One Magical Night Read online

  ONE MAGICAL NIGHT

  Copyright 2014 Diane Kelly

  Published by Diane Kelly at Smashwords

  Cover design by Lindsay Kelly

  All Rights Reserved

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  Be sure to read these other great stories in the “Halloween Hookups” series!

  The Grave Mistake by Trinity Blake www.trinityblake.com

  Your Grave or Mine by Angela Harris

  My BFF (Best Fiend Forever) by Hadley Holt www.hadleyholt.com

  Grave Yard Risings by Sherrel Lee www.sherrellee.com

  And check out these other books and novellas by Diane Kelly!

  Full-length novels (available in both print and digital formats):

  Love, Luck, & Little Green Men

  Paw Enforcement

  Paw and Order (releases December 30, 2014)

  Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure

  Death, Taxes, and a Skinny No-Whip Latte

  Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray

  Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria

  Death, Taxes, and Hot Pink Legwarmers

  Death, Taxes, and Green Tea Ice Cream

  Digital novellas:

  Five Gold Smuggling Rings

  Death, Taxes, and a Sequined Clutch

  Death, Taxes, and Mistletoe Mayhem

  ENJOY EXCERPTS FROM DIANE KELLY’S OTHER WORKS AT THE END OF THIS STORY!

  ONE MAGICAL NIGHT

  Chapter One

  Halloween Hitchhiker

  The pothole appeared out of nowhere and—BAM!—the front tire of my 1998 Ford Econoline van hit the edge, going flat in an instant and giving off a whup-whup-whup as the van rolled to a stop on the edge of the street.

  I banged a hand on the steering wheel. “Dammit!”

  Despite having been a Girl Scout for five years as a young girl, I’d neglected their motto - Be prepared. I had no roadside assistance service to call. I had no can of Fix-a-Flat. And I had no jack—which didn’t really matter because even if I’d had a jack I had no spare tire to put on the van. The only thing I did have at the moment was a big problem. I was due to perform very soon at the McKinnon Manufacturing Company’s annual Fall Festival.

  A glance at the GPS app on my phone told me I had a mile to go to reach the festival grounds. A glance at the time told me I had 20 minutes to get there. My mind quickly performed the math. While I might have been able to hoof the mile in the time remaining, there was no way I could do it while dragging my props with me. My suspension chairs. The saw and special frame used to cut an audience member in half. My trunk that contained my dancing cane, wand, and hoops.

  Yep, you guessed it. I’m a magician. Or I still would be for the next hour or so. Unfortunately, while I could easily make a rabbit disappear, I could barely manage to conjure up enough cash each month to cover my basic bills. Savings or retirement funds? Investments? A house of my own? Forget it.

  It wasn’t that I was a hack. People loved my show. It’s just that I’m no good at selling myself, finding gigs. I’d been busting my ass for five years—FIVE YEARS!—trying to make a go at this, but I averaged only one or two bookings a month. I’d need at least eight to make a decent living. Yep, I was a disillusioned illusionist.

  If only I was truly magic and could whip up some business.

  I climbed out of the van and into the crisp autumn air. Normally I wore a purple, sequin-trimmed genie outfit for my shows. But today, for my final performance, I’d opted to wear a witch costume, complete with a pointy black hat and flowing cape over a black unitard. The outfit seemed fitting for Halloween. I’d even crimped my dark hair, put green makeup on my face, and blacked out a couple of my teeth. For added fun, I’d fixed a fake wart on the end of my nose. Might as well go out with a bang, right?

  Muttering curses, I wrangled the chairs from the back of my van and sat them on the street.

  Screee! A red VW Beetle convertible braked to a quick stop next to me. A male clown in a bright blue suit and rainbow-colored wig sat behind the wheel. He turned my way, his red-painted mouth turning up in a smile. When he spoke, his voice was deep and resonant, the kind that could curl a girl’s toes and make her whimper. Totally unclownlike. “Looks like you could use some help, Ally.”

  How did this sexy-voiced clown know my name? Oh, yeah, from the magnetic sign affixed to the side of my van.

  ALLY KAZAM

  MISTRESS OF ILLUSION

  555-ALLY

  Of course, thanks to that jarring pothole, the sign hung slightly askew now, exposing part of the logo underneath. POO-POO PATROL DIAPER SERVICE. I’d snagged the van for a song when the service went under. Not too many mothers using cloth diapers these days. Hard to worry about the environment when you’ve only had two hours sleep.

  The clown cocked his head. “You headed to the McKinnon Fall Festival? I’d be happy to give you a ride.”

  I squinted at him, as if narrowing my field of vision would somehow tell me whether this guy was a legitimate clown or some kind of perverted creep. “My parents warned me against getting into cars with strangers.”

  He pointed upward. “The top’s down. You can jump out if I try anything sketchy.”

  “True.” Though of course I’d risk a broken arm or leg jumping from a car. Still, I was 24-years old now, not a child, and I needed the $250 today’s gig would pay. I couldn’t risk losing the income and being late on my rent. Again. I picked up one of my prop chairs. “Any chance these chairs and my saw will fit in your car?”

  He shrugged surprisingly broad shoulders. “Only one way to find out.”

  He backed up, pulled over to the curb behind my van, and parked. When he climbed out of his car and stepped over, I noted that he was quite tall, six feet or so, with well-defined muscles even the goofy clown suit couldn’t fully disguise. He wore a pair of extra-large bright red Converse high-tops on his feet, along with yellow and white striped socks and a plastic daisy affixed to his chest. Though I couldn’t vouch for his nose given the red rubber ball he wore on the end of his schnoz, the rest of his facial features seemed to be proportional. His blue clown suit even brought out the color is his ocean-blue eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder what this guy would look like in normal attire and without the makeup. Too bad my wand wasn’t really magic or I’d wave it over him for a quick look-see.

  He held out a hand. “I’m Guff, by the way,” he said. “Guff Aws.”

  Guff Aws? I simultaneously groaned and laughed as I shook his hand.

  He raised a blue brow. “My name is no worse than Ally Kazam.”

  I offered him a smile. “Touché.”

  He leaned in conspiratorially. “Our names are nothing compared to this clown I saw at a convention once. She had a couple of forty-four double D’s and a girlish giggle and called herself ‘Titte
rs.’”

  I rolled my eyes. “Sheesh.”

  “She incorporated a striptease into her act. Bachelor and frat parties were her specialty. Niche markets. A smart move on her part.”

  What did it say about me that I had less business sense than a clown stripper named Titters? If I hadn’t felt bad before, I sure as heck did now.

  Together, Guff and I somehow managed to load all of my things into his small car, though it was a tight squeeze to get the saw table in. How a dozen clowns could fit into a vehicle this tiny I’d never know.

  When we finished, he gestured to my disabled vehicle. “We better get your van off the road or the police will have it towed. Hop in and put it in neutral. I’ll give you a push.”

  I gave him another smile. “Maybe you should trade in your rainbow wig and clown suit for a superhero cape and tights.”

  “Me in tights?” His lips turned up in a grin. “I’ll have to save that for another time. The Fall Festival is supposed to be a family-friendly event, not the review at Chippendales.” He crooked his arms behind his head and improvised some surprisingly rhythmic undulations.

  I shook my head. “You’re a naughty clown, Guff.”

  I climbed back into my van and, while Guff pushed from behind, steered it into the parking lot of a nearby donut shop. We returned to his VW and drove to the manufacturing company’s parking lot, taking a spot in the special section reserved for vendors and performers.

  “What time is your show?” he asked as we exited his car.

  “In just a few minutes,” I said. “At noon.” Ironically, my final performance would be the first in today’s lineup. I’d serve as the warm-up for more well-known acts such as Fiero the Flame Eater and Luciano Pawvarotti, the opera-singing Pomeranian. “How about you?”

  “Just working the crowd,” Guff said. “You know, the usual. Juggling, squirting people with my fake flower, pulling quarters out of kids’ ears.”

  “I should learn that trick. All it would take is four-hundred quarters to pay my electric bill.”

  The brow arched again. “Money problems?”

  “I’ve had a little trouble getting on my feet.”

  He lifted one of his big shoes. “I never have that problem.”

  Despite my desperate circumstances, I found myself laughing again. “Maybe I should give clown shoes a try.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Give it time. It takes a few months for a performer to get up and running.”

  “I’ve been doing this for five years.”

  He cringed. “Ouch.”

  Ouch, indeed.

  “Do you have a website?” he asked.

  “No. I’ve heard that word of mouth is the best way to get gigs.”

  “That’s old school thinking,” he said. “Word of mouth helps, but these days everyone looks online for services and reviews. You really should get a site.”

  I knew what he said was true, but with my paltry earnings even the meager fees for a do-it-yourself site seemed astronomical. It was a vicious circle. I’d planned to get a site once I made some real money, but I couldn’t make any real money without a site. Lest this clown think I was totally without business acumen, however, I said, “I have a Facebook page.”

  “How’s that working for ya?”

  Not at all. “Hard to say.”

  “Well, you can pass out some business cards today. You brought some, right?”

  Nope. Hadn’t even thought of it. I let the clown’s question remain unanswered.

  Clearly, it was time to face facts. I sucked at running my magic business and should move on. The last thing I wanted to do was waitress at the sports bar full-time. Part-time was bad enough. On my feet all night schlepping burgers and drinks. Drunk men hitting on me and forgetting to tip or pay their tabs. Going home with blisters on my feet and the smell of French fry grease in my hair. Ugh. But what choice did I have? I’d forgone college in favor of pursuing my dream of becoming a world-famous magician, fooling myself into thinking I’d be the next David Copperfield or Criss Angel, except with female parts. I’d waitressed to support my magic habit, sure that any day my career as an illusionist would take off. It hadn’t, obviously. Heck, the only reason I’d landed today’s gig was because one of my friends was a cousin of the festival’s organizer and had put in a good word for me.

  This was it. I was officially giving up on my dream. It hadn’t come true. I’d call my boss at the sports bar tomorrow, beg for a full-time slot, then look into applying for the restaurant management course at the community college. At least then I could work my way up to a desk job before my feet developed bunions.

  Guff helped me retrieve my props from his car. We carried them through the gate to find the expansive grounds teeming with activity and motion and the happy noises of costumed children laughing and squealing in glee. We made our way to the stage area, weaving around food booths and bounce houses and a small corral with Shetland ponies for the smaller kids to ride. At the back of the wide lawn was a makeshift pumpkin patch where children could choose a pumpkin to carve or paint. A pickup truck pulling a flatbed trailer loaded with hay bales provided a hay ride around the perimeter of the property, the truck’s diesel engine giving off a rum-rum-rumble as it rolled past with a load of children dressed as everything from superheroes to zombies.

  Guff helped me situate my props on stage and I stepped over to the emcee, who was lining up the afternoon acts and checking them off on his clipboard. While the emcee was distracted, Pawvarotti lifted his leg to relieve himself on one of the stage support beams. Apparently proud of his achievement, the dog kicked his back feet and issued an insistent arf-arf!

  After bending down to give the fluffy dog a scratch behind the ears, I turned to the emcee. “I’m Ally Kazam.”

  “Our first act.” He made a tick mark by my name and glanced at his watch. “Ready to go on?”

  “Yep. I’m ready.”

  Actually, I still felt a little flustered by the flat tire, and perhaps more flustered by my odd attraction to Guff, but a professional had to power through, right? Even if she felt heartsick knowing this would be her last show ever . . .

  Chapter Two

  Grand Finale

  As the attendees began to take seats on the portable bleachers and the emcee took the stage, I turned to Guff again. “Thanks so much. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  The emcee stepped up to the microphone. “Good afternoon, folks!” his voice boomed through the loudspeakers. “Welcome to our tenth annual Fall Festival. We’ve got several exciting acts for you today, beginning with Ally Kazam, the Mistress of Illusion. Put your hands together for this witchin’ magician!”

  As the crowd applauded, Guff leaned toward me and whispered, “I’m going to stick around. See what the Mistress of Illusion has in store.”

  “Stay at your own risk,” I replied with a coy smile. “I just might call you up on stage and saw you in half.”

  “So long as you promise to be extra careful. Wouldn’t want you accidentally cutting off something important.” He gave me a blue-eyed wink.

  Was this clown flirting with me? He surely seemed to be, but the situation was so preposterous. Two people in makeup and costumes who had no idea what the other really looked like. Heck, I couldn’t even be sure how old Guff was, whether he would even be age appropriate for me. I hadn’t noticed any tell-tale wrinkles, but the white-face could have covered them. The stuff was like spackle for skin. For all I knew, he could be someone’s grandpa. Maybe even a great-grandpa. Or he could be some young college kid, clowning around for some extra pocket change, too young to even buy a beer. Who knew?

  Regardless of whether Guff and I might make a fun match, I had no time for such concerns right now. As they say, the show must go on. So, on I went.