“So…she’s safe? In California?”
That’s where she got the job offer that altered our entire course. She wanted us to go, and I didn’t want to move to the West Coast when my entire family was on the East. She couldn’t understand where I was coming from and, ultimately, chose the job over me.
Because you made her choose. I shake my head to clear it again. Whose fucking side are you on? I ask my brain before shutting it off completely.
Miss Cleo nods. “Very much so.”
There’s a part of me that wants to ask more questions about Charlotte. That wants to dig deeper and try to figure out what she’s feeling and thinking and if she’s as miserable as me, but I know that’s not going to help anything.
I have to focus on my future now—my version of it. Not Cleo’s love-drunk, hippie-dippie, second-chance shit. Truthfully, who even knows if this woman really has psychic abilities. I mean, sure, she got my whole left-at-the-altar situation right, but that was one thing. She also said all three of my brothers were going to find love, and I’ve yet to see a single one of them settle down. Quite the opposite, in fact. Jude appears to be on a mission to fuck every woman in New York.
I need to focus on me and my work and my clients and building my business. The biggest favor I could do for myself at this point is to get piss-in-a-golden-toilet rich and drown my sorrows in big-ass piles of money.
“Are you still taking on investment clients?” Cleo asks suddenly, breaking me out of my thoughts and, frankly, sending my balls a little farther into my body.
I meet her eyes with a furrowed brow. “Excuse me?”
Damn. Maybe she really can hear everything I’m thinking.
“Investment clients, my dear,” she repeats with a wink. “I have some money I’d like to invest, and I think you’re just the man to do it for me.”
“But you’re a fucking fortune-teller,” I blurt out on a shocked laugh. “I appreciate the confidence in my skill, but wouldn’t yours be more of a sure thing?”
“Oh, Remington, my moral compass doesn’t allow me to predict things revolving around money, and I would like to stop renting and purchase my own building while there’s value in it.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why won’t your moral compass let you fuck with money? It sure as hell doesn’t stop you from screwing around with other shit.”
“Haven’t you heard, my dear? Money is the root of all evil, and I only like to utilize my abilities for good.”
“Like telling me I was going to be left at the altar a week before my wedding?” I snap back. “That felt like a good thing to you?”
“I don’t make things happen, sweet Remington. I only convey the message. And fate isn’t done with you yet, I promise.”
I sigh, and she jumps from her seat excitedly. “I’ll get you a check.”
Pretty sure this will be the first time in my investment and day-trading career that I’ll be investing a psychic’s money. Hell, this might be the first time in the history of the stock market something like this has occurred. I have a hard time believing Warren Buffett takes on kooky, Tarot-card-reading clients under his hedge fund.
I pause and run a hand through my dark hair. “Fine. But if you’re going to be vague, so am I. When it comes to your investments, you’ll just have to watch and wait for the results.”
“Oh, Remington, my dear.” Cleo just smiles that stupid, all-knowing smile of hers. “I look forward to the friendship that will blossom between us.”
Friendship? I’m sorry…what?
I can’t exactly picture grabbing a beer with this woman on the weekends, let alone sitting around and gabbing while she makes scrambled eggs out of my brain.
“I’ll get the check,” she says again before my mind can quiet enough to come up with a coherent response, and she heads toward her secret back room. “And consider today’s reading on the house.”
And then, she’s gone, through the dark curtains and out of sight, leaving me sitting there, a fully executed check on the table in front of me as if by magic, wondering, what in the hell just happened, and why do I get the feeling it’s not over?
Fourteen Years Later…
Saturday, July 20th
Remy
I step through the exit doors of JFK airport, and sweat starts to dot my brow before I can even wave down a taxi.
Late July is notorious for being hot as fuck in New York, and the constant influx of traffic and tourists doesn’t help the matter. We all might as well be ants under a magnifying glass while the neighborhood bully, Scumbucket Billy, tries to incinerate us.
With one sharp whistle from my lips and a wave of my right hand, I make eye contact with a cabbie with a beard, a backward cap, and a goatee that would’ve been the epitome of fashion in the early nineties.