am Romani.” She stared at him for a moment. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“No.” Her sudden hostility surprised him. And intrigued him. “Just curious.”

She regarded him for a second, black eyes filled with suspicion, before turning her gaze back to the crystal ball.

Her pursed lips parted for an instant, then snapped shut. A little prick of fear spiked in Joe’s gut. Did she see something there that made her hesitate to tell him?

“What?” He cleared his throat.

“Something unexpected.”

“Yeah?” He tried to sound casual as he shifted on the uncomfortably hard wooden chair.

“It concerns…
love
.” As she said the word
love
, she glanced up at him and pinned him with her haunting gaze for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to suck the breath from his lungs and set his heart pounding.

Her eyes dropped back to the ball, but her rosy lips twitched as if more words danced on her tongue. Her dark lashes flickered, blinking at what she saw.

“Love?” The word felt alien on his tongue, like an unknown word from a foreign language.

His gut tightened as he remembered his dad’s words, rasped harshly as the emphysema stole his last breaths: “Love makes a life, son.” He hadn’t understood it then, and he didn’t understand it now, but he’d damn sure try.

He leaned forward, tried to make out something in the milky glass, but saw nothing but his own distorted reflection. A big, raw-boned kid in a goofy sailor getup.

She squinted slightly as she peered into the depths.

Smoky curls of the sweet, heavy incense hung around him, stinging his nostrils, heightening his senses. For the first time he noticed the soft beat of a drum seeping through the walls, pounding a steady rhythm, echoing the elevated beat of his heart.

“Tonight,” she intoned softly, lashes flickering over her lowered eyes. “Tonight you will meet the woman you are destined to spend your life with.”

CHAPTER 1

Ten years later

H
e had a bone to pick with that fortune-teller. The love of his life? Yeah, the bane of his existence, more like.

Joe strode along Second Avenue, pushing through the happy hour throng gathered on the sidewalks in the hot mid-summer dusk. The sickly-sweet scent of steaming garbage mingled with the smell of hot pierogies, chicken fried rice and raw fish being chopped for sushi.

Home.

It was an odd relief to be back in the city. He’d grown up in Brooklyn and maybe he’d go back there one day, but right now Manhattan, with its teeming crowds of anonymous strangers, was the place for him.

He scanned the storefronts, looking for that neon hand. He’d seen a few of them dotted around the East Village, but he was one hundred percent sure that the one he needed was right here on Second Avenue. He wasn’t sure what block, though. Between Ninth and Tenth streets? Nope.

Seventh and Eighth? Fire burned in his gut, along with the two hotdogs-with-everything he’d shoved down there as he wandered the blazing streets. The bulky leather bag slung over his shoulder carried the only possessions he’d bothered to bring with him. Linda could have the rest, along with the house. Material things mattered far more to her than they did to him.

They mattered more to her than he ever had.

Maybe the storefront was gone? Ten years was a long time. Maybe she’d moved or gone out of business or been arrested for fraud? Messing up people’s lives with phony predictions should come with a stiff penalty.

He should have gone with the tattoo. He had more than one now anyway. And recently had one very painfully removed. The raw patch of skin still itched and burned.

A flash across the street caught his eye. Sun glinting off glass, momentarily obscuring the familiar curves of neon tubing shaped into an outward-facing hand.

Stop
! That was what the hand said to him now. If only he’d had that reaction ten years ago.

A fresh flush of anger goaded him across the street. He strode through honking traffic right up to the scuffed metal door leading into the storefront.

He hesitated for a second, steadying himself, hand on the worn brass knob.

He’d been to hell and back and had the scars to prove it–inside and out. He’d stared death in the face and survived the death of his dreams. What was he doing here? Did he really think scolding some phony fortune-teller would make him feel better?

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing any more, and it scared him. He was just trying to put one foot in front of the other and keep on keeping on. With that thought, he pushed hard on the heavy door and stepped blindly into the smoky darkness behind it.

The rich, heavy incense stung his eyes as he waited for his vision to penetrate the dim atmosphere. The table was there, velvet cloth hanging to the floor, with the big glass ball glowing ominously in the shimmering light from the incense burner. The wood chair still stood in front of it, waiting to support the squirming backsides of gullible strangers.

He saw the outline of the door in the dark wall behind the table. Suddenly it cracked open an inch. Joe threw his shoulders back, clenched his gut as if anticipating a hard fist.

“You have three choices.”

“I know.”

Susana pushed out into the room, stifling a yawn. The man’s brusque response made her lift her eyes to get a look at him. From his response he sounded like a regular, but she didn’t recognize him.

Or maybe she did.

She narrowed her eyes, squinting through the smoke. Something oddly familiar about him sent a shiver along her vertebrae. His hardness jolted her: rigid posture, taut muscles, his hostile stare.

And those eyes.

Black in the darkness, his eyes spoke of pain that sent a sharp echo ringing through her. A pain strong enough to sap the life force of a man. To suck the energy out of those around him. A sorrow that feeds and grows, like a living thing.

She suppressed a shudder.

She’d seen more than her fair share of sad eyes. Hurt eyes, haunted eyes, desperate, bitter, lonely eyes. People didn’t come to a fortune-teller when their life was going the way they wanted. They came when they needed help.

“I read your palm for five dollars…”

“I’m not here for a reading.” He spat out the words, cutting her off.

Again she was struck by the odd sense of familiarity. Something about the cut of his jaw, the shape of his skull beneath the cropped dark hair, something about those eyes…

“Why are you here?” Curiosity swelled inside her like the opening notes of an unfamiliar tune.

“To see you.”

The force with which he spoke made her hold her breath.

Let him speak. He has something to say
.

She watched him, caution stinging her fingers and toes. She wasn’t naïve about the dangers of her profession. Alone in a darkened storefront with one troubled, needy stranger after another.

But she had the strength of her ancestors to guide and protect her. Their wisdom and otherworldly knowledge flowed in her blood. She walked among people, yet apart from them, separated from them by mysteries she could never explain.

“Are you some kind of witch?”

“No!” She bit back the indignation that surged at his accusation. The days of her kind being burned at the stake were over, at least for now.