Page 63 of A Bond with the Dark

“Was it good?” Claire asks, her eyes squinting. “Cause your hair says it was.”

“Oh my gods. The best sex I think I’ve ever had. We broke the bed.”

“Lucky,” chides Anna, ripping off a piece of her blueberry muffin. “I want some of that.”

“You guys didn’t get lucky with any of the wait staff?”

“No,” Claire says almost sadly.

“Got a few numbers, though,” Anna adds. “We may go back there tonight. Depending on what you and Dominic have planned.”

“I don’t know if we have anything planned,” I state, plopping down next to them. “What do you guys wanna do today?”

“I say walk the strip. Maybe check out that psychic. Do lunch somewhere. Check out the Chippendales,” Claire chronicles our day in ten seconds, handing me a plastic cup of coffee with a lid.

“Chippendales, huh?” I say, opening the lid and pouring in some creamer, watching the coffee pale.

“Why not? Just because you’re not single anymore doesn’t mean we aren’t.”

“And besides,” adds Anna, “you can always look.”

“This is true,” I smile, taking a drink of my coffee. “Never hurts to look.”

As we walk the strip, the sun’s leaving brilliant, dappled patterns on the ground beneath my feet. We stop in front of the psychic Anna had seen on our way in.

Because this is Vegas and the psychics are as commercialized as getting your nails done in a salon, we go in and see our own psychic at the same time.

I walk into my medium’s domain, which is a dark room with crystals and other things that line the walls. The psychic does not sit at a table with a crystal ball in front of her. Instead, she lounges on a recliner, sipping a cup of tea, her curls being held back by a colorful bandana.

I’m practical about psychics, knowing that not all of them are honest and have gifts. Still, I tend to go into any readings with an open mind, giving them the benefit of the doubt. If they are full of shit, I don’t tell them. I play along and then leave better known for it.

“Come in,” the psychic says warmly, smiling. “Please. Have a seat.”

I oblige her and sweep my purse off my shoulder, stowing it underneath my chair as I sit.

Holding out her hand, she says, “My name is Quinlyn. You are?

Taking it, I reply, “Lasayah. But friends call me Sayah.”

“Nice to meet you, Sayah,” she replies, crisscrossing her legs underneath her. “Have you ever had your cards read before?” she asks, unwrapping her tarot cards and shuffling them.

“A few times, yes,” I say, crossing my legs.

“Okay, awesome. So, I ask that you not tell me anything, okay? Just think to yourself what questions you want the cards to answer as you shuffle the deck.”

She holds out the thick cards that are beautifully illustrated. I project my questions deep within my well of energy to the point where I envision them entering the cards. Then I hand them back to Quinlyn.

Taking the deck, she cuts it, laying three cards before her face down.

“This first one is your past, where you have been that has led to where you are,” she says as she flips it over and examines the card. “Mmm, hmm. Five of cups.”

She picks it up and shows it to me.

There is a figure gazing at three spilled cups while two remain standing.

“This card typically represents sorrow or regret,” Quinlyn explains, setting the card back down. “You have great sorrow around you and have suffered plenty in your short time here. Not just broken hearts, but shattered and torn by many beings, not just men. The universe seemed out to get you for a time.” Her gray eyes appraise me, her expression softening.

Hit the nail on the head with that one.

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