The thing was, Apollo and I had a strong similarity. We were hard workers.
The others worked hard in their own way, don’t get me wrong. Winston’s medicine, Sylvester’s music career, all of these took hard work. And all that’s before we’d been handed the keys to massive international businesses and told to get on with it. Jude had been a Navy SEAL, for god’s sake!
But for Apollo and I, ‘work’ was an obsession in itself, rather than a means to an end. We both shared a drive of self-improvement, of achieving higher... deep down, of trying to prove something. To who, I was not sure, in either my own case or Apollo’s.
But I did know one thing.
This town wasn’t big enough for the both of us.
One of us would have to go.
RIA
Igrowled into the mirror. As if my mirror-self, and not I, was responsible for my current lateness.
My mirror self was a grown woman struggling, spray bottle in one hand and hairdryer in the other, to straighten out a crease in her blazer. I sighed. Would the fancy businesspeople at today’s event be able to tell it was a knock off? Surely, rich people couldn’t care about brands as much as poor people did. They were supposed to have better things to do with their time.
Luckily, my potential clients would never see my bedroom décor, which was more suited for a teenager, though it had been ample years since I’d left teenagerhood behind. Six, to be precise.
I gave up and chucked some final water on the crease with the hope that it’d fall out en route to my destination. Everything else was just about ready to go. My banners, flyers and props were already packed up in a large hiking backpack that was more likely to cause further creases to my blazer than not.
But it couldn’t be helped. Times were hard, and without a car or much money, I’d be taking a variety of public transport to reach my destination.
As if to make me feel even more like I was back in my adolescence, I planned to exit my mother’s second floor apartment via the window. This was to avoid a prolonged conversation with my grandmother as I departed. She may be a psychic, but I’d never heard her renowned as a hypnotist. Yet somehow she had a way of drawing me into her conversations so that I lost track of time: usually debating whatever ridiculous thing she’d concocted that day.
I grabbed my phone and keys, shoved them into the pockets of my pants, and slid the window upwards so there was space to exit by, but not so much that an almighty gust of wind would cause my door to bang in its frame and alert my mom and nana to my secret departure.
But, as I set one foot on the windowsill, there came a noise from behind me. A pungent waft of the distinct scent of incense and tobacco followed.
Grandmother was here.
I froze, one heel locked onto the window’s edge, wondering if I never turned around if she would simply back away, close the door behind her and vanish.
But it was in vain.
“My child. Are you robbing us blind and planning to keep the profits? Or simply trying to leave without a trace, never to be seen by us again, no matter how many tears we cry?”
I exhaled lengthily. “Neither, Grandmother.” I turned around and unwedged my foot from the window frame. “I was just hoping to leave without being quizzed.”
“Maria, you’re twenty-five years of age. Are we not beyond such behavior?”
“You would think so.”
“It is fortuitous that I stopped you in time. Because, my darling girl, I’ve received a prophecy that pertains to you. From the beyond.”
I screwed up my face. “I have an important event to go to, gran.”
She never looked so indignant as when she was called gran. And she looked indignant quite often, so it really was a feat. “Grandmother to you, young lady!”
“Sorry, Grandmother. It’s important. It might get us money. Money, remember when we had that? Any of that? And now we need more of it?”
“You always were so materialistic.” She sighed dramatically. “Luckily for you, the prophecy mentions wealth. A wealthy man, in fact.”
My mind skipped uncomfortably to my meeting with a wealthy man the prior week. A certain infamous multi-billionaire called Apollo Brock, who seemed to have dealings with half the businesses in America. I wasn’t feeling great about accepting his money, as a matter of fact, and I didn’t want to be reminded about what a potential mistake I’d made in a prophecy by my mad old gran.
“I don’t need prophecies, gran. I’ve got work! And wealthy men are useful... if they plan to pay me for my services.”
My grandmother raised her eyebrow.