How To Be A Badass Witch: Book Three Read online

  “No, you’re not,” Doug argued. “You came here with the goal of smearing Motorcycle Man in the press. Us ‘introducing that question’ would slant our coverage. We’ve been focused on facts. Motorcycle Man has saved hostages the police weren’t able to get to. He got people out of a burning building. He saved three siblings from a car crash. None of that tells us he’s a bad person.”

  “We didn’t say he’s a bad person,” Agent MacDonald interjected softly. “Those things you mentioned are good. Likewise, we can understand the impetus behind the various fights he’s been in with gang members. With an increase in cartel activity, we understand why a reasonable, ethical citizen might feel the need to take the law into their own hands.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” Doug shot back.

  “The problem is that things are escalating beyond what he seems to have planned for,” Agent Richardson said equally bluntly. “Do you understand that? Having people play judge, jury, and executioner is a dangerous game.”

  That got through to them. The reporters sighed and looked away.

  “Just think about it,” Agent MacDonald told them and handed them a card. “We’re available if you have questions. We are, of course, available if you have leads as well. We’re trying to make sure the city functions well for everyone. Again, we don’t think Motorcycle Man is a bad person. We’re just saying he might be causing problems when he’s trying to solve them.”

  The two agents left, and LeBlanc and James exchanged glances.

  “They did better than I expected,” LeBlanc admitted.

  “Me as well.” James shook his head. “God, this is a cluster, isn’t it? We came here to do the same thing they’re trying to do. It doesn’t paint us in a flattering light, does it?”

  “The goal isn’t to look good for posterity, James,” she told him. “It’s to do the right thing. It’s to keep the world calm. That is our goal.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kera had been dreading her shift at the Mermaid, but she realized quite quickly that a dose of normalcy was exactly what she had wanted. Not only did it feel good to be someone other than Motorcycle Man, but she also had the added distraction of focusing on her Cevin project.

  After Kera had shown Jennifer and Stephanie her picks for Cevin’s wardrobe, the two of them debated at length—easy, given the nearly empty bar.

  Jennifer currently had the proverbial mic. “If you ask me, the problem is that he hasn’t picked a direction for his look. All his shirts look too formal but also kind of cheap? He either needs to go for the bad-boy look, which he probably can’t pull off, or he needs to dress, y’know, snazzier.”

  No one had mentioned who they were talking about. That way, in case Cevin wandered out of his office and overheard, they could plausibly claim it was some other guy they knew outside of work.

  Stephanie, leaning against the outside of the bar while she kept an eye on her tables, acceded. “Uh-huh. He falls between the cracks. It’s his attitude too, but a man has to believe that what he’s wearing looks good on him or the attitude will fail.”

  Kera nodded. What her friend was describing had some overlap with glamour magic.

  “It’s true,” she chimed in. “Internal and external can reinforce each other. As above, so below, and like that.”

  Jennifer laughed, “Where’d you hear that?”

  Stephanie, meanwhile, closed her eyes as though trying to think of something.

  “I dunno,” Kera shrugged. “Read it online. Can’t remember where it was from. Oh, hey, I’ll be right back. I think I have something Jennifer would like.”

  A customer farther down the bar raised an empty glass in her line of sight. She rushed over and refilled it for him before returning to the brainstorming session.

  She pulled out her phone as she approached and scrolled to a particular picture. “Here. Take a look.”

  The other women leaned in, curious. It was a tailored maroon shirt, button-down but meant to be worn open, designed for men of Cevin’s height. Its shoulders were stiff and slightly built up, which ought to resolve his slouching problem. Recommended to go with it were a plain white undershirt and a black vest.

  “That,” Stephanie opined, pointing at the screen, “would look good on him.”

  As the words left her mouth, footsteps approached. Cevin trudged up behind the bar from his office, doing one of his sporadic checkups to ensure everything was running smoothly.

  Kera gave him a minute to scan the counter and the floor, then she called, “Hey, Cevin. Come look at this. It involves you.”

  The man sighed and wandered over. “Okay, but let’s not waste too much time, huh?”

  They showed him the screen, mentioning how nice it would look on him. They couldn’t help thinking it would be a good thing to wear to a club or on a first date, and they could send him the link if he wanted.

  To their surprise, Cevin looked not so much dubious as horrified. “I could never wear that,” he said bluntly. “It’s so…ugh, I don’t know. Guido-y? That’s not a California thing, but it’s the best way I can put it.”

  “What?” Jenn scoffed. “How do you figure? It’s classy!”

  “It’s purple,” Cevin protested.

  Kera pinched her nose. “No, it’s maroon, or maybe burgundy, depending on the light. More of a deep red. A very masculine color.”

  He rolled his shoulders and scratched his side. “If you say so. The vest doesn’t work, though. It’s like something a lawyer would wear.”

  Stephanie pointed out, “Lawyers usually make good money. That’s not a bad thing, especially if you’re trying to make a good impression.”

  The man squinted. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  Kera exchanged glances with her friends. When they responded with subtle tilts of their heads, she realized that the time to spring the plan on him was upon them.

  “Yes,” she confirmed. “Sorry, Cevin, but there’s no more getting out of it. You need a date, and we’re going to help you get one. This is non-negotiable. You have no say in the matter. We’ll all quit or something if you try to resist.”

  Their boss groaned and put a hand over his eyes, and Jenn couldn’t help cracking up. “Seriously,” she clarified, “we want you to do well.”

  Stephanie added, “There’s a single lady at one of my tables you should talk to. I think you might be her type. As the manager, you have an excuse to go over and check to make sure she’s enjoying her meal. I’ll supervise. You can do this.”

  Kera glanced at the table in question. She recognized the woman sitting there as a sometime bar patron to whom she’d mentioned Cevin. The woman had been vague and equivocal, though, so Kera had no idea what her boss’ chances with her might be.

  Cevin squirmed. “Uh, well, I, um, well...”

  Jenn gave him a gentle shove. “Go on. Do your manager duty by making the customers feel welcome.”

  Kera echoed, “Yeah, what she said.”

  Stephanie and Cevin walked across the floor to the table. Kera, leaning over the bar, could hear only snippets of the ensuing conversation. She made out Cevin offering the lady a standardized We Care-type public relations spiel, followed by further talk in a lower voice. The woman’s eyes flicked left and right, and she visibly bit her lip. Finally, she blurted something, then burst into laughter.

  Cevin’s cheeks turned tomato-red and he stammered something else, then hurried away. Stephanie moved in to cover his escape.

  Kera cleared her throat as Cevin approached. “Uh-oh. What happened, man?”

  He ducked behind the bar and positioned himself near the corner so he’d be out of the woman’s line of sight. He scowled and looked ready to sprint back to his office, but then he relented and spoke.

  “Well, um, I said the usual stuff, then I asked if she wanted to go out and have dinner and a drink sometime.”

  He paused; there was total silence.

  “And,” he went on, his breath coming out in a sigh, “she cracked
up and pointed out that she was already having dinner and a drink. I couldn’t think of anything to say after that. Like, I was going to suggest, I don’t know, playing video games? Ugh, this isn’t my thing.”

  Kera’s teeth clamped down on her tongue as she nodded, attempting to look sympathetic. Jenn’s resolve was not as great as hers, and she broke into helpless snickers.

  “That’s great!” Jenn finally gasped.

  Kera and Stephanie gave her confused looks.

  “Excuse me?” Cevin asked.

  “Well, no, actually, it sucks.” Jenn waved a hand.

  Kera groaned and put her head in her hands.

  “But you know what I mean,” Jenn continued. “At least you tried, right?”

  Cevin looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. “Yeah. Great.” He slouched back to his office, turning to call to Kera, “When you get a moment, stop by. I put some new security measures in place for closing.”

  “Will do,” Kera called. When Cevin was gone, she stared at Jenn. “I don’t think you made him feel better.”

  “He’s going to get turned down a lot,” Jenn said defensively. “Everyone does. He’s getting used to it, and that’s good.”

  “Yeah, I…” Kera motioned for the three of them to huddle. “I don’t think he gets that yet,” she pointed out. “If he gets turned down too much, he might just tap out. We may need to rethink our strategy here. Like, is there any way we can pass him off as someone who can’t talk? As in, he has a speech disorder or something? It might help.”

  Jenn nodded. “Probably. We’d need to research that stuff to sound like we know what we’re talking about, though.”

  They chattered for another minute about the new tactics they would be pursuing to set Cevin up with someone without reaching a conclusion. Kera noticed Stephanie staring at her arm and shoulder.

  “Kera,” Stephanie said slowly, “where’d you get those bruises?” Her eyes were bright with concern.

  Crap, I forgot to hide them, Kera cursed herself. Should have worn a long-sleeve shirt or used a healing spell.

  “Oh, I…well, I’ve been getting back into martial arts. I did karate in high school, and lately I have been sparring with some people who mostly do Korean arts. They’re reasonably similar.”

  Jennifer raised an eyebrow. “Damn, girl. Remind me not to piss you off. And I’ll stay three feet behind you next time I have to walk out after closing time.”

  “I thought about taking self-defense classes,” Stephanie mused, “especially with all the dangerous stuff going on lately. Do you have room for one more at your class?”

  “Uh,” Kera stammered, “I mean, maybe? It’s kind of a private thing, though, not a commercial school. Like, I’m more of an apprentice than a student, if that makes sense?”

  Jenn couldn’t resist quipping, “Wax on, wax off,” but the other two ignored her.

  “If you two can take the room for a bit, I’ll go talk to Cevin,” Kera said.

  “Sure.” Jenn waved a hand. “We’ll deal with the huge crowds of people, don’t worry. Leave your phone, though. We want to look at those shirts.”

  “It’s going to take more than a shirt,” Kera said, but she tossed her phone to Stephanie and headed back.

  Stephanie watched Kera go, feeling a cloud over her thoughts. It wasn’t like the woman to be so evasive, especially after her sad moment a couple of days before. A bad breakup, and now bruises? Not to mention, as above, so below. Was Kera getting religious?

  In most towns, that wouldn’t be a worry, but LA was notoriously full of cults. While they mostly preyed on celebrities, it wasn’t uncommon for normal people to get sucked in as well.

  Stephanie wavered, then raised the phone and navigated out of the photo album.

  “Shouldn’t be doing this,” she muttered, “but girl, I can tell something’s wrong with you.”

  One of the recently-used apps on Kera’s phone was an e-reader. Stephanie opened it and saw what looked like an instruction manual of some sort. There were bullet points and highlighted pieces, with notes from Kera.

  The book was called How to Be a Badass Witch. Authors unknown. A crazy title, but from the level of note-taking, it seemed like something Kera was taking seriously.

  “What?” Stephanie muttered. When a customer gestured for her, she switched the phone back to the photo app and put it in her pocket before hurrying over to get the customer more water.

  As soon as she was done, however, she searched for the book on her phone. She couldn’t find it on any of the major retailers, but the search engine did return a few results—copies that had been ripped off and uploaded to other sites.

  She sent the link to herself to download later. “Sorry, not trying to get this without paying for it,” she told the authors. “Just trying to figure out why my friend lost a ton of weight, is showing up with bruises all over, and always looks like she’s going to either pass out or cry.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  As Doug Lopez typed on his office desktop, a curiously steely resolve set in—the determination to forge ahead, knowing damn well he probably wouldn’t like the consequences of his actions.

  At least he would not be alone. Mia agreed with him. They had gone beyond co-workers and were now, in a manner of speaking, partners in crime.

  “This,” she’d raged last night after they were far away from Frank’s office, “is utter, absolute bullshit. The American press is not subject to censorship by elite institutions. Save that shit for China. We’re here to report the facts.”

  For once, Doug hadn’t had any clever remarks to follow up with. She’d said what he was thinking.

  “We’re not in the business of changing people’s opinions,” he had affirmed. “There has been a plague of crime lately, and someone has to stand up to it, regardless of whether the goddamn FBI wants them smeared as dangerous vigilantes or whatever. It’s not like we’re encouraging anything one way or another. If an incredible story happens, people should be able to hear about it.”

  Mia had been trembling with anger. He had never seen her like that.

  “Fuck it. I say we do what we’re supposed to do—tell people what happened. That’s all.” The woman clenched her fists. “What can they really do to us? Wasn’t it phrased as a suggestion? That was how Frank had put it. Dammit. Can we head to a bar? I need a drink.”

  They were on the same page about that, too.

  Today, he decided they’d probably both had one too many, but not enough to impair their ability to do their job. After all, they had spent weeks gathering information—in some cases, firsthand—on Motorcycle Man and his various exploits. At present, it was simply a matter of putting it into a cohesive story.

  Mia wandered over, swigging coffee from a paper cup and placing a second on his desk. “How are you doing?”

  “Pretty well.” He finished the sentence he was on, then gave himself a break to refuel. Mia had read his mind about the need for caffeine. He took a sip, then clarified, “I’m about two-thirds done with my section. Did you start yours yet?”

  She nodded. “Only the first paragraph, but the outline is the hard part. I’m about to get going on the rest.”

  The project was a significant one—a detailed rundown of Motorcycle Man’s brawl at the textile factory and the ripples it had sent throughout the proverbial pond. They had statements from witnesses as well as anonymous comments from the police, photographs, expert reconstructions of what might have gone down, and interviews from some of the gang members who had been arrested at the scene.

  Doug raised his cup. “To the facts, and only the facts.”

  Ms. Angel joined him in the toast, and the journalists drank their coffee in unison before returning to work.

  They had agreed one minor concession to the feds—that they would avoid glorifying Motorcycle Man and stay as neutral and objective as possible. But as Doug typed, the task grew increasingly tough, thanks to his burgeoning emotions.

  It was well-establis
hed that their vigilante had rescued people from crashed cars and burning buildings. As for the gang brawls, those could conceivably be smeared as criminal-on-criminal violence, but even then, the sheer badassery on display made it tough for him to think of Motorcycle Man as the villain of the story.

  He briefly considered that someone else might have usurped Motorcycle Man’s identity to pursue a private gang war—an impostor with their own goals, motives which were perhaps separate from the altruistic ones Motorcycle Man had originally displayed. It might explain the mysterious “LA Witches” connection, too.

  But if that were the case, the imitation had been perfect. And, there was no evidence beyond mere conjecture.

  Doug stopped writing and turned his head to where his partner was working separately on the laptop she’d brought in.

  “Mia,” he called, “I have a question.”

  “Yeah?” she responded, the keys still clacking beneath her fingers.

  He coughed. “We’ve discussed this before, but humor me. Do you believe Motorcycle Man is a good guy? As in, has it occurred to you that someone else might be doing copycat stuff, or he—or she, whoever—might be a total bastard and is doing this to redeem themselves? It occurred to me a minute ago.”

  She didn’t answer right away, though she stopped typing. “Yes, I thought of that too, but I don’t think that’s the case.” She turned in her chair to face him across the office. “There aren’t a lot of reasons someone would want to hide their identity that are bad enough to negate what they’re doing. I mean, yeah, we have to hope they aren’t a serial killer or something, but I doubt it. Even if those reasons are bad, what they’re currently doing is good. Saving people doesn’t magically become an act of evil simply because the person doing the saving has a history of other shit, does it?”

  Doug breathed in through his nose. Posing the question and hearing his partner’s answer had made him feel better instantly. “Yeah, I’d say you’re right. Thanks. Of course, this means that if we change our minds and cave to the feds, we get to live out our days knowing we’re lying SOBs who aren’t fit to be reporters.”