“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.
He comes to a skidding stop at the curb, and I don’t waste any time shuffling through the crowd of people and suitcases on the sidewalk and hopping inside the back seat. I toss my leather backpack, the only luggage I brought with me to LA, into the spot beside me.
“Where to?”
“Greenwich Village,” I answer and then elucidate by giving him the address to my brother Ty’s apartment building.
He nods, taps the meter on the dashboard, and hits the gas without a second thought. In true New York cabbie style, we’re careening into the airport traffic in balls-to-the-wall, offensive-driver fashion. He swerves between cars, ignores the honks of other drivers, and I pull my phone out of my pocket to check for any missed notifications while I was on my flight back from the West Coast.
Most people would probably be too focused on whether they were about to get killed by a taxi driver, but when you’ve been a New Yorker your whole life, erratic driving doesn’t make you blink an eye.
Besides texts from an anxious—and annoying—Ty, I find an unexpected message in my inbox.
C: Love is in the air.
I smirk to myself and type out a response.
Me: And so is a 12% return on your investment this quarter. PS: You know the rules, Cleo. No love bullshit.
That’s right. I invest money for a fucking psychic. For fourteen years and counting, to be exact.
Frankly, I don’t know what it is about the woman, but I’ve grown to find her strangely likable over the years. Like an eccentric, wacky aunt I can’t get away from.
In my defense, though, from the very start, I set the ground rules of our weird pseudofriendship, or whatever you want to call it. It only revolved around one task—predictions about my love life are off the table. She might be batting a thousand so far with her prophecies for my brothers, but that doesn’t mean I want to buy into all that nonsense. These days, occasional dates and one-night stands when I’m feeling froggy are about as close as I get to a relationship. It’s easier that way. Less risk. Less complications. Less fucking nonsense. Exactly the way I prefer it.