I wrapped a fork and knife in a bright-yellow napkin and shot a sideways glance her way. “I got my wheels back last night.”
“Nice.”
“And got a call that my presence has been requested on another Rourke Studio production.”
“Hey, good for you.” Macy squeezed my elbow and beamed at me like a proud mama bear. “What’s the role?”
I wrinkled my nose. “Well…not gonna lie, it sounds lame.”
Macy pointed at Derian, busily salting the rims of margarita glasses across the room. “Lamer than a limp willy commercial?”
“It’s close. It’s a security guard at the mall on a teeny-bopper sitcom. I don’t think there are any lines. Just a lot of standing around in a uniform while teenage influencers decked in designer duds get themselves involved in slapstick mayhem.”
“Oh. Hey, a paycheck is a paycheck. When do you start?” Macy asked.
I handed her the wrapped utensils. “I’m not sure. The woman on the line said someone would get back to me.”
“Let me get this straight—someone called to tell you someone else was gonna call you? Is that normal these days?”
I shrugged. “How would I know what’s normal? My agent dropped me, Mace. I’m sailing my own ship blind here.”
And this was how fumbling in the dark worked, Mackay-style…
I’d dropped off my contact sheet at Seb’s office as per his instructions an hour after I left his house. I figured it was wise to strike before he forgot me and when I was least likely to run into him.
My strategy paid off. I’d spoken to his secretary, a friendly redhead with a nice smile—and told her Mr. Rourke would be expecting my information. That didn’t seem to impress her, which wasn’t so great for my ego, but I understood. She probably fielded messages for her boss from dozens of wannabe stars. Some who might have even slept with him.
Okay, I didn’t like that idea. I fast-forwarded to the phone call I received around noon from an assistant in Seb’s office who told me to expect another call. And yeah, now that Macy mentioned it…that was odd.
She gave me a suspicious once-over. “Hang on. I’m getting my tarot cards. The longer we stand here, the more I can tell that your aura is still off. There must be something else going on.”
“Now? We have customers.”
“The last thing those two want is for me to ask if they want a fuckin’ refill,” she huffed, inclining her head toward the lovebirds. “You need me more.”
She returned with a deck of cards and pulled me into a private alcove. She barked at one of the junior servers to mind the front before beginning her tarot ritual with her eyes closed and a dramatic inhale.
When silence lingered, I nudged her fingers, splayed atop the deck. “What are you doing?”
“Formulating my question. Remember, the cards don’t tell you what will happen, they tell you what might happen. And how you might prepare for future well-being.”
Interesting point of fact…Macy became rather well-spoken when in touch with her mystic self.
“Hmph. Since it’s my life, shouldn’t I ask the questions?”
“No, you wouldn’t know how. It’s my specialty. Here we go…” She tapped her crystal to the cards, and continued in a low, thoughtful voice, “How can Trenton understand his path?”
“Aren’t you supposed to keep the words in your head?”
“Not in your case.” She shuffled the deck and instructed me to split it twice. Then she fanned the cards out. “Pick one and hand it to me face up. We don’t have time for a full reading. This will do.”
“Here.” I chose one as instructed, barely curbing an eye roll when she hummed pensively. “What does it mean?”
“The Eight of Wands. Adventure, new ideas, maybe even love is in your future.”
“Oh, brother.”
Macy smacked my arm, then waved the card in my face. “That’s what this card means. You chose it, not me. You have to be open to a new path.”
I raised my arms in surrender. “I’m open, I’m open. And so is the restaurant.”
She gave me a dirty look as she put the cards in their case. “I’m making a fuckin’ point here.”
“Which is?”
“You are made for something better, Trent Mackay. Better than this place and better than a crappy part in a lame show, too. You have to let go of the past. Forget the girl who did you wrong and—”
“Hello, good sir!” A boisterous voice boomed from the main dining room. “I need a margarita…stat. And a big basket of chips, extra salty. Please tell me you have the world’s best guacamole. Lie to me if you must. I’ll believe you and you’ll make my day.”
“We’ll be right with you,” Macy called out to the newcomer currently running roughshod over the junior server before addressing me. “I’m gonna put these away. Will you take over? That guy sounds like more than Juan can handle.”