Page 2 of Fortune's Control
“Oh, no. Come over right now.”
We said our goodbyes and ended the call.
The best part of wretched days was that they couldn’t get worse. You wake up to new opportunities. That’s what this was.
I grabbed my purse and keys from the kitchen chair and left, locking the door behind me. Not even a miserable day could prevent my fun evening.
I lived on the second floor in my sprawling apartment complex. A well-lit parking lot sat in the middle of three building units, with my car toward the back. I passed under a streetlight and noticed the one closest to my car had burnt out, forming an odd black hole.
That was weird. I’d swear it worked this morning.
My feet slowed, and caution prompted me to reach for the phone in my purse. Calling myself paranoid, I quickened my pace and heard a woman scream.
1-Lilah
If you need to flee for your life, wear proper footwear.
My feet throbbed.
Welcome to Fortune’s Creek. Founded 1871.
I grinned at the weathered sign. Fuzzy moss tinged the gray wood’s edges, lending it a homey feel. The two-way street curved to the right, between pines, palm trees, and old oaks, whose thick limbs created a canopy overhanging the street.
The town hall greeted me first, and further ahead, a gas station and an auto repair shop. Perfect. I could arrange a tow truck before twilight turned to plain old night.
The repair shop’s grease-smudged sign informed me it would reopen at eight the next morning. Towing my car wasn’t an option, but surely the gas station kept a spare can behind the counter I could borrow for a small fee.
The sign dangling from one of its two pumps dashed that hope.Cash Only.
“That’s impossible. Rude.” I opened my purse to rummage through its pockets, hoping for spare change or even a dollar bill. “Twenty cents.”
“Do you need help?”
I spun and gulped at the deep timbre in the man’s voice. “What?”
“You look like you need help.”
Where would I even begin? “They don’t take credit cards.”
“Willard doesn’t believe in them.”
The man spun his hat around, allowing tufts of deep brown hair to show through. He stood well over six feet tall, with a broad chest and thick arms that strained the faded blue cotton shirt. The gray twilight obscured the details in his eyes, but they were dark and fixed on me.
“That makes no sense. How does someone not believe in them?”
“No, he realizes they exist. He doesn’t believe in using them. Willard’s never met a conspiracy theory he doesn’t enjoy.”
While fascinating, it didn’t solve my dilemma. “Well, thank you for explaining. It appears I need a bank.”
He bowed his head, bringing himself in a little closer. He didn’t sport a beard, but hadn’t shaved that morning either. There was a tiny moon-shaped scar above his right eye, probably from a childhood injury. It, along with his square jaw and the hard stomach hiding under his shirt, caused my first swell of desire in a long time. It brought an odd comfort, as if his presence weakened that horrible night’s hold over me.
Shaking away any daydreams before they could form, I closed my purse and placed its strap back on my shoulder.
“It opens tomorrow morning as well. One block over,” he said. My would-be rescuer hesitated, torn between offering more and leaving me to my problems. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”
I needed more than he imagined, but none of it was a random stranger’s problem. “Thank you, but no.”
“Then welcome to Fortune’s Creek.” He brought the brim of his hat back around and left.
