“You know what you need to break you out of your slump?” Tiffany chirps from the passenger seat of the beat-up Toyota Corolla we share to carpool to work. I turn down the loud, vengeful Carrie Underwood song blasting through the radio and look at my best friend and roommate, already dreading her suggestion. “A psychic reading!”

“Oh, hell no!” I say laughingly, shaking my head to reiterate my point. The wind through the open windows ruffles my honey-blonde locks, sending them whipping around my face, further illustrating my ‘no’. We already have a tradition of Tiffany reading our daily horoscopes aloud every morning, so her suggestion isn’t completely out of left field. I don’t know if she’s a true believer or not, but the morning readings are usually in good fun, leading to laughter and attempts at straight-faced concern for ‘our future’, as Tiff usually says in a faux-spooky voice.

Except for the ones like this morning, something about trouble finding me. Uh, news flash, stars. Trouble already found me, and I kicked its ass to the curb like a boss. Well, okay, not like a boss, more like a freaked-out kitten scrambling to get away. But I fucking did it, and that’s what counts. So thanks for the warning, dear horoscope, but you’re a day late and a dollar short this time. Typical. Would’ve been a great caution notice months ago.

After enduring almost a year of progressively worsening hell at the hands of a prick whose name I refuse to even think, I have my good days more frequently now. Those days where I’m all ‘I am woman, hear me roar!’ and the idea of kicking ass and taking names is just natural.

Then I have my less frequent bad days, crying over stupid shit like our song on the radio or getting angry and being this close to banging on his door to give him a piece of my mind.

Both the good and the bad days are better than the rare dangerous days, though. Those are where I feel so alone that it seems like going back to that asshole, or an asshole like him, wouldn’t be all that bad. That’s when Tiffany usually jumps in to save me from my own bad ideas with pizza, happy hours, or root beer floats.

Luckily for me, today happens to be one of the good days, which is why I don’t immediately open a can of whoop ass on Tiffany for her wacky idea.

“You know I’ve never believed in that shit!”

From the passenger seat, Tiffany stops fiddling with her lipstick long enough to glare at me in exasperation. For the past twenty minutes, she’s been incessantly nagging me about getting on with my love life, a ritual she’s picked up ever since she thought I was okay enough to move on. Her advice to get over the last man is usually to get under another, at least for the night.

I get it. Tiffany’s the sort of girl who lets everything roll off her like water down a duck’s back, but these things take time.

“Don’t let one loser mess up your outlook on men for the rest of your life. Girl, there are plenty of fish in the sea, and you only need to catch one big one who will treat you right to see that they’re not all the same. To do that, you gotta keep your hook in the water, reel them in, and give them a look-see to decide if they’re a keeper or a toss-back-er.” She mimes like she’s pulling in a big fish on a line, as if she’s ever held a fishing pole in her life.

This coming from a chick whose last boyfriend left her in the pouring rain on the side of a back-country road after a two-minute session of heated passion. Apparently, he’d kicked her out and told her to walk her “stupid ass” home after she complained about his being a two-pump chump and took matters into her own hands to have an orgasm. Some men think that’s hot. He apparently didn’t. Though that might’ve been because Tiffany told him to “watch and learn a thing or ten about how to get a woman off.” The implication of his lack of prowess was a bit too much for his ego.

Of course, Tiffany’s got all the luck, and the fucker was pulled over by the cops a few miles later. He’d gotten mouthy with the wrong cop and got thrown in jail for a cool-down period. Best part? He called Tiffany with his one phone call and she hung up on him.

So she doesn’t have the best track record with successful relationships, but that doesn’t stop her from doling out sage advice to me. She usually tells me there’s no harm in looking for Mr. Right and Mr. Right Now at the same time. But today, it’s a different pep talk, so maybe she’s got that going for her.

“What harm could a little psychic reading do?” she asks in her country-girl accent that makes my twang look downright cultured, turning her attention back to the makeup mirror in the sun visor. She rubs her finger along her bottom lip, trying to get the look of her bright red lipstick just right. “You could use a good reading in your life right now . . . pun intended.”

I toss her a quick ‘don’t go there’ look and get a mischievous ruby red smile in return. Just my opinion, but I think Tiff needs to lay off a bit on the makeup. She’s pretty without out it, with her raven-black hair, luminous eyes, and pale porcelain skin, but I don’t bother saying so since I’m basically a walking billboard for L’Oréal and Estée Lauder.

Honestly, I wear heavy makeup for two reasons. Okay, I’m lying, maybe three.

One, Dolly Parton is my idol. Growing up with a cantankerous aunt as my only mother figure, I would often steal her Dolly records and listen to them for hours while studying the album covers. Sure, she was a bit old-fashioned even when I was a kid, but it didn’t matter. She looked awesome, this weird mix of cheap and classy at the same time. Dolly always pulled it off, no matter what, and owned her backwoods roots with no apologies. And so I modeled my look—hell my attitude—after her. Big hair, big lashes, big . . . well, maybe not her whole look, but I did what I could with what Mother Nature and Victoria’s Secret gave me.

Two, I’m a bartender and it kind of comes with the territory. You want to look your best every day for your customers, especially when most of your tipping clientele are men. The dim lighting of a bar requires a heavy hand since it doesn’t exactly lend itself to subtle barely-there natural looks. I need the extra volume of lashes to bat, the red lips to pucker, and the powder to look flawless as I work my ass off.

And three, I feel more confident with a layer of foundation on my face. I’m not sure why, but a part of me feels like it puts a barrier between me and whoever I meet . . . especially the men. I’m more comfortable when they see me but don’t see the real me, if that makes sense. So I never leave the house without my makeup.

It’s a habit that’s been impossible to break ever since . . .

Angrily, I steer my thoughts away from that mental trip down memory lane and press the gas as we pass a speed limit sign that says seventy, letting the hum of my engine act as a poor substitute for my mood. It’s times like these I wish I had something with a little more muscle . . . something that rumbled and screamed when I revved it up.

“Hey!” Tiffany presses. “Stop ignoring me! It could be fun, even if you don’t believe in it.”

“I’m not hearing you,” I reply, pushing the gas just a little more. “Besides, we don’t have time. Our shift starts in an hour. Stella will have our asses if we show up late.”

A slight smile plays across my lips as I think about Stella, our boss and owner of the restaurant and bar where we both work. A hard-working woman in her mid-fifties, she’s been like a mother to me ever since I went out on my own.

Tiff smudges her lips together and then lets them go with an audible pop. “Girl, please. You know those boys want to get their beers and whiskey from us. Stella wouldn’t know what to do without us. You need to live a little, loosen up, and have a little fun. Seriously, let’s do it!”

I grip the steering wheel tightly and feel an old, familiar ache in both of my wrists like a ghost as on the radio, Carrie wails about a cheating bastard who's going to get his just desserts. “I don’t know if I consider that fun. I’m just not into being told I’m going to die in seven days like that movie The Ring.”

Tiff huffs out a laugh and waves my comment away. “You’re not dying before me. Unless I kill you, of course. Which I might end up doing . . . sooner rather than later, if you keep being so stubborn.”

I tap the brake a little, causing Tiff to jerk forward. Her tube of lipstick falls to the floor and I grin faux-evilly at her.

“You bitch!” she yells, stretching her seatbelt so she can bend forward to retrieve it. She has to grunt as she finally snags it, giving me a death stare.

“That will teach you to threaten me.” My smile fades as quickly as it came as I apologize. “Sorry, did that a little harder than I intended.” I giggle.

Tiff is still set in her mission, brandishing the tube of lipstick like it’s a weapon. The bright red is only inches away from my perfectly contoured cheek. “An hour is more than enough time. Probably won’t take but twenty minutes.” She gives up on dotting me with the expensive and hard to remove lipstick, but she continues her plea. “And don’t be so quick to dismiss it. My Aunt Nelda went to one. And every word turned out to be true.”

“Seriously?” I ask incredulously. I can’t help but laugh, thinking about Tiffany’s aunt and all her crazy antics and quirks. “Your aunt doesn’t help your case at all! That lady scares me.”

Tiff snorts, laughing right along with me. “I can’t argue with that, but still . . . the story is true. They’ll probably just tell you that your dreams and aspirations are right around the corner if you keep working hard, which you know, obviously. It’s just reaffirming, but you need to hear if from someone other than me.” She shakes her head and starts in on her customary rant that I’ve heard at least a thousand times in the past few months. “You’ve got to start living again! Besides our shifts at Stella’s, you never go out anymore and always have some excuse. Ever since Rich . . .” Her voice trails off and she bites her lower lip as a burning sensation forms in my throat.

I cough, an uncomfortable silence filling the cabin. The only sound is country music pouring from my speakers and the rush of wind past the windows. But even in that din of noise, the silence is palpable. I have to force myself to stare out the front windshield as we head down the highway.

“I’m sorry, Maddie,” Tiff says softly, quickly. “I didn’t mean—” She stops as she sees my expression.

For a moment, my throat tightens and I can’t breathe. I count the white stripes of the road as they whiz by . . . one, two, three, four. Luckily, the panic passes quickly. I’m doing better. This time.

Damn it, and today started off so well.

I keep my eyes on the road, my expression neutral even though I’m angry. At Tiff for mentioning him, at myself for giving a fuck, and at him, of course. For everything.

I can’t get this worked up every time I hear his name, dammit! “It’s okay. Just please . . . don’t mention him again, ‘kay?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tiffany stare at me for a long moment. “Sorry. I won’t . . .” she says and trails off. I see the look in her eyes. She is sorry, but there’s more. Hope. She wants better for me and somehow hopes that she can help me find it and my old happy self again. “Maddie, I just think this could be good for you, something exciting and different.”

She’s still set on doing this reading thing. I open my mouth to refuse one last time, but I relent, thinking to myself, What’s the worst that could happen? It’s just a bit of cheesy fun to take my mind off everything.

“Swear that you’ll never ask me to do this again. And that you’ll accept that I’ll date when I’m good and ready,” I say.

Placing her hand over her heart, Tiffany nods. “I, Tiffany Donna Meyers, swear on my sweet little innocent unborn babies that you won’t hear another word out of my sexy ass . . . and by the way, if you’re wondering, the palm reading shop is on Third Street, directly on the way to Stella’s.”

I laugh and shake my head as I switch into the right lane and make my way to the nearest exit.

Maybe Tiff is right. Maybe I need to do something different . . . something I’d never normally do. Just something to shake my mind up and get me moving in the right direction again.

Never one to give in easily, I tease her. “You’re going straight to hell, you know that?”

Tiffany cackles evilly, delighted that she’s managed to win me over. “’Course I am. I’m driving the party bus there, but that’s why you love me.”

After following Tiffany’s directions, I pull up to a rough-looking section in downtown, several blocks from Stella’s. It’s the kind of area where you’d be scared to leave your car for more than five minutes out of fear of someone stealing it. Luckily for me, I’m poor, and anyone desperate enough to steal my beat-up piece of shit is probably so bad off that I might actually feel bad reporting them to the cops.

“Remember,” Tiffany tells me as we get out of the car and I double-check my locks, “keep an open mind and just have fun with it. She’s gonna reveal that you’re going to hit the lottery and get a super-hot husband, have beautiful little children, and a gorgeous home with a white picket fence. All that good stuff. Exactly what you need to hear.”

“Mmmhmm, sure,” I mutter halfheartedly, letting Tiffany lead the way past several run-down shops. Honestly, my expectations are about as low as they can get, which is good since then I won’t be disappointed.

“Here we are,” Tiffany cheerfully announces a moment later, stopping us in front of a neon sign that reads Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I exclaim, placing my hands on my wide hips and glaring at the sign and then Tiff. “Seriously, Tiff? House of Voodoo? I don’t want to put some voodoo hex on Rich. I just want to forget he exists.”

“Ooh, I didn’t even think about that, but a voodoo hex ain’t a bad idea.” She puts on an evil smirk before continuing, “But for real, the name’s just for attention, I’m guessing.”

I glance back at our vehicle, already wanting to leave. If I’m gonna do this, let’s at least do it someplace that looks and sounds legit.

“Oh, no, Miss Thing, you’re going inside,” Tiffany tells me as if sensing my thoughts, opening the door and giving me a pointed look. “Kicking or screaming. We have a deal, remember?”

I glower at her for a moment before giving up. It’s just a few minutes. Let’s just get this over with. Hell, if nothing else, maybe I’ll get a good laugh out of it. And if not, at least Tiff will be off my case.

I step past her and into the shop. There’s a small dark room with colorful paintings and murals all over the walls. I don’t get more than a second to check out details because the smell of strong incense immediately greets us along with a heavy accent. Jamaican, maybe. I’m not sure.

“I’ve been waiting for you two girls,” calls a deep-voiced woman from the back. “Come to me.”

I glance at Tiffany, whose eyes have grown as large as saucers, and then roll mine. “Oh, please,” I mutter, wanting to laugh. “She probably says that to everyone who comes in.”

“Shh!” Tiffany hisses, dragging me along to the back. “I don’t want no voodoo curse cast on me!”

It’s even darker in back, but my eyes have adjusted now and I can see. There’s a large round table in the middle of the room with a deep red cloth draped over it to the floor. A dark-skinned woman with a colorful rag wrapped around the top of her head and long, thick white dreads sits at it, two flickering candles on either side of her.

She gives us a warm smile when she sees us, flashing pearly white teeth and clasping her hands together cheerfully.

“Welcome, my children! My name is Marie,” she says, motioning at the two wooden chairs in front of the table. “Please, sit.”

We slowly take our seats. Before either of us can say anything, Marie looks pointedly at me.

“This reading is for you,” she says matter-of-factly, her smile ebbing away. “You are the one for whom the spirits have been talking to me . . . the forgotten daughter.”

Shocked, the hairs on the back of my arms prickle and my mouth drops a little. There’s no way she could know that my mom abandoned me at birth and that my aunt raised me.

“How did you—” I stop myself.

It was just a lucky guess. Nothing more. This woman is a fraud. She probably heard us outside. Or Tiff told her? Maybe this is a setup?

“You’re not a believer,” Marie says perceptively. “You think I’m a fraud.”

I’m a little taken aback by her forwardness, but she’s right. There’s no such thing as a psychic power. “Honestly, I don’t believe in this type of stuff—”

“No worries, child. This reading will be free,” Marie says, cutting me off and gesturing at my hand.

I glance with uncertainty at Tiffany, who gives me a gentle nod of approval. I look back to the woman, whose eyes haven’t left me.

“Your hand, child,” Marie demands impatiently, holding her hand out. “The spirits might be talking now, but they go silent on their own timetable, and I never know when they’ll be back.”

Shaking my head in disbelief, I let her take my hand and stare into my palm. After a moment, she takes a finger and traces it across my lines, tickling my flesh while appearing deep in thought.

She looks up at me, a small smile on her face. “You’re a Libra, aren’t ya, darlin’?” she asks.

I glance over at Tiff, who just grins and shrugs. “What . . . how did you . . .” I once again stop myself.

Another lucky guess. She’s got a one in twelve chance, and if she’s wrong, she just says that I have ‘Libra traits’ or something. Hell, the idea that Tiff is setting me up is starting to seem a little more likely right about now.

“Yep . . . yep.” She nods, muttering to herself as if she doesn’t hear me, her eyes never leaving my palm. “You’ve been hurt by someone recently . . . stuck in limbo. I see anguish and pain.”

I stop myself from looking over at Tiff this time, just taking it in. It’s nothing. Most people have been hurt by someone in their lives. Hell, you stretch the definition enough, we get hurt by people every day. Just think of tax season.

“Yep . . . yep . . .” Marie frowns, staring hard at my palm. “I see a scorpion . . .”

I grimace and Tiffany makes a face too. “A scorpion? Does that mean something?”

Marie doesn’t appear to hear as she whispers unintelligible mumbles to herself. But her next words are clear, ringing out in the room. “Your heart shall be his . . . then will come the sting. You will suffer . . . oh, girl, will you suffer . . . and then you shall burn.”

Her words drain the blood from my face and a chill goes down my spine. Her prediction seems to carry the tone of doom, but surprisingly, it’s Tiffany who is the first to react, jumping up from her seat.

“What the fuck, lady?” she yells with rage. “You tell my aunt she’ll find fifty bucks. You tell her friend that she’s going to find a new younger lover, and you tell my friend she’s going to suffer and burn? I came here to cheer her up!”

Marie sits back, her face calm. “The spirits—”

Tiff jabs a manicured finger in her face, definitely pissed beyond listening. “I brought her here so you could tell her she has good things on the horizon! Like I’ve heard you tell everyone else!”

“I do not control the future, merely tell it, my child,” Marie tries to explain, but Tiffany gives exactly zero fucks right now, and I’m still too shaken up to say anything.

“Aren’t you supposed to tell your clients what they want to hear?” Tiffany shouts. “Not tell them their lives are going to get even more fucked up!”

Marie weaves her hands together, looking to me and ignoring Tiffany’s rant. “Child, be safe. Be cautious. The scorpion is crafty.”

Tiffany yanks me up from my seat and begins dragging me from the room. “Come on, Maddie. Let’s get the hell outta here!”

I glance back once to see Marie, her eyes closed, her palms up on the table, seemingly unaffected by the blast she just blew in my future or by Tiffany’s bitchfest. By the time we get to my car, I can walk myself and Tiff lets go. I slide behind the wheel, still not saying anything.

As soon as she closes her door, Tiff begins apologizing to me profusely. “Maddie, I am so sorry,” she moans, her voice thick with emotion while she shakes her head. “If I had known she’d say something like that, I never would’ve—”

“Did you know that woman or tell her anything about me?” I demand, my voice low and dangerous. “Everything she said was right.”

Tiff slowly shakes her head, her eyes full of regret. “No. I’ve passed by this place a few times, and my aunt really has been here before. That’s how I knew about it, but I’ve never seen her in my life. I swear.”

I study her for a moment, and I can tell she’s being honest.

“You said that she was supposed to tell me what I wanted to hear,” I say, feeling shaky inside but not knowing why.

What Marie said has to be bullshit. My heart would be his? Definitely not a chance that’s happening. I’m avoiding men and definitely avoiding love.

Being stung by a scorpion? What the hell does that even mean? There are no scorpions around here!

It’s all just bullshit. Just like I always thought it was. Nothing has changed except that she said some spooky mumbo-jumbo generic stuff that scared me.

Tiffany pauses, taking in a deep breath and letting it out in a sigh. “Yes! I just thought maybe if you heard someone other than me tell you some positive shit about your future and I could convince you it was true, maybe you would feel better, start living again. Like our morning horoscopes amped up on crack.”

I see the hurt in her eyes . . . and the worry. Warmth flows down my sides. In her own crazy, fucked-up way, Tiff’s only trying to help. Although, I could think of a hundred other ways to go about doing so than a palm reading by a mad woman.

“You really couldn’t think of a better way than that to convince me, genius?” I ask jokingly, trying to shake off the bad feeling I have by making light of the situation. Fuck that lady. I’m not gonna let her stupid prediction ruin my week when I’ve been doing good lately.

Tiffany sniffs and then laughs, shrugging. “It’s just basic psychology I learned in college. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. You believe something good is true and that it’s going to happen, so you’re more likely to make the decisions that make it happen for real.” She shakes her head. “But shit, Maddie . . . I swear I didn’t know it would be like that. I really am sorry.”

I wave her concern away with a nervous chuckle and start the car, eager to get away from the palm reading shop. “It’s okay. You were only trying to help . . . and as crazy as this little idea of yours was, you’re the best friend a girl could ask for.”

Tiffany looks genuinely relieved. “So you’re not mad at me?”

I shake my head. “Of course not. Just stop pushing me toward random guys and nagging me about dating, ‘kay? It’ll happen when I’m ready for it to happen and not a minute before.”

Tiffany nods. “You’re right, girl. I really do need to stop. I just want to see you happy again, and while it’s always good to be fine on your own, or locked into a happily ever after fairy tale, a single night filled with multiple orgasms wouldn’t hurt. I just want you happy, for now and forever.” She pauses, peering at me closely. “Uh, so, you’re not going to steal one of my bras or put salt in my foundation like you did that time I threw ice on you to wake you up for work, are you?”

I grin, remembering that incident and how pissed Tiffany had gotten at me. “As long as you never ask me to go to a place like that again.”

We both look at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter.

And just like that, the mood brightens. I navigate the last few blocks to Stella’s and pull into the parking lot, on time for our night shift. Tiff and I are okay, and I can understand where she was coming from to try and cheer me up, but even as I walk inside, there’s a wiggle at the back of my head, repeating Marie’s prediction.