She took a chance on a big bluff, “Excuse me. You stole something of mine. A clear crystal.”
He yelped, jumping and coughing. “Fucking hell, don’t sneak up on me.” Mr. Sideburns hung up and stuck his phone in a holster clipped to his belt. He curled one corner of his upper lip and slid a beady-eyed leer over Helen’s figure, gaze settling on her breasts. “You again. Shouldn’t you be on your knees somewhere, keeping my roadies happy?”
Helen groaned. Like she hadn’t weathered far worse harassment and abuse working as a stripper. “Weak. As you know, I’m immune to slut-shaming, so you’ll need to broaden your repertoire. Now hand over my stuff.”
Mr. Sideburns threw away his trash and unclipped his phone. Smirking, he used a single finger to punch a key in slow-motion.
“Congratulations. You can use speed dial like a big boy. Cough up my property.” She stuck out an open palm, balling her other hand into a fist with her thumb on the outside. If threatened, she could bust out her self-defense skills on this douche. Rough him up a bit and search his pockets.
He snorted and scratched his stomach. “Coupla yellow jackets are gonna be here any second, so you have two choices. Leave with what remains of your dignity intact, or hang around and wait for my boys to toss you out on your fat ass.”
Oh, hell no. He did not just insult her bootylicious curves. Celebrities paid big bucks for a superbutt like Helen’s. This freaking guy and his issues with women could get bent. “Fuck off—”
“We have a problem here, Mr. Clyde?” a man with a voice like a peach pit in the garbage disposal interrupted.
Two hulks, the word “security” written on neon yellow shirts stretched across barrel chests, joined Helen and Mr. Sideburns. Equipment belts slung low on their hips showed off handcuffs and Tasers. Ah, right. Yellow jackets, right down to their stingers.
The snidest of smug victory smirks bent Mr. Sideburns’s lips. “Nah. Some psycho slut of Shepherd’s, begging to do everything under the sun for a shot at getting to him. Swear to God, man, the girls get crazier every year.”
“We good, miss? Moving along?” Speaking in a thick Russian accent, the other security man patted his baton. Three bruise-blue teardrops tattooed on the outer corner of one eye bragged of murders committed.
Helen mad-dogged Joe. “I’m not dropping this.”
“We better get to the airport, Mr. Clyde. Last flight to Cheyenne leaves soon.” The graying Sasquatch with the ruined voice led Sideburns away. The Russian followed.
“I’m not dropping this. Watch me. I’ll get my crystal back and stop whatever the hell—”
“Quiet, honey. Men are speaking.” Mr. Sideburns delivered the parting shot over his shoulder while bodyguards whisked him to a nondescript sedan in the parking lot.
Epic fail. Helen was racking up a fair number of those. She resumed casing the fairgrounds for Lisa. Her best friend wasn’t mad enough to ditch.
After ten or so minutes of navigating a moving tide of people, she spotted her friend’s black bob of hair and cat-eye glasses the color of jade. Picking at a taco wrapped in paper, Lisa sat on a bench by a prize booth and watched a trio of teenage girls blast rubber ducks with plastic water rifles.
The ever-present kaleidoscope of carnival lights ignited blue-black darkness, a frenzy of canary and magenta excitement flickering over Lisa’s unsmiling mouth and vacant gaze in burst after incongruous burst.
Helen sat beside Lisa on the bench, internally cringing at the sight of Lisa’s frown and distracted, unenthusiastic eating.
“Sorry to leave you hanging. I thought you’d be up for meeting the Fyre guys. Miscalculation on my part.” Before Helen could squash it, an awkward laugh bubbled out of her. A cruddy, spreading feeling followed, thick and greasy as motor oil. This was not going to go well.
Lisa tore off a sliver of soft tortilla and fed it to a loitering sparrow. “Yeah, well, there have been quite a few misfires lately, huh?”
The ambitious bird struggled to gulp down its outsized meal. Helen entertained the notion of making a joke about it and nixed the idea. The friends weren’t good yet, not by a long shot, and clowning wouldn’t solve the problem. It almost never did. No choice but to adult up and show accountability.
“I’m aware that we’re living this nightmare because of me. And I’m asking you to believe and trust me when I say I’m taking steps to fix the damage.”
Lisa scowled like the mere sight of Helen hurt her eyes. She gave a slight shake of her head and set her meal on the bench. “Then why did you dangle that bait about good news and not deliver? I’m mostly exhausted, though now I’m kind of worried.”
Enough stalling. Lisa would react to the truth however she’d react, and Helen couldn’t do jack to control her friend’s response. “You know the lady who all the pagans love?”
“The wicked fake witch of the upper Midwest? What’s she got to do with us?”
A bearish impulse, unusual in its maternal nature, surged in Helen. Nerissa was the only person with faith in her at the moment, and she didn’t deserve to be made into the butt of jokes.
“Don’t make fun of her.”
Lisa sent a frosty appraisal over Helen’s face and parted her lips. She smacked her forehead. “You got conned into another scam, didn’t you? Unbelievable. Unreal.”
The words were shards of glass in Helen’s ears, sharp and cutting, though brittle in their fragility. Lisa was hurting, too, and when wounded she lashed out. This common, shared trait added a complicated dimension to their kinship.
“I didn’t get conned.”
Not this time, though Lisa’s evocation of the blunder made heat rise up Helen’s neck. She touched her cheek and turned away from an incriminating look she wished carried more shock and disbelief. But no, Lisa expected a second imbroglio.
At the women’s sandaled
