Tarotica Page 4

“Some bread to take home for dinner. Regular bread, not the sexy kind.”

  “Thanks,” Eli said, taking it from her. “Did you sell all of the ‘sexy kind’ already?”

  “Most of it. The rest is promised.”

  He watched the couple who’d bought two shopping bags full of Bella’s specialties drive away. “The man you were with earlier…”

  “Ah yes. Poor man.” Bella shook her head sadly. “He is much in need of love.

  Once he wished to be an artist, but his father convinced him it was not a manly thing to do. So now he is a soldier. And very angry. When we are not allowed to create, love turns to hate and we become destroyers.”

  A red convertible pulled up and a tall, handsome man in an expensive suit got out.

  “Buon giorno,” he said to Bella.

  “Carissimo,” she replied. The looks that passed between them were hot enough to melt steel.

  Eli stood up. Time to go. “Thank you again, Bella. For everything.”

  “My pleasure,” she said, smiling broadly. “Come back another time, and bring me some of your wine.”

  “I will.”

  Feeling thoroughly sated, Eli walked back to where he’d parked Sybil’s truck. He snapped open his cell phone, surprised to find it was well past noon. He still had to go to the supermarket, the hardware store, and the bank. He tried Miranda again and this time she answered her phone.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Montana.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  She laughed. “Believe it or not, I’m working in a furniture factory.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “It’s a long story. I’ll explain later. First I want to hear about your dream.”

  Card 4: The Emperor

  Miranda was so intent on texting Eli about Montana’s peculiarities that she neglected to look around her before she stepped off the sidewalk. She heard tires squeal, then the crunch of metal against metal. She jumped away and screamed. Broken glass tinkled around her.

  The man whose car had smacked into the traffic light pole climbed out of his crumpled vehicle, slammed the door, and stamped over to Miranda. His crew cut and erect posture reminded her of a drill sergeant.

  “Look what you have done!” he shouted, pointing at his damaged Volvo.

  “You’re the one who wrecked your car, not me,” she countered.

  “If I had not swerved when you walked into the street, you would be a dead woman now.” He spoke with a clipped, almost formal accent that sounded vaguely German, or maybe Scandinavian.

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” Miranda apologized. “I should have looked. It was an accident.”

  “Are you always so careless with your life?”

  She shrugged. “I said I was sorry. What do you want me to do?”

  “You must compensate me for the damage to my car.”

  “Don’t you have insurance?”

  The man rolled his eyes. “Of course, but that is not the issue. Although I must pay the deductible. The important thing is you must realize that your actions affect others.”

  Miranda was growing annoyed. True, she hadn’t been paying attention. True, she might have been injured if the man hadn’t swerved to avoid her. True, the guy had reason to be upset about his car. But her negligence was an error in judgment, not a character flaw. This man was turning a mishap into a morality lesson.

  By now, a small crowd had gathered to gawk. Trying to remain calm, Miranda pulled out her checkbook. “I’m willing to accept part of the blame for what happened.

  Why don’t I split the deductible with you?”

  “I do not want your money.”

  “You said you wanted me to compensate you for the damages. I’m offering to pay half.”

  “That is too easy. You learn nothing from the experience.”

  Miranda’s patience was wearing thin. “Look, I’m trying to be reasonable. I don’t have to give you a penny. I can walk away right now and you can’t hang a thing on me.”

  “You are wrong, my young friend. You owe me a great debt, perhaps even your life.”

  Is he threatening me? Miranda wondered. “But you refused my money. What do you want?”

  The man answered, “You will work for me for one week. In that time, I will endeavor to teach you about behaving responsibly toward others. Do you agree?”

  Miranda started to object—the man’s arrogance was maddening—but suddenly something Eli’s friend Sybil had said popped into her head: “There are no coincidences.

  Problems are opportunities in disguise.” Could this smug, self-righteous man really teach her something?

  “What kind of business are you in?” Miranda asked. I’m not going to pluck chickens or clean motel rooms.

  “I make furniture.”

  “Okay,” she agreed, to shut him up. If it turned out to be terrible, she could always quit.

  The man held out his hand and Miranda shook it. “Okay.” He pulled a business card out of his wallet. “Here is the address. Tomorrow at nine, you will start work. And now, let me see if this poor car of mine can still be driven.”

  * * *

  The next morning when Miranda arrived at the spacious, orderly furniture shop with its brick walls and metal roof, she was surprised to see a diverse group of perhaps two dozen people working there: old men and teenagers, blacks and whites, a few women, even a blind man and one who appeared to have Down Syndrome. Henry Kolb, her “employer,” greeted her with a curt nod and led her to the mill area, where he showed her how to guide boards as they came off the planer.

  It was tedious work and soon her mind began to wander. She scoped out the place for attractive guys. Only one, who had the brawny blond wholesomeness of a farm boy, intrigued her, except he didn’t look old enough to buy cigarettes. Everybody in the shop seemed interested in her, however. They probably don’t see many women with purple-streaked hair in this little Montana town, she figured. Her female co-workers were strong, plain, stocky types who did nothing to emphasize their feminine attributes. No need to bother with makeup tomorrow, she decided, especially since the goggles and dust mask Henry had given her hid most of her face.

  All morning long, Miranda caught boards and stacked them in bins, with the help of a burly black man named Able. Conversation was impossible over the roar of the planer. By lunchtime she was exhausted. Sawdust covered her hair and clothing. Her ears rang despite the protective headphones she’d been given to block the noise.

  She went out to the loading dock, sat down, and unwrapped the sandwich she’d bought on the way to work. Soon the other workers gathered around her like bees on clover, introducing themselves and asking her questions.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Where are you from?”

  Before she finished answering one person, someone else fired another query at her.

  “Why did you come here?”

  “Do you like working here?”

  She shook more than a dozen hands, remembering only a few names. The cute guy told her his name was Josh, that he’d graduated from high school last month, and his father worked in the shop, too. A butch woman with close-cropped hair handed Miranda a Coke. The blind man asked to touch her face. When she explained she would only be working there one week, they seemed disappointed.

  After lunch Henry assigned her a new task: oiling furniture. “Josh will show you what to do,” he said.

  At least it’s quieter than the planer, she thought. And I get to ogle Josh.

  “We rotate jobs a lot,” Josh told her. “That way it’s not boring and everyone gets to take part in the whole process, from beginning to end.”

  He dribbled linseed oil on a cherry table and began rubbing it into the pinkish wood with slow, circular motions. As he leaned over the table, his T-shirt stretched taut across his muscular back and his jeans hugged his butt. His biceps bulged. Miranda imagined him rubbing oil into her skin and felt her pussy tingle. When he knelt and began oiling the ta
ble’s legs, she envisioned those strong hands stroking her legs. Mentally she stripped him naked, fantasizing about his washboard abs, his tight buns, his hard cock.

  “Think you can do it?” he asked.

  She smiled at him. “Maybe you’d better guide me.”

  Josh handed her a rag, then placed his hand over hers and moved it around and around, until the wood had absorbed the oil. Miranda leaned against him, enjoying his heat and the strength of his body. The tingling in her pussy ratcheted up a notch and she felt herself getting wet. This job might not be so bad after all.

  He stepped away and cleared his throat. “Okay, why don’t you try it yourself?”

  When Miranda’s eyes met his, he turned bright red. She glanced at his crotch.

  Definitely some action going on there.

  For the next couple of hours, Miranda oiled chairs, chests, and tables while her imagination transformed them into Josh’s body. Several times he caught her watching him and blushed. When they took their afternoon break, she expected him to join her, but he bolted for the men’s room. Maybe he’s going to jerk off, she mused, wishing he’d asked her to come along.

  Instead, it was Henry who sought her out. He took her on a tour of the facility, pointing out the various departments and explaining the business with obvious pride. She had to admit, the furniture they crafted was beautiful.

  Miranda asked about her coworkers. “Why are those old men working here? Shouldn’t they be retired?”

  “They have always worked here, since before I was born,” Henry replied.

  “Without their labor, this business would not exist today.”

  “What about the retarded guy? And the blind man?”

  The questions seemed to puzzle him. “What about them?”

  “It can’t be cost effective keeping them on when you could hire more capable people to do their jobs.”

  “And how cost effective, as you say, would it be if I put them out of their jobs?

  Then they would earn no money, pay no taxes, and have to be supported by the state,” he explained, as if he were speaking to a child. “They do not want handouts. They want to have a chance to earn their own way. Besides, the blind man has eyes in his fingertips—he canes chairs faster than the sighted workers.”

  Henry tapped the top of a bureau Miranda had oiled. “And the one whose brain is not so quick as yours, he does not let his mind wander while he works. He would not miss these spots, as you have.”

  Chagrined, Miranda wondered if he knew she’d been daydreaming about Josh instead of concentrating on her job. Henry turned and started to walk away, then called back over his shoulder, “Also, I am a practical man.”

  Miranda wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but he didn’t elaborate and left her to wonder. Is Henry a truly enlightened employer, a socialist, or a shrewd businessman who hires handicapped people because he can get away with paying them less?

  * * *

  The next day Miranda asked Henry, “What did you mean yesterday when you said you were a practical man?”

  “I did not want you to think I run this shop on compassion,” Henry answered. “I am a businessman, not what you call a ‘do-gooder.’ I am smart enough to realize that people who do not have jobs cannot afford my furniture. Employers who think they are clever when they relocate their companies to places where labor is cheap…soon nobody will have the money to buy their products.” He shook his head. “Now I must go back to my work, and so should you. Josh over there looks like he could use some help.”

  Today Josh was working at a table saw. Miranda grabbed the end of the board he was slicing and steadied it.

  “Henry’s kinda strange, don’t you think?” she asked after Josh had finished the cut and shut off the saw.

  “He’s odd, all right—a businessman with a conscience and common sense. Not many of them around these days.”

  Before she could conjure up a good fantasy about Josh, her cell phone buzzed. Its vibrate function was so strong it could double as a sex toy. She flipped it open and saw Eli’s name on the screen. Excusing herself, she hurried to the restroom—Henry didn’t allow them to use their cell phones during work—and locked herself in one of the stalls.

  “I want to hear about your dream,” she said.

  “You’re lying on your back on my bed and I’m kneeling between your open legs,” Eli began. “In the moonlight your body is so beautiful, all creamy and soft. I bury my face between your breasts, then circle your nipples with my tongue, very slowly. My cock keeps getting bigger and harder, and I rub your nipples with its tip…”

  Miranda interrupted, “Wait a sec while I get out of these jeans.” She pulled them down and sat on the toilet. Holding the phone with one hand she slid the other between her legs. “Okay, continue.”

  Eli chuckled. “I glide my cock down your stomach, leaving a wet line all the way from your heart to your pretty black triangle. You moan softly.”

  “Aaahh,” Miranda sighed, toying with her pussy.

  “I tease your clit with the head of my big, hard cock. Can you feel me rubbing against you?”

  Miranda flicked her swollen knob and pretended her thumb was his cock. “Yes, yes.”

  “I don’t want you to come yet, so I run my cock down the inside of your left thigh then back up the right one. I feel like I’m on fire, like my cock’s a torch, so hot I’m afraid I might burn you. But you wrap your legs around my hips and pull me toward you.”

  “I want you, Eli.”

  “Now I’m stroking your seam with my cock, up and down, from your clit to your asshole and back again, over your clit, along your slit…I’m slick with your hot juice and my cock’s pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to explode.”

  “Come inside me. I want you to fuck me now,” Miranda cried as she pumped two fingers inside her.

  His voice grew deeper, his breathing more ragged. “My cock’s ramming into you now… all the way to the hilt… I’m fucking you hard and fast… deeper and deeper with each thrust. Your cunt’s gripping me… squeezing my cock… my jizzum shoots out… like a fire hose gushing.”

  Miranda felt her cunt contract around her fingers as her orgasm rushed through her. “Oh my God, Eli, I’m coming…”

  She heard him groan, “Aaawww, me too.”

  Gradually the intensity eased, and Miranda giggled at the absurdity of talking dirty on her cell phone to a guy who might one day be her husband while she fingered herself in the ladies’ room of a furniture factory in Montana.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she said.

  * * *

  Miranda hadn’t thought she’d finish the week, but she did. When she said goodbye to her coworkers at the furniture factory she actually felt a little sad. They’d accepted her without reservation into their oddball family, and in a very short time they’d taught her to value each of them. The mentally disabled kid who always had a smile for everyone. The patient old man who never lost his temper. Indefatigable Able, who willingly helped anyone who fell behind. And Henry, whose employees respected him because he treated them with respect.

  “I’m glad I had the opportunity to meet you all,” she said, sincerely.

  She’d never managed to do Josh—it turned out he had a steady girlfriend and wasn’t the cheating kind—which was okay with Miranda. He was definitely cute, but not as cute as Eli.

  Card 5: The Hierophant

  When Miranda opened her eyes, dawn was leaking through the curtains of her room in the little B&B near Durango, Colorado. She pulled the covers over her head and tried to go back to sleep, but her bladder wouldn’t let her. Reluctantly, she pushed herself up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her stomach lurched. Her head roared like a blender whipping up a batch of daiquiris.

  Way too many daiquiris, she lamented as she stumbled into the bathroom. She peed, then splashed cold water on her face. What a night. She glanced at herself in the mirror, decided, I look like hell, and searched through her toile
try case for some Alka Seltzer.

  That cute Jamaican guy with the dreadlocks had sure done some amazing things with rum. And with his tongue. Miranda smiled, remembering how he’d brought a tray of frozen strawberry-and-banana cocktails to her table beside the swimming pool. She was sitting with three women who’d invited her to come with them to a party given by a software tycoon at his mountainside mansion.

  The Jamaican’s flowered swimming trunks hung low on his hips, revealing six-pack abs and a hint of curly dark hair peeking above the waistband. His sleek skin shone like polished mahogany. He caught Miranda sizing him up and grinned, his teeth sparkling like stars. As he leaned forward to set her glass on the table, his hand brushed her shoulder and he spilled some of the icy drink on her arm.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “Let me clean it up.”

  He knelt beside her and slowly licked her arm with his long, soft tongue. Every nerve ending in Miranda’s body tingled. When he’d finished, he stood up and lewdly ran his tongue over his lips before sauntering off to serve another table.

  Giggling, Miranda held her cold drink to her flushed cheek, trying to cool off.

  “Oh my God.”

  “Down, girl!” one of her companions hooted and fanned Miranda with a napkin.

  They clinked their glasses together as the band launched into a reggae tune.

  During the course of the evening, they clinked glasses again and again as the Jamaican brought a variety of fruit concoctions laced with golden rum to their table. Miranda lost count of how many she consumed. She remembered dancing the salsa, the rhumba, and the cha-cha. Then someone swept her into a conga line that wound between the tables and around the pool. From time to time, she noticed the Jamaican guy watching her.

  When she broke away to go to the bathroom, he was waiting beside the door. He pulled her in, locked the door, and lifted her onto the vanity. Almost before she realized what was happening, he’d removed her swimsuit top and begun making lazy circles around her breasts with his silky tongue as if he were eating an ice cream cone.

  Gradually, the circles grew smaller, the tip of his tongue twirling her nipples until she felt herself melting.