Total Rush by Deirdre Martin Page B

Delaney said knowingly. “That’s not so weird.”
    â€œShe meditates.” His eyes shot to Leary’s. “She burns incense.”
    â€œSweet mother o’ God.” Leary let out a whoop of disbelief. “It’s The Stinker, isn’t it?”
    â€œThe Stinker!” Joe Johnson, ladder truck chauffeur, looked shocked. “You mean, the loony who lives below you who was burning garbage?”
    â€œShe’s not burning garbage,” Sean clarified, sounding—and feeling—semimiserable. “It’s incense.”
    â€œIncense that smells like Elizabeth, New Jersey, on a bad day,” Leary added.
    â€œYou’ve been bitching about The Stinker for months, bro!” Ojeda pointed out.
    Ted Delaney looked confused. “And now you like her?”
    â€œYeah. I mean—she’s really nice. And sweet. But she’s, you know, different.”
    â€œDifferent can be good,” Joe Johnson opined. “My wife changed her hair color last week. She looks ten years younger.”
    â€œWe’re talking about a woman here, you moron, not the pros and cons of Clairol.” Leary gave Sean a penetrating look. “You’ve talked to her since—?”
    Sean gave a quick nod. “Yeah. And we get along really well. But she’s quirky. I mean, I told her about eating smoke and getting headaches and she told me to chew on some kind of root.”
    â€œBet you want her to chew on your root,” Ojeda cracked.
    Sean seared him with a look and Ojeda slumped in his seat. The innuendo served only to remind Sean of how un-gallantly he’d behaved. He had woken up in a room that wasn’t his own with the backache from hell, beside a woman with an altar and a ritual knife, and his reflex was to run. So he left. It wasn’t until he was stretched out in his own bed that it crossed his mind how Gemma might feel, waking up to an empty bed and a hastily scribbled note.
    â€œHere’s some food for thought, Kennealy.”
    Sean turned to the far end of the table, where Chris “Socrates” Campbell sat. Socrates had earned his nickname because he felt compelled to add what he thought were insightful comments to any conversation. Sometimes they actually were insightful.
    â€œIf you like this woman, what do you care if she’s different?”
    Because if there’s one thing I want, it’s to continue fitting in. I want to be normal, Sean answered to himself. Hooking up with a witch who ran an occult shop was not a smooth fit for the company’s summer barbecues. Still, Socrates had a point.
    Â 
    Â 
    â€œ Am I doing this right?”
    Uther Abramowitz’s reedy voice brought Gemma back to herself. They were in her store, nearly done with his first tarot lesson, and somewhere between explaining to him why he needed to learn the meaning of each card and showing him how to do a three-card spread, her mind had drifted back to her night with Sean. The neediness in Uther’s voice made her feel guilty. Here he was paying her money to learn tarot, and what was she doing? Daydreaming. Gently removing the tarot deck from his grasp, Gemma showed him again what to do.
    â€œYou shuffle the deck, and then you ask the querent—remember, that’s the person who wants the reading—to cut the deck into thirds with his left hand. Then have them turn over the top three cards, and put them in any order they want. The first card denotes the past, the second the present, the third the future. This reading is good for someone who wants a specific question answered. You can also do the one card read I showed you earlier.”
    Uther stroked his straggly beard. “Can we try it? I mean—can I ask a question and see what happens?”
    â€œOf course.”
    Gemma handed him the deck, unprepared for the directness in his eyes as he shuffled the deck.
    â€œWill I ever find my lady love?” he intoned solemnly, staring