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There was only one person who could help her now. For a brief moment, she wondered why the streets were so quiet, but she was too busy trying to beat her thoughts down with a brain-based baton to ponder that any further.
She didn’t dare blink either, worried about what sights she might see behind her closed eyelids. But when her eyes started to well with tears, she had no choice but to blink really hard. Great, now she was crying, and since she couldn’t stop that now, she gave in and had a good wail.
Why was she the way she was?
What was wrong with her?
Of all the men in the universe, did she have to pickthemas fantasy fodder? Because they had surely stamped her ticket to hell. And she’d be shown blatant signs of where she was heading if she continued.
After her first wild, wet, and wanton dream about them, the universe showed her the error of her ways. Naturally, she’d chastised herself quite properly and then forgave herself because she wasn’t a perv. She was Holly Weaver, everyone’s favorite financial planner and all-around ungainly person. When it came tothem, she’d had a momentary relapse in lust’s way, and it would never happen again.
But the very next day after her dirty, well, filthy, never-to-be-dreamed-again dream, her goldfish died just out of nowhere, her coffee machine broke, and she lost her job. She hadn’t thought much about her sudden bad luck and where it was coming from until she saw them—awkwardly again, of course—at another jovial family lunch.
Then, after going home and taking an unexpected nap from the stress of seeing them again, she absolutely dreamed about themagain, in full, vivid surround sound. Shockingly, a pipe burst under her kitchen sink that morning, she had to cut off three inches of her hair when she roasted it with her previously perfectly fine-working curling iron, and then her car broke down. That’s when she realized she had cursed herself in the most terrible way possible.
Her dreams were wrong and forbidden, and the universe was teaching her a lesson.
Desperate to set things straight—she literally couldn’t afford any more bad luck—she did what anyone in her position would do. She consulted a psychic. Fyre Spirit.
Not only did Fyre become her instant best friend, but she promptly cured Holly of her dirty thoughts with three little gems and a cup of tea. But now they were wearing off, and she needed to replenish her protection.
Parking her car quite haphazardly on the sidewalk, Holly wrapped her coat tighter around her, marched across the cute little garden, and banged on the door. Then banged again and again.
“My fucking god, Holly. It’s two in the fucking morning. Have you lost your mind?”
“Yes, Fyre, I have lost my mind, and you need to fix it because this isn’t working anymore.” She pressed the bag of stones against her friend's chest. “Please? Pretty, pretty, please. I’ll do your laundry for a month. I’ll scrub your floors. I’ll be your slave, Fyre. Please fix me again.”
Fyre Spirit, also known as Felicity Smith, glared at her with so much exasperation in her eyes that Holly felt ashamed of herself. But then she remembered her dream and the chaotic bad luck that was bound to follow, and she got down on her knees to beg her friend. She was that desperate and had no pride left.
Oh, for goodness’ sake, Holly, get up off the floor. I swear if I didn’t love you, I would...”
“You love me?” Holly asked sheepishly. “Also, what are you wearing? Oh my god. You havecompany?” She whispered.
“I do not have company.”
“Then why are you dressed like that?” Her friend’s black lingerie, which left little to the imagination, was not everyday wear, for sure.
“Just because you like to wear that tattered, holey, sight-for-sore-eyes nightwear, I like to feel good in silk and satin, and it’s not a crime. What you’re wearing is, though... You look like a homeless person,” Fyre accused.
“Hey. Well, I smell nice on the inside, okay?” Holly said, lifting the front of her pajama top and stuffing her nose in there.
“I didn’t say you smell like a homeless person,” Fyre said as she led the way to her kitchen.
“Are you going to help me or not? Please help me.”
“Holly, you know those things don’t work, right?”
“They do. They worked for the last five years.”
“I had to repeat it seven times during the last five years.”
“So it works every eight point five, seven, one times. That’s an excellent average for something that doesn’t work.”
“I don’t understand how freaking smart you are on everything else except this one thing,” Fyre asked with true confusion in her beautiful green eyes.
“Because... just help me.”
“Fine. Sit down.”
