Page 32 of Hexed
Putting my phone between my shoulder and ear, I hold it there while I take a deep purple shirt off the hanger and lay it out on the bed. “So that’s the angle, manipulate him into doing what we want?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“And you’re so sure hecanbe manipulated? Because I’m not. And this is?—”
“He’s marryingmydamn daughter, so if I want to make sure he’s under my thumb, even just a little, then that’s what I’ll do.”
“He’s about to be family,” I retort.
“Sometimes family fucks you over.”
Well, he’s got me there.
“Want me to cast a spell?” I joke, knowing he avoids anything to do with my practice. Uncle T is a Protestant through and through. Not a very good one, but who am I to judge?
“Don’t evenspeakabout that devil worship, girl.”
I roll my eyes because that’snotwhat it is, but I don’t argue with him. I learned a long time ago that it’s easier to gain his affection if he can pretend I fit into his narrow-minded box, so I let him believe what he wants to believe.
But sometimes, when I focus on the way he doesn’t accept me for who I am, resentment drizzles on my insides like an acid, slowly eating away at my resolve, and I can’t help but let the little barbs fly.
“Can’t we just have Aria show him around?” I ask. “This feels an awful lot like I’m on babysitting duty.”
“Just do it, Venesa.”
Click.
I stick out my tongue at the phone like a child and then text Bas.
Heads up, boss man is being extra today. Put on your big girl panties before you see him.
I toss the phone on my bed and finish getting ready, completing my look with my favorite bloodred lipstick and an obsidian necklace.
There’s nothing a good red lip and a protection stone can’t cure.
Heading out of my apartment and down the spiral staircase that leads into the back hallway of the Lair, the first person I’m looking for is Fisher.
I’m satisfied with the few employees prancing around the place, setting everything up for the lunch rush. We aren’t known for our food, and we don’t get truly busy until the sun sets, but there are always a few stragglers who make their way to the south side of Atlantic Cove during the day, desperate to escape their miserable existences and drown themselves enough to forget their woes.
Our liquor sales keep us in business, and it makes mesickif I think about it for too long.
But who am I to judge someone else and their life choices? Who cares if they come and spend all their money here, then go home to ruin their child’s life?
My stomach churns, and I push the thought away.
Not everyone has a problem with alcohol, Venesa. You’re projecting.
Gothic-style windows line the far-right wall, arched and iced out so no one can see in. The walls themselves are a dark mossy green, and low purple and blue lights line the perimeter, creating a dark and intimate atmosphere. Saltwater fish tanks are interspersed throughout the decor, filled with polyps that sway from the soft wake of the swimming angelfish and eels.
A dozen round tables with mismatched chairs are dotted around the room, facing a stage at the front. It’s made from old wood, worn with age, and deep-purple velvet curtains frame it.
The bar runs along the left side wall, open to the tables, and Fisher is currently behind it, cutting fresh limes for the day shift. The citrusy scent slams into me as I walk up to him and run my fingers along the copper bar top.
Fisher grins and pulls out a coffee from our favorite place down the street.
“My hero,” I drawl, grabbing the cup from his hand and taking a sip. The bitter notes of the coffee complement my mood perfectly, and I immediately start drooling like Pavlov’s dog when he hears a bell.
“Long night?” he questions with an arched brow.
