Luck of the Draw: Magic and Mayhem Universe (Lucky Magic) Read online

  “Riiight. If he was, you know, not made of metal and decorating a small tourist town in Texas.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Have a little imagination. “This is why you don’t date. You can never see the possibilities.”

  Which sounded nonsensical—we were talking about a man who wasn’t even real, after all—but she wasn’t wrong. I didn’t see the possibilities. I saw no possibilities, ever, anywhere.

  I had secrets. Big secrets that I didn’t want to share with a prospective boyfriend. Too bad I wasn’t a one-night stand kind of gal, because that certainly would have made my life a little easier. I pushed my glasses up my nose, gave Hottie McHotterson another look, and decided that was a big ol’ lie. I’d one-night-stand the heck out of this guy.

  Except I’d want to two-night- and three-night-stand him. Ugh. I really wasn’t a casual sex gal. If a guy was worth one night, he was worth more than one night. Weeell, unless the sex was really bad. But that was hardly the point of casual sex, was it? To have completely terrible sex? And if I couldn’t count on completely terrible sex, then I’d want to do it again. And more than once was the beginning of a relationship, however minimal, and I didn’t do relationships because secrets.

  But Cricket didn’t know about my secret. Our family secret, actually. And I wasn’t about to be the one to tell her and crush her sweet (deluded) image of our family.

  Besides, that would be a super-sucky conversation, and I liked to avoid those. I could just envision it. “Hey, sis, guess what? Magic? Yeah, that’s real. And faeries? Totally a thing. Also, our grandpa—your favorite relative in our entire extended family—yeah, he was a total cheating, lying, bastard. He had an affair with a faery. Also, Mom’s part magic faery, and that’s basically why she and Dad divorced. Oh, and we might have some magic, too—but maybe not. Hard to say. Good luck with all that.”

  Um, no. That conversation was not happening anytime soon.

  Once I’d learned the truth—completely by accident, because Mom had no intention of telling Cricket or me without evidence we had magic of our own—that had been the beginning of the end of my dating life.

  Since most people didn’t actually believe in magic and I was an honest sort of person who couldn’t imagine lying to someone I might possibly spend the rest of my life with...enter my dating conundrum.

  And since I might have some lurking weird magic inside me and that could very well freak out my significant other (exhibit A: my father), best not to date at all.

  Granted, Mom hadn’t been honest with Dad about her background, so when she’d had a bout of disappearing flu (apparently faeries were susceptible), Dad had been a teensy bit surprised.

  No one wants to see their spouse popping in and out of existence every time he or she sneezed. And Dad in particular wasn’t one to embrace the bizarre. How could she not know that about the man she married?

  Worse yet, it had taken him years after the divorce to achieve a remotely comfortable relationship with Cricket and me. I was ten, she was eight, and we’d been crushed. Not cool, Mom. Actually, not cool, Dad, because we hadn’t changed in any real way. It was only his perception of us that had altered.

  “What in the world is going on in your head?” Cricket asked. “You look like someone’s just told you your dog needs braces.”

  “That makes no sense at all. Also, I don’t have a dog.”

  She pointed at me. “See, that’s why you’re looking so sad. When we get back to Boise, you need to seriously consider adding a four-legged furry to your household. Dog, cat, gerbil—something.”

  I laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. Cricket had been after me for ages to date. She’d even tried to set me up with her coworker, swearing he was into geeky cute and therefore would love me madly. Or at least want to get in my pants.

  Naturally, I’d declined.

  She’d persisted and tried to set me up with various cuties—her word—and I’d continued to decline.

  Going down the “you need a cat for companionship” road marked a significant change in strategy. She was giving up on my love life. I wanted that, because I wasn’t planning on dating anytime soon. But that didn’t make it any less depressing. I was twenty-six. What twenty-six-year-old gave up on her dating life?

  “Wow. Just wow. I take it back. No pets for you. If even thinking about getting a dog makes you look like that...nope. No kitties or puppies for you.” She wrapped an arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “Let’s ditch the cute bronze and get some barbecue.”

  I leaned into her embrace, soaking up all the love and feel-goods I could. I was on vacation, darn it. I would not be sad about something I couldn’t change. Also, I wouldn’t be seeing nearly as much of my sis after this vacay, because my vacation was her big move to Texas. Tainting our time together with silly, unchangeable worries was not the plan.

  After a few seconds of basking in the warmth that was my little sister, I gave her a final squeeze and let go. “I might grab some barbecue, but you, lovely girl, need to get your butt in gear and head back to Austin. Don’t you have an appointment with an apartment hunter in”—I retrieved my phone from my back pocket and checked the time—“one hour and fifty minutes?”

  She cursed. Understandable. It was a solid two-hour drive.

  She kissed my cheek, then looked me square in the eye and said, “You will have a good time over the next two days if it kills you.” When I didn’t immediately pledge my life to the pursuit of pleasure, she added, “Promise me.”

  She’d made me promise to take these two days when she’d be busy with her new job and apartment hunting to chill out, because then we were going to spend every waking moment together for the following three...and then I’d be headed home to Boise.

  Breathing in the smell of her floral perfume, I gave her a final squeeze and stepped back. I was going to miss her, but Austin was where she needed to be.

  With a cheerful smile, I said, “I’m in the cowboy capital of the world. Of course I’ll have a good time. I’ll even go to that dance thingy tonight. The one with the live music and the two-stepping.”

  She pointed her finger at me as she backed away. “You better. I want to hear all about the handsome cowboys begging to dance with you.”

  Riiight. Like that was happening. I waved, and when she still didn’t leave, I shooed her away.

  She shook her head, tugged her keys from her purse, and skipped away down the street.

  Which left me alone with a hulking hunk of manly man.

  I scanned the square and found that it was me and Mr. Hot Buns. There was a line at the barbecue stand, but those folks were a hundred and ten percent focused on their forthcoming brisket and weren’t paying me any attention.

  I read the sign again: Good luck will follow a squeeze of this cheek.

  Good luck sounded awfully nice about now. Any time I thought about my parents and magic and dating, I felt a little overwhelmed by life. I mean, magic. That was overwhelming. Dad and I had an okay relationship these days, but his second wife and his second family—2.1 kids and a golden retriever—suited him much better than his part-faery ex and kids. That would always hurt a bit.

  I eyed the statue and said, “You know what, hotness? It might be pervy, but I’m all out of leis and I could use a little luck. What the hey. I’m on vacation.”

  And I totally did it.

  I groped a delicious man bun.

  CHAPTER TWO

  No one snapped a pic to post later on Instagram, Facebook, or any of the other various social media platforms.

  No one snickered at the pervy tourist groping the statue.

  There was, in fact, no shaming done by anyone. Heck, the dang sign had explicit instructions. One was supposed to cop a feel.

  So why did I feel like I’d just invaded some poor man’s personal space? Worse, like I’d violated a real person’s trust by touching him uninvited?

  And my imagination was running all kinds of wild, because that butt cheek, the one I’d just
patted affectionately, hadn’t quite felt like bronze. Firm, yes. But not metallic firm.

  Backing away, I addressed the completely inanimate chunk of metal. “You’re not actually a person. I should definitely not feel bad for groping you. You aren’t even a you. You’re an it.”

  I might not be making much sense, but talking through my crazy was making me feel a little better. Also, getting a bit of space between myself and the manly man I’d molested was making me feel a lot better.

  “Except I didn’t molest you, because you’re not real.” I wagged my finger at him, like he was the one making accusations instead of my weirdly guilty conscience.

  As I wagged my finger and tried to talk myself away from the edge of crazy, he blinked.

  It blinked. It. Not a real person. It. Definitely it. And an “it” couldn’t blink.

  “Ohmygod. I’m fussing over semantics, and completely avoiding the white coat with buckles elephant.” I pointed an accusing finger. “You can’t move. You’re a statue. You cannot blink.”

  The statue winked at me. He winked!

  At which point, I turned and ran. Wouldn’t you?

  I’d gone about fifteen yards—I was pretty quick; all that jogging, I guess—when I heard, “Halt! Go no further.”

  I did not halt.

  I neither halted nor turned around to get a gander at the bellower. I knew exactly how that worked out. I watched movies. I also had some common sense. When attempting to flee, one should watch where one was going so as to avoid tripping, breaking an ankle, and thus being caught—or murdered, depending on the show.

  “Woman! Stop!”

  Uh, no.

  No, no, and no some more. If that voice belonged to who I thought it did, then that was a big dude. A big dude who wasn’t actually real and yet was walking and talking. Before my panicky brain could contemplate the ramifications of that particular thought, I yanked my keys from my pocket and hoofed it to my car.

  On the way, I gave the barbecue line folks a friendly wave and a shrug, muttering, “Some guys. They’re just so pushy,” and then sent a silent apology back to the not-real, now-animated statue guy.

  “Do not flee.” The pounding of feet got closer. “I command you.”

  Oh, no he did not. He commanded me? I put on a final burst of speed, unlocking my car with my clicker as I sprinted. I was feeling pretty badass with my multitasking getaway.

  A few seconds later, with my rear end safely ensconced in my rental and the doors locked, I pulled out of my parking space.

  Except there he was. Unlocking, entering, and starting my car had given Hotty McHotterson—who was definitely not a figment of my imagination, based on all the girly staring from the barbecue line—just enough time to catch up.

  I eyeballed his linebacker hotness as I reversed out of the parking spot. Yeah, I know. I was breaking the rules and not watching where I was going—but I really couldn’t look away.

  He was not pleased.

  Without touching the car, but with a terrifyingly grim expression, he said, “Your name. What is your name?”

  Hoo boy. I definitely wasn’t answering that one. Pushing the gearshift into drive, I pulled away—and I only looked back twice...maybe four times max.

  One block passed, then two, and by the third, I saw he wasn’t chasing me down the street, hollering in his overly formal, pissed-off voice, “Halt!” so I took a deep, more-than-a-little relieved breath.

  Time for a drive in the country so I could sort myself out. I needed to figure out what to do about the statue that I’d just somehow managed to breathe life into. Or was that stroke life into? I had patted rather than breathed.

  My car rolled to stop at the light, and I checked my rearview mirror. Still no sign that he—it, whatever—was chasing me. I removed my glasses, rubbed my eyes, and then perched them once again on my nose.

  How had this happened? An hour ago, I couldn’t have said definitively whether I had magic, and then I went and did something like this? Had I upset the space-time continuum or fluttered the wrong butterfly wing or something with my arbitrary creation of life out of thin air?

  Physics, philosophy, big fabric-of-the-universe questions weren’t really my style. I had a boring nine-to-five as an office manager. I had a dull job for a reason. It was predictable. Safe. I didn’t want to contemplate the mysteries of the universe, and I sure as heck didn’t want to be creating any.

  A car honked from behind me, and I realized I’d missed the change from red to green. Waving at the peevish driver, I pulled forward.

  Thirty minutes. I’d give myself thirty minutes to do nothing but drive and admire the countryside. Then and only then would I consider what I’d just done.

  So I drove. In circles.

  Something wouldn’t let me venture too far from the tiny town I’d chosen for my two-day getaway.

  Thirty minutes wasn’t really enough time to chill after a life-altering event. I went ahead and gave myself forty-five.

  Then I pulled into the drive of the mini-cabin I’d rented and considered calling my mother. That thought lasted a millisecond, because it was a terrible idea. I loved her, but her decisions and my decisions rarely followed the same trajectory. I liked to at least pretend there was some logic being applied.

  Speaking of logic...magic didn’t fit into that paradigm. Magic was logic-defying. Maybe. Not that I really knew that much about magic.

  Magic. Even the word made my innards clench. In the bad way, in case you were wondering.

  I let my head fall forward and rested my forehead against the steering wheel. “Crap. Thanks, Grandpa Tom, for making my life complicated and just too weird for words.”

  I was having a hard time reconciling myself with the idea that I might have magic, but that wasn’t a novel concern for me. I’d found out about the whole “hey, Grandpa Tom got busy with a faery” when I was nineteen. It wasn’t exactly new info.

  But bring-something-to-life magic? That didn’t feel like a warm-fuzzy kind of magic to have.

  But if I did create a living thing—even it was just a walking, talking bronze statue—wasn’t I responsible for it? I mean, I wouldn’t leave a puppy I adopted to run loose in the town square. I probably shouldn’t leave the hunk of man I created to do the same.

  I lifted my head from the steering wheel and looked longingly at my tidy little cabin with its grey paint, aqua door, and pretty white curtains.

  Ugh. No, no, no. But yes—yes, yes, yes—I had to go back.

  And the moment I accepted that I was responsible for animating Hottie McHotterson, I realized I was also responsible for his—its—actions. For any trouble or harm he caused.

  That was when all sorts of images rolled through my brain. Stay Puft Marshmallow guy images, King Kong images, Godzilla images. Suffice it to say, there was a lot of stomping and crushing of property and people in these images.

  Did it matter than my bronze guy was human-sized? Linebacker human, but still human... No, it did not. My imagination had been set afire, and I was guilting myself out like mad.

  I had to get back to town, like forty-five minutes ago.

  CHAPTER THREE

  On the short drive into town, I came to three realizations.

  First, I was almost definitely the party responsible for muscular man candy’s ambulatory state. The time lapse between my, um, touch and his animation wasn’t conclusive proof, but it was a heck of a coincidence to explain away.

  Second, he wasn’t stomping his way through Bandera, Texas. Because that was cray-cray, right? Right? No way he was doing that. No. Couldn’t be happening. Naaah. At this point, I had to slow down, because I’d creeped up to the ninety-mile-an-hour range and was gonna end up in a Texas slammer if I ran into a cop.

  After a little deep breathing and a close eye on my speedometer, I hit realization number three. I probably hadn’t actually breathed life into the guy. There was just no way. Maybe he’d been cursed by an evil witch who was jealous of his beauty. Or an evil warl
ock who was jealous of his muscles. Mr. Man Candy had a lot of muscles.

  Okay, it’s true, I read a lot of fairytales as a kid. But I didn’t have much in the way of magical knowledge from more concrete sources, so that was what fueled my imagination.

  If I’d brought hunk of metal—pun intended—to life, I had some doubts as to whether he’d be capable of speech, let alone have the reasoning ability to, you know, chase me down for answers.

  By the time I’d arrived back in town, parked, and was exiting my car, my thoughts regarding the town’s bronze were muddled, at best.

  I needed a few more minutes to work myself into the right frame of mind to confront what might possibly be, but wasn’t necessarily, my magical handiwork.

  Those few minutes were denied me. Thanks, fate.

  “Halt, bespectacled woman.”

  Since I happened to be wearing glasses and also recognized that particular authoritarian voice, I knew my bronze had found me.

  Did I really want to talk to him? Was he really my responsibility? And, yes, I do realize panic played a part in these thoughts. I’m not a ninny.

  To confront him and put my mind at ease (hopefully) regarding my part in his current living-breathing-walking-talking state, or cut my vacay in small-town Texas short and run away—far, far away? That was the question.

  He was awfully pretty to look at. Especially certain parts. My face warmed as I remembered that not-so-circumspect pat to his tush. No matter how many times I told myself he’d been a statue at the time, I still felt a little naughty and more than a little guilty.

  “Woman! I’m speaking to you.” The commanding voice was getting closer, which meant the hunk attached to it was as well.

  Right. Looked like I’d be having that chat now, because I wasn’t excited kicking up a fuss in public. Also, there had never really been any other option. I spun around—and planted my nose against a very firm chest.