In His Eyes (Into You Book 2)

by Julie Olivia

  “Oh, is that a bottle opener keychain?” I gasp, holding my hand out. “Let me take a look.”

  “Sure thing.” He drops the keys into my palm, and I close my grip around them, shoving them in my shorts pocket.

  “You’re coming with us, dude.”

  “Should have seen that coming.”

  “Probably.”

  We stay out much later than probably any of us intended to. We’re even present for when they turn the lights back on for last call. It’s blinding after the hours of misty darkness. I successfully corral Corinne, Ramona, and Wes to the bar where Nia and the goat man are talking with each other—or more like slurring things at each other.

  “I see absurd tourists and damn wedding parties all the time out here,” the man murmurs. “You, missy, ain’t half bad though.”

  “Let’s not try to make her your fourth wife, pal,” I say, tapping the bar and waving my credit card. “I’ll pick up whatever they haven’t paid for.”

  Nia lifts her drink glass, rolling her fingers over the side and stroking the lip of it with the pad of her thumb. “You’re buying drinks for me now, Ian?”

  I exhale the energy that was welling inside me from watching the small beads of condensation run down the edge of the tumbler.

  “I’d buy drinks for you all night if you’d let me,” I say.

  “He wants you,” the goat man grumps, and I point my finger at him in warning.

  “Inappropes,” Ramona says, leaning against Wes, who is barely standing himself. Thankfully, he’s built like a paper weight, so as long as he isn’t trying to go anywhere, I think they’re both stable.

  “You know what? I don’t want you with us anymore.” Nia declares it as if her word is law, narrowing her eyes and pushing the goat man’s drink away from him in a childlike manner.

  “Nia, he can’t drive,” I say. Even with the amount of drinks she has in her, she’s still maintaining impeccable posture, looking like she owns this bar, and hell, she probably could. “And I have his keys.”

  “He can call a ride,” she says, crossing her arms in defiance.

  “Do I look like I own a phone?” he says, and well, no, I guess if I had to pick any one person as someone who wouldn’t own a modern-day invention, it would be this guy with his beige, tattered boating hat and roughed-up Hawaiian shirt. Even his shorts, with their plethora of compartments meant for holding items, seem to be lacking any at all.

  “We’re taking him home,” I insist. Even if he’s the biggest asshole in the world, ready to slug the next person who walks past us with his tiny, dwarven hands, I’m still going to load him in the back of Cameron’s Jeep. No person will drive drunk if I’m here to offer an alternative. No person needs to put themselves in that situation. Not again.

  The goat man gets up to go the restroom, and Nia nudges me slightly. “We’re actually taking him?”

  “Yes, Polly, we’re actually taking him.”

  “Why?” she whines.

  “Because he needs a ride,” I say with a shrug. “And that’s what I do.”

  “Designated driver,” she says softly, almost to herself. “Better hero than Batman.”

  “I try to be,” I say, smiling. I can’t even help it; she’s feeding me compliments, and I’m eating them up like kibble. “Now let’s find the bride and groom and get out of here.”

  Ten minutes later, it’s like herding cats into the Jeep. Wes and Cameron are in the back with Ramona and Grace in their laps and Corinne shoved between them. Nia sits in the passenger seat next to me and leans her head back against the headrest.

  I plopped the goat man in the back, his knobby knees shoved to his chest and his hat clutched in his hand, revealing wisps of white hair on his mostly bald head coated in liver spots. I somehow got his address from him before he passed out. It’s unsurprising he lives so close to the bar, and the drive is barely a few miles down the road.

  I’m focusing as best I can with the commotion of drunken laughter, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Nia’s phone light up and buzz in her lap. I take a quick glance and see the name Harry pop up. I nudge her and she takes in a sharp breath of air. I must have woken her up.

  “I think your brother is calling,” I yell over the wind rushing past our ears. She nods slowly and picks it up to answer.

  “Hey, wonderful,” she slurs. I love seeing this side of Nia, the unguarded and loving Nia who isn’t bound by work policies and rules. The thought of her answering one of my phone calls and nicknaming me Wonderful tugs at my brain.

  “Not drinking. Drunk—past tense,” she says with a giggle. “You’re what?”

  I bet it’s hard to hear with this wind. I try to listen in more, but in the rearview mirror I see the goat man trying to stand, so I snap my fingers, yell “HEY!”, and demand he sit the fuck down. For an arrogant old guy, he complies surprisingly quickly.

  “I can’t hear right now,” Nia says. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Bye-bye.” She hangs up her phone and exhales, leaning her head back against the headrest and rolling it toward me. “I think I underestimated you.”

  “Most people do.” I grin.

  “You’re good-looking, you know that?” she says through a slur.

  “Weirdly enough, yes,” I say, lifting an eyebrow at her as she scoffs in response. My heart pounds in my chest. I just thank God she’s drunk enough to think that joke was funny.

  When we arrive at the old man’s house, I try to load him out of the car and unlock his front door. He’s mumbling things to me I can’t understand and I’m just nodding and saying, “Uh huh,” to make him feel heard. Then right before I leave, having placed his keys in the entryway bowl, he whispers from the couch, “Just be open with her. Be honest.”

  Godspeed, weird goat man.

  14

  Nia

  Houses, houses, houses, hotel. Houses, houses, shopping mall.

  I believe the world is gradually becoming clearer as we make our way back to our resort, but once I stand to exit the vehicle, I know I am sadly mistaken. The world is far from clear, and my body is not in a state to be walking.

  Ian runs around the car and tries to hold out his hand to assist me. I accept the gesture. God, he’s warm, and his hands are big. What do they say about big hands, again?

  With Ian? Bigger ego.

  When we’re inside, Corinne throws her long arm around me and kisses the side of my face. “Your singing was beautiful tonight,” she compliments. I lean my head against her arm, as she is much too tall for me to rest my head on her actual shoulder. I want to dislike her, but she’s just so darn sweet.

  We all ride the elevator up and a couple people are groaning, though it’s hard to determine who. Once we’re on our floor, Ramona and Wes immediately disappear into their room and Cam tries to lead himself and Grace off, but she’s too busy clinging to me and Corinne in some form of a group hug.

  “You guys are the best bridesmaids,” she says.

  “We’re okay, I guess,” I slur. “I would say we’re probably run-of-the-mill bridesmaids.” Honestly, I might lean a bit more toward best bridesmaid for me because, last time I checked, I went to a sex shop and none of the rest of them did, but I can’t really put myself on a pedestal like that. Ramona seems like the best maid of honor, and damn if Corinne isn’t the kindest soul I’ve ever met. She sang multiple songs with me tonight and we rocked the heck out of them. She will definitely be my future partner in all Styx covers moving forward. Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto.

  I roll my lips together and try to keep my thoughts inside. I’m having trouble with that tonight. My mouth feels like it’s necessary to blurt out every idea my mind has. Maybe, if I try hard enough, I can put just enough pressure to have my mouth stay shut.

  We all nod against each other and Grace finally follows Cam into their room. I hear faint giggles before the door closes.

  “You’re swaying,” Ian points out, watching me move back and forth, which I just realized I’m doing. “You know you’re n
ot on a boat, right?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow and grinning. His smile is gorgeous. He has those teeth, you know? The kind that obviously reflects years of orthodontia. They’re all uniform too, like they’ve been shaved down to the exact same length with the exception of maybe the canines. Is it genetics? I think Ramona has perfect teeth too, but I haven’t really been paying attention to her as much as I have to Ian. That’s because his looks make him practically a god among men. Shit, I did not just think that.

  “She’s had one too many,” Corinne stumbles, patting me on the back. “You have keys?” Her tone is almost motherly. I rifle through my purse pocket, pull out the keycard, scan it because I’m a total expert at this—no help needed, thank you very much—and finally enter.

  “Thanks, Corinne. Bye, Ian.”

  I turn around before the door shuts and see Ian’s bright blue eyes staring right back at me.

  Goodbye, beautiful.

  I stand in the foyer of my room. Yes, Ian was correct. I am definitely swaying. The bed is up then down then…shaking? I don’t know what to do now. Lying down feels like a waste of time, but I’m too drunk to do anything else. Maybe I’ll answer emails, do some work. No, that’s a liability waiting to happen…

  A solution is provided for me when my phone vibrates in my purse. I pull it out and see that it’s my parents. What the heck are they doing up this late? It has to be two o’clock. Maybe three? I’ve lost track of time. Maybe they’re indulging in their newfound “plant hobby.” The thought gives me pause, but I answer anyway. Bunch of old kooks.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Nia.” The voice on the other end speaks, and it’s not my mom’s cheery voice or the goofy tone my dad uses when he starts a phone conversation as if it’s the beginning of a stand-up bit. The voice isn’t even comforting like Harry’s or higher pitched like Cara’s. It’s gruff and raspy with an edge to it.

  “Who is this?” I ask.

  The person clears his throat. “Grant. It’s Grant.”

  My stomach sinks, and even though I want to sit, my knees are locked, and I’m cemented to my place in the foyer.

  Grant is using their phone. My brother. This stranger I used to know.

  “Why are you calling me?” It’s all I can get out.

  “Thought I’d say hey to my little sister. Long time, no talk.”

  “And what is there to say?”

  “Tell me about your life,” he says, exasperated. “Work, your cat, who cares. Whatever.”

  “You called me at three in the morning to talk about Jiggy?”

  “You named him Jiggy?” He laughs.

  “Her,” I correct.

  “Well, either way, no. We can talk about your job instead. Or your shitty car. Who cares.”

  I feel like I’m at a bus stop carrying on a conversation with the chatty person in the corner of the depot revving up for any social interaction. Unfortunately, not only am I barely capable of having a decent discussion at the moment, Grant is the last person I want to talk to.

  “Fine, I heard you cheated,” I say. “And that you’re on drugs.”

  There’s a pause followed by Grant’s punching laugh.

  “Where did you hear that? Harry?”

  “Is he not a reputable source?”

  “I’ve fucked up, but so have all of you. Last time I checked Harry has a child with a runaway baby mama. Didn’t see that coming.”

  “Shut up,” I snap. “She didn’t run away. She’s busy and professional…but that’s beside the point!” I grumble. “I don’t have time for this right now.” It’s the only excuse I can come up with, and it’s a flimsy one at that. I may be drunk, but I am in control of this situation.

  “It’s three in the morning,” he drawls. “Of course you have time.”

  “No, I don’t,” I insist, shaking my finger in the air. “I’m hanging out with people. I’m still young, you know. I have a life.”

  Okay, control is slipping. Bring it back in, Nia.

  “I just wanted to talk.”

  “We’ll talk when I get back. How’s that?” The last thing I want to do is speak with him, but if he’s living with Harry and my niece, it’s unavoidable.

  “You sound like you’re talking to a child.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  Then, boom! Silence. Deafening silence. Is that even possible? Do those words go together? I don’t know, but I want the silence, which is now quickly veering into awkward territory, to end—and fast. “You’ve been a child forever,” I say in an effort to achieve that. The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, as if the alcohol is pushing them from the depths of my subconscious.

  Shit.

  “You want to run that by me again?” His tone is sharp and demanding, offended. I really, really don’t have the mental capacity to handle this right now.

  “I can’t do this tonight.”

  “No, we’re going to talk, Nia.”

  “Talk to Harry.”

  Before either of us can saying anything else, the background tone dies, and I see he’s hung up.

  I mull in the foyer for a minute or two—heck, maybe even thirty minutes, I really don’t know—before standing in my room no longer seems good enough. The night is still young and damn it, I really want to go on a walk. I need the beach to help me wind down and sober up, and reevaluate my life choices.

  I involuntarily nod as if I’m agreeing with my wildly irresponsible decision, stop to pocket my key, and then waltz back out into the hall where Ian is inserting his keycard into his own door. He pauses when he sees me.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” he asks with a black eyebrow lifted.

  “I could ask the same,” I blurt out, looking both ways down the hall.

  “Bed,” he replies slowly, moving back from his door and putting the keycard in his pocket. What? Does he think we’re going to be talking here forever?

  “But where were you?” I insist.

  “I went on a walk,” he says, squinting at me in suspicion. “Where are you going? And why so late at night?”

  “A walk as well, sir,” I quickly announce, ignoring his second question. How dare he question my motives. This is none of his business.

  Ian exhales with a smile. “Well I guess I’m joining you.”

  “Excuse you?” I ask, my head jerking back. “I am an independent woman, and if I want to go on a walk alone, I will do just that.”

  “Well that’s fine and all, but it’s dark.”

  “I’m not afraid of the dark,” I scoff.

  “Okay,” he says, “but what about the washed-up trash you can’t see on the shore? The animals with stingers?”

  “I’m a human. They are fish. They don’t even have thumbs. I think I can handle myself.” I walk to the railing and, out of the corner of my eye, see him take a step forward with one hand out, as if ready to catch me.

  Psht, I’m not going to fall.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, laughing.

  “Checking out the ocean,” I say, looking out at the dark beneath me. I don’t exactly hear waves, but it’s hard to see much at night anyway.

  “That’s the parking lot.” Right.

  “Fine,” I say, twisting to see him. How irritating and wonderful all at once. Shorts, well-fitting shirt…his normal look. And, yes, those are some big arms that could potentially protect me should I encounter a shark on land. Doesn’t punching a shark in the nose protect you? Does that still work outside of water?

  “A guide would be alright, I suppose,” I declare, my head raised.

  “Then let’s go,” he says. His hand goes to the small of my back, and even though I’m compelled to clock him in the face just like I would do to a shark if one were to come at me right now, I let the gesture go.

  It has been much too long since I’ve had the feel of a man’s hand on me. I like it. His is large, warm, and like a small blanket draping over my lower back. I wish it would rest just a little lower. I wonder if it would if I aske
d him to. Thankfully, my mouth doesn’t blurt this thought out.

  We ride down the elevator and I’m stroking the side rails, noticing the smudges against the bronze. Too many fingerprints. Gross. I jerk my hand back in disgust, and he laughs. I find him staring at me, leaning against the railing on the opposite side of the elevator.

  “You’re a funny drunk,” he says.

  “I’m glad you find me amusing.”

  “I do.” A single eyebrow rises once again, this time the one with the scar across it.

  “You can raise both eyebrows independently,” I observe out loud. “I can only do one. That’s talent.”

  “Is it?” He gives me a sideways grin. It’s got that underlying sense of mischief, like some wood nymph. Why am I thinking of wood nymphs?

  “I play flute, you know,” I say. Just like a wood nymph.

  “Is that so?” He chuckles quietly. He’s flirting with those stupid arms and that stupid eyebrow with the stupid scar he probably got from being an asshole and getting punched in the face.

  “I was in band all throughout high school,” I continue. Stop talking about stupid band stuff, Nia. “I was first chair flute.” Stop bragging about an achievement from almost two decades ago.

  “That’s cute,” he says. My knees buckle a bit, but I hold the rail.

  “I’m actually delightfully average.”

  He stares at me for a moment then deepens his half-smile. “I don’t think so.”

  I turn my head away from him as my face flushes, and then I realize I’m touching the railing once more, smearing more fingerprints onto it. Ew.

  The walk to the shore is a struggle. Ian has to escort me down the stairs with his cell phone flashlight leading the way. We both take off our sandals once we reach the deep sand, and I finally get the common sense to whip out my own phone as well. By then, we’re already strolling on the beach, shining our lights on the walkway of sand in front of us with our shoes in the opposite hand and saying nothing.

  “How long are you going to walk with me?” I ask, breaking the silence.

  “Until you don’t want me to anymore,” he answers.