Summer of Supernovas (5 page)

“But…how did I not know about this?”

Iri shrugs. “Probably because your nose is always buried in one of your books. Repeat after me—
technology is your friend.
”

Of course I’d seen the sites that ranked the most compatible signs, but isolating it right down to the date of birth? This was taking matchmaking to a new stratosphere. My shaky finger traces the circle. “He’s Sagittarius.”

I should be jumping for joy. I’m not. Panic is making my arteries collapse like slashed tires. I am actually going to have to go through with this.

“You look scared shitless,” Irina says.

“No I don’t. This is my thinking face.” She gives me a disbelieving sideways glance. “What?
It is.
I’m fine…really. Besides, this is my lucky day. I can’t lose. And at least now we can narrow our search to a Sagittarius. So”—I clear my throat, gazing at the paper in my unsteady hands—“all we have to do is find him.”

“Where should we start looking? Oh! I know a guy at the Vault who would let us in, no question.”

Grant’s card with free admission to Absinthe develops a pulse in my pocket. “Actually, I, um, I think I know the perfect place.”

My match is out there somewhere waiting to be discovered.

And secretly I am hoping, hoping that by discovering him, I will discover the parts of myself that lie dormant.

I only hope it isn’t too late to bloom.

O
ur heels click in unison through the parking lot as we draw closer to the unremarkable cinder-block building. This is part of Carlisle’s crumbling and forgotten warehouse district. Smack in the middle of the city’s wasteland, Absinthe glows, a pale-green beacon in the night.

Irina stops to fish something from her high heel—heels tall enough to give me a nosebleed—then adjusts her black corset. “By the way, you look
smoldering.
”

“Oh.” I frown at my button-down shirt and fitted pencil skirt. “I was going for understated, you know? Casual chic, nothing that screamed
I’m here and desperate to find my soul mate.
”

She bursts out laughing. “I’m sure you were. Unfortunately, there’s no such thing as an
understated
naughty librarian. Textbook guy fantasy—pun intended.”

I scowl.

“Don’t be mad. Come here. I just need to make a minor wardrobe…there,” she says as she deftly frees the second button of my blouse.

“Wh—”

“Because.”
Her arm hooks in mine as we continue to the club’s entrance. “I’d give my left ovary for breasts that magnificent, and you never even show them off. People pay top dollar for those.”

I have to admit, I can breathe better. “Well, I don’t need to show them off,” I grumble. “They practically enter the room before I do.”

The line to get into Absinthe snakes all the way around the side of the building, stopping shy of the trash bins in back.

Twenty minutes pass, and I’m still standing next to the same broken Bic pen and gum wrapper.

“This is asinine.” Irina picks at her dark fingernail, a baleful eye on the scores of people ahead of us. “They can’t possibly expect anyone to stand in a line this long. Let me see that card.” Handing it over, she reads the back, brow raised. “Gravity Goddess?”

“He was being funny.” I search for the moon in the dark sky before remembering it is a new moon. That’s good, ideal for tackling new endeavors.

“You didn’t tell me his name was Grant.”

“Grant Walker. Why, do you know him?” I ask.

“I know
of
him.” Iri flashes a Cheshire grin. I bump my shoulder to hers. “What?” She tosses her blond tresses over her shoulder. “It’s
rumor.
I don’t speculate on other people’s personal affairs.”

“Well, your face is doing an excellent job of speculating. Oh, come on,” I goad, “tell me.”

She’s about to speak when the giggling girls in front of us drop the bottle they’ve been passing. It shatters, sending bits of glass and sticky sweet liquor everywhere. My stomach curdles at the smell of high-octane cherry schnapps.

Irina shakes her high heel. “
Dura!
We’re outta here, Wil. I am
done
with the waiting.” She pulls me from the line.

Her legs are way longer and I struggle to keep up. I also struggle to ignore the burning glares as we line-jump. Thank God I’m not flammable.

She leans close to my ear. “I’ll do the talking. Follow my lead, okay?”

I push up my glasses and nod. “I hope you have a plan.”

“Are you joking? We already discussed the plan.”

“Not this part. Not the part about needing a plan just to get in the club.”

We approach the more daunting bouncer of the two stationed near the door. He isn’t a man; he is a wall—a wall of honed muscle. The greenish hue of the lights reflects off his shaved head. While this African American bouncer’s stance is relaxed, his eyes are calculating, drifting from face to face in the crowd.

The other bouncer casually sits at Absinthe’s entrance, checking IDs. I do a double take at the sign by the door:

YOU MUST BE AT LEAST 18 YEARS OF AGE TO ENTER.

NO EXCEPTIONS.

I gulp. My suddenly dry throat feels as if it’s stuck together like sheets of flypaper. Irina’s of age, so it’s not an issue for her, but me…

“Ladies”—the fortress nods—“is there a problem?”

My eyes round. Um, yes, yes there is. There’s a pulsating, itchy hive forming at my side, and the sensation that my tongue has turned itself inside out, and the goiter on my neck. I touch it, oh wait, that’s my carotid. Good, because I can’t handle…

Irina grips my hand firmly and gives me a tight smile before responding. “As a matter of fact, there is”—her eyes drop to the label on the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt—“Lucien, and I believe you’re the only one who can help us.” Her barely detectable accent makes a sudden grand appearance. Just as it always does when she feels it’ll work to her advantage.

And if following her lead means looking seventeen and terrified, then I’m doing awesome. I try to relax my shoulders and appear indifferent.

“Is that so?” the bouncer replies. His brows do a subtle lift, intrigue overruling his skepticism.

“Da.”
Irina passes him the card. “You see, Grant Walker was expecting us over thirty minutes ago. And”—she bites her lip in dismay—“well, you know how he gets before a show.”

“Huh. He gave this to you, did he?” The bouncer holds the card up to the light, presumably studying the signature. “Looks legit.” He hands it back, giving us another once-over; Irina and I are so opposite and mismatched we somehow go together. “Tell me…”

“Irina,” she supplies.

His white teeth gleam in the shadows. “Irina, just how many piercings do you have?”

“A lot.”

“Anywhere interesting?”

This is the moment I know she has him. He is a fly in her web. She steps closer, wrapping him snug in her silken spider thread. Her mouth rises seductively at one corner. “I never pierce and tell.”

Lucien chuckles. “Go on, then.” He nods toward the door. “Don’t wanna be more late. And, hey…
hey!
”

Our heads cautiously swivel back. Iri’s squeezing my hand and I’ve forsaken breathing all together.

“Be careful in there.” He says to me, “That goes for you, too, school teacher. Better guard those apples.”

Anger steamrolls my short-lived relief. “And just what the hell do you mean b—”

“We will!” Irina nearly jerks my arm clean from its socket. “You’re going to blow this,” she warns.

“Mudak!”
I hiss with a hostile glare.

Lucien cocks his head as Irina springs into damage control. “Uh, yes,
mudak
is our special way of saying…‘thank you’ in Russian. Let’s go,
dorogaya.
”

Her brow rises a fraction higher once we’ve distanced ourselves from the bouncer.

I huff. “Don’t
even
start. That was totally justified.”

“
Mudak?
After a year of being exposed to my Russian, you’ve only managed to learn swear words?” Irina clucks her tongue. “I’d be disappointed if I weren’t so damn proud.”

The door opens. Thumping music echoes down the tunnel-like entryway. I peer uncertainly up to Irina.

“After you,” she says. “Let the hunt begin.”

Pendants float from the high ceiling in a staggering display of emerald lights. The lounge adjacent to the bar has a bohemian hodgepodge of sofas and overstuffed chairs, sectioned off by thick velvet curtains. For now, the stage is empty, and the DJ spins trip-hop and off-the-grid electronica that makes me feel drunk despite being stone-cold sober.

Irina’s chatting up a couple of guys near the crowded dance floor. Bodies bounce and move to the relentless rhythm. I point to the bar and she lifts her chin in acknowledgment.

Operation Soul Mate has been in full swing for almost an hour. Irina and I have split up to check out the club under the guise of “research” for a cutting-edge book on astrology I’m writing. Part of why I picked tonight’s outfit—contrary to Iri’s naughty-librarian jab—is that it has a
literary
air. We have a totally plausible excuse for approaching complete strangers to ask their astrological sign and date of birth. Not that
I
really need to ask. My skills are finely honed. I can often pinpoint a person’s sun sign with alarming accuracy—based purely on observation.

Take the trendy cute guy standing next to me. His posture oozes confidence, and when he speaks, his buddies hang on every word. And there are a lot of words. But they’re thrilling tales of white-water rafting and skydiving. The guy might as well be wearing a pair of ram horns. But I asked his birthday anyway. You can imagine my nonsurprise when he turned out to be Aries.

I haven’t been wrong yet.

But despite my star savvy, the plan has been…an epic fail. It doesn’t help that the place is crawling with Scorpios, which I’m most certainly
not
in the market for. And it
really
doesn’t help that many of my astrological questions have been met with “whatever you want it to be,” some quizzical stares, and one guy proudly claiming he was the cock.

As in Year of the Rooster.

As in the Chinese zodiac.

As in this will be the longest night of my life.

I’ve been dodging that guy the whole evening. This is one of the few instances where being slightly below average height has worked to my advantage.

A server dressed in a green sequined shift dress squeezes by, tray in hand. The fairy wings at her back are coated with green glitter. Right, Green Fairy is a nickname for absinthe liqueur. Someone was a marketing genius.

“Watch it!” a tall redhead snaps when I bump into her.

“Sorry.” Seems the club has given me a case of sensory ADD.

The Amazonian laughs, dragging her glassy eyes up and down me. “What are you supposed to be, honey? I didn’t know it was theme night.”

“Myself,” I answer.

She giggles before disappearing inside a velvet-draped alcove marked
RESERVED
. “Ooh!” The redhead’s squeal is followed by male laughter. I don’t stick around to hear the rest.

Spotting an empty seat at the bar, I carefully pick my way through the people. And wouldn’t you know, just as I reach the stool, someone else slides into it.

Clearly, this dude didn’t get the memo that it’s my lucky day. I tap his shoulder. “Excuse me?”

He turns. “Yeah?”

Wow. He’s really cute. Dark eyes and dark hair that’s mussed in a way like he tried but didn’t. Despite my previous declaration of a sexual flatline, I still know a good-looking boy when I see him. And there’s something terribly familiar about him, but I don’t know why.

“Oh, were you going to sit here?” He stands. “Here, go ahead, you take it.”

“Really?” I refrain from kissing him in gratitude. “You are an absolute lifesaver! These shoes are killing my feet.”

“I know exactly what you mean. That’s why I left my heels at home. I only wear them on
very
special occasions.” He’s grinning as I clumsily hop up on the barstool. This below-the-knee pencil skirt was much better in theory.