Page 25 of Cursed: Ride or Die
“The poor bastards.” Wait. Slade believed the witches’ shared fantasy? Any second now, he expected them to laugh and let him in on a private joke they played on tourists. “What about bigfoot?”
“The last one died years ago. I met a vampire once.” A sad smile crossed Judith’s face, and her eyes took on a haunted appearance.
“They’re nothing like in the movies,” Vern said, “though I haven’t met one myself. My grandfather told tales.”
“What about the werewolves? They must be dangerous if folks are dead set on killing ‘em.” Yes, open Slade’s mouth, pour in the Kool-Aid.
“Nah. They’re regular folks mostly. Minding their own business, raising their families.” Vern averted his gaze. “They do tend to keep the rabbit population down.”
Interesting. “You know any?”
Vern met Slade’s gaze. “Sorry, friend. If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Ouch. But fair. Vern only met Slade a few days ago.
After dinner, Slade washed the dishes while Judith spoke with Vern privately in the living room or as privately as possible with six cats and a dog in attendance. After a while, the front door closed. Judith re-entered the kitchen. “I’m sorry he couldn’t reverse the curse. I thought if anyone could, he’d be the one. He’s the most powerful witch I know.”
“Sorcerers and witches are different?” Slade paused scrubbing a pan to ask.
“Yes. Sorcerers are born to power. Witches possess a little natural ability, passed down through family lines, but developing their talent takes work. Your grandmother had natural healing abilities, which helped in her job as a nurse practitioner.”
Which explained why sorcerers turned into arrogant assholes: superiority complexes.
Judith placed a warm hand on Slade’s arm. “Remember the last time you stayed here? I believe you begged me to put you out of your misery at least four times.”
Despite trying hard not to, Slade remembered. Opioid withdrawal sucked. “Yeah, I do.”
“And yet here you are. Do you remember the five stages of grief? Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.”
“This isn’t grief.” A sumbitch trying to dictate someone else’s life fell nowhere in the equation.
“Someone took something from you. Yes, there’s grief.”
“Well, hell yeah!” Slade slung the drying towel onto the counter, then braced his hands on the sink. Outside the window, inky darkness hid the trees. “Forced out of my house. Had to sell my business. Not being able to see my friends or family. Hell yeah, he took something from me. He took every damned thing!” Until now, Slade had held out hope.
The damn broke. He slid to the floor, head in his hands. Why?
Judith pulled a chair over and sat, running a hand over Slade’s back. “Let it out. Don’t keep the bitterness inside.”
Slade lifted his head, seeing his aunt through watery eyes.
“I would sit with you, but at my age, I might not get back up,” she said. Once more, she reminded Slade of his advantages: age and health.
He’d been through denial, isolation, anger, bargaining, and now depression hit home. Somehow, he must find acceptance, put one foot in front of the other, keep on being too stubborn to give up.
And not let the bastard win.
While Judith slept in her room surrounded by most of her cats, a particularly annoying solid black feline insisted on lying next to Slade on the couch.
He searched the Internet from his laptop. While the best opportunities came in big cities, he preferred to stay away from large populations, if possible.
Plenty of upscale tattoo shops accepted guest tattooists with his awards and credentials. While he usually did online tutorials, shops and potential clients contacted him all the time about local appointments. One month each? Doable.
If he must move on, he’d do so on his terms. First, to work on his social media presence, adding more before-and-afters of his cover-up work, making appointments. His custom tattoos were the stuff of legend.
Many tattoo lovers begged to act as his canvas for a demonstration, having the video uploaded to Slade’s online channel. Harley shops also ordered custom helmets and gas tanks all the time. No problem to make a steady income.
His Harley and his art were the most important things in his life. What more did he need? Vern’s words rang in his ears. Let the curse pull him under, or learn to ride the wave? He’d bet money on himself.
