That Second Chance (Getting Lucky #1)(3)

“Oh, that tickles,” he whispers.

Silently we stare at her, watching her lightly sway with the wind breezing through the narrow streets of the French Quarter.

She takes a deep breath in through her mouth, eyes still shut, fingers now pressing deeply into Brig’s palm.

“I see . . . brothers.”

Oh, for Christ’s sake. Right there, see what I was talking about? Professional con artists, stating the absolute obvious.

“I have three of them,” Brig says, getting into it.

“Hell, I’m not drunk enough to watch this,” Rogan comments with a long groan and irritated stance. The palm reader flashes an eerie glare in his direction, sharp and calculating, before returning to Brig’s hand.

“They’re protective, with big hearts.”

“You betcha!”

I roll my eyes. How long is this going to take?

“They’re going to get you into trouble one day.”

Brig turns his attention on all of us. “You motherfuckers. I knew you would double-cross me eventually.”

The palm reader spouts off a few more generic things, Brig interjecting with his commentary the whole time, though I block the rest of the reading out. From what I can tell, it’s all bullshit. The lady is clearly just trying to make a few bucks off of drunk tourists.

When she opens her eyes, they settle on the three of us watching over our little brother. “Who’s next?”

Like the moron he is, Reid holds his hand out excitedly. “Please, for the love of all bare boobs on Mardi Gras, tell me I’m going to run my own restaurant again someday. I really need a break here, lady. Give Daddy the good news.” He bounces on his feet, pumping himself up for what I can only imagine is going to be one massive fabrication from this professional liar.

Rogan scoffs, the most outspoken among us, and presses his hand against Reid’s chest, backing him away from the palm reader. “You’re kidding, right? You didn’t tell Brig anything we didn’t already know. Why would we want to pay you another twenty dollars to hear about how we’re . . . I don’t know . . . wearing shoes, when we could be spending that money on soft pretzels with extra salt?”

Can’t agree with him more. “Yeah, we’re not interested. I’m sorry my brother smashed your table, though. I’ll keep a better eye on him.” I nod my head toward the lit-up street behind us. “Come on, dude, let’s go get a pretzel.”

“What I speak is the truth,” the palm reader insists, standing up and squaring her shoulders.

“Yeah, we know, because you said the obvious. He has brothers who are going to get him into trouble.” I roll my eyes again. “Pretty sure our three-year-old nephew could have predicted that.”

“Yeah. Sorry, lady.” Rogan helps Brig to his feet. “You’re a hoax.”

“Here.” I reach into my pocket, wanting to solve the problem quickly and get the hell away from this lady. “Here’s forty more dollars for a new table. I’m sorry Brig’s beignet butt smashed it.”

Looking irritated, the lady comes closer. “What I do is not a hoax. It’s sent to me straight from the cosmic forces above.”

A strangely chilly gust of wind whips by us as we all take a moment to glance around, silently communicating about the batshit crazy woman in front of us. And almost in unison, we throw our drunk heads back and guffaw.

Midchuckle, Rogan holds on to Brig for support and gasps, “Cosmic forces! Shit, that’s good.” He wipes at his eye.

She shoots a venomous glare in our direction, spending at least five seconds apiece on each of us, never wavering her stare, only letting it grow more and more intense. We fall silent, our laughter blowing away with the wind.

Sheesh, she’s fucking scary.

“You’ll regret this,” she sneers.

Okay, this is getting to be a little too intense. Time to get out of here. But Reid seems to have other plans, his anger taking over. Classic Reid. I can see it in his shaking shoulders, in his clenched jaw: the anger he harbors for other reasons has surfaced and is about to come out.

“Oh surrrre.” His voice drips with sarcasm. Typical Reid. Placing my hand on his stiff chest to calm him down, I start to guide him away.

But not quickly enough . . .

Another gust of wind blows past us, this one stronger than the other, pushing me back a step as street trash whips around us. When I turn to the lady again, she’s standing with her arms spread, head tilted toward the dark sky. Her velvet robes blow angrily in the strengthening wind.

With bone-chilling conviction, her words pour forth:

“Those who belittle and make others feel worse will feel the ungodly wrath of my curse.” Snapping her head forward, she eerily points to all of us, and we draw close together as the wind blasts us from behind. “Listen to me, to the words I have spoken.” Her voice grows stronger, louder, more sinister. “From this day on, your love will be broken. It isn’t until your minds have matured that the weight of this curse will forever be cured.”

She slams her arms down to her sides, and the wicked winds die down, the litter that was whirling around us like some kind of tornado feathering down to the street. The palm reader stands idly, eyes lasering in on us.

What the fuck just happened?

Reid and Brig are gripping tightly to my arms; Rogan’s knuckles are white as they clutch Brig’s shoulder. I scan each of my brothers, making sure no one has turned into a rooster head or any crazy shit like that. Together, we take a deep breath, and—