“And you can stop pretending like you don’t know.”
Throw-up talking? Vomit chat? She didn’t have a name for it, only that she was about to do it again. She flung her arms out to the sides, fire flushing throughout her entire body. “But I don’t know! I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. All I know is this morning you left my apartment with a look on your face that told me you were maybe, kind of, starting to see me as more than just a fling, and now you come in here looking like you want to fillet me into pieces. And I have zero clue as to what happened in between. So, please. Tell me.”
“Because you didn’t do anything?” He laughed, the harsh edge of the sound cutting into her like those needles had transformed into razor-sharp blades. “I’m through believing your lies.”
Your lies.
Your lies.
Your lies.
Two words, and her pissed-off meter was now activated. She lifted a hand between them, the tips of her fingers trembling. “Hold on. My lies?”
How dare he call her a liar. Especially after she’d worked so hard not to be that person anymore. Not that she’d been keeping track—
Okay, she totally had…in the cute leather-bound journal she kept in the top drawer of her bedside table… Silly as the idea of a truth journal seemed, accountability was indispensable if she was to continue moving forward with her life and further away from the scum she’d become with Jordan. No more lies—to herself, to others—no matter how badly the truth stung.
Folding her arms, unpainted nails biting into her skin, she stiffened with a cringe as if the words crossing her lips had turned rotten. “What in the world would I have lied about?”
The sharp angle of his brow and pointedness to his glower faltered for a second. Creases softened and lips separated, revealing the stunning man her heart swelled at the sight of. His gaze searched hers, a gaze so profoundly penetrating it was physically shattering her into pieces.
In one blink, it disappeared, and Furious Ryan was back, shaking his head, glaring full force. That cracking sound coming from deep in her chest? Might be her heart starting to break. He chuckled, the sound a stab to her gut. “You know what? You can keep all of it. The connection I had with your father—the memories we made—it’s worth more than the few bucks you’ll get for any keepsakes in that safe.”
Keepsakes? Safe? Her father? Is that what he thought? That she’d stolen something that had belonged to her father? Something he’d most likely given Ryan?
Her fingers twitched, like her body was going to explode, or worse, punch this man in his pretty face, which likely wouldn’t go over well since she was at work and had to contain herself. Instead, she hissed, “You aren’t the person I thought you were.”
“Feeling’s mutual, Carlson.”
She gritted her teeth, sucked a breath through them, and tried not to scream. Words built like water in a dam, pushing and pressing and shoving until she had no choice but to open her mouth and let them spill out. “You accuse me of lying to you. And then stealing. Nice to know you think so highly of me.”
“Obviously, there was no way in goddamn hell you could ever change from the person you used to be. I just can’t believe I let myself think for a second you could’ve.”
Looking past his gorgeous face and into his tapered crystalline eyes, she knew the damage between them was irrevocable. And despite the fact that she’d known all along that anything serious between them couldn’t ever work, it hurt. Especially knowing that she had lied after all. To herself. Because for a teeny tiny moment, she’d actually believed the two of them had a chance. Believed he’d be able to trust her, despite the damage she’d caused with her father and the way it had trickled into his life.
But the truth was her past was too hairy, and the resentment he carried because of it—his dreams of becoming a pilot disappearing along the way—weighed too much. And as much as he wanted or as much as he tried, the possibility of fully getting past it was…impossible.
Doubt was clingy like that, which meant fighting to make him understand the truth—that she hadn’t touched whatever he was accusing her of—wouldn’t change a thing.
Sailor eased to the side, needing the expanse of the prep counter between them. Letting him think it was her— Technically, was that a lie? Did it even matter at this point? Grounding her feet into the floor, her body stiff as a freshly picked rose stem, she folded her arms. Lie or not, he’d be better off thinking she’d deceived him.
“I guess all that’s left,” she said, focusing on the spot in the back of her throat that burned with the threat to crack. Inevitably, it would. Just not in front of him. She swallowed hard and spit out the rest. “Is for you to walk out that door.”
He nodded curtly, not moving an inch. The silence between them stretched out just long enough that her mind started to wonder if maybe he was regretting storming in here at all. But then he said it. Eight words. Eight nails in the might-be-falling-for-Ryan-Edwards coffin. “Don’t ever set foot in my bar again.”
Tears pricked at the inside corners of her eyes, but she blinked against them. “That won’t be a problem.” The Alibi hadn’t been a saving grace to her feelings of redemption, to feeling like she’d finally severed those roots of guilt that had grown around her. As he stood in front of her, it became clear as a crystal vase. Her connection with Ryan had.
Chapter Eight
Truth #28: Flowers and polyester will forever clash.
The tip of his fingers traced the curve of her waist, tiny gooseflesh popping up in their wake. Quite possibly his favorite reaction so far. The path of his hand veered upward, scraping the sides of her belly before dipping back around the rounded edges of her bare chest. His cock jumped, and he told it to chill the fuck out. This body deserved not to be rushed.
The shadow of a large frame lowering into the metal chair across from Ryan whipped him out of his head, and he blinked, the small deli down the street from the Alibi fading into focus. Christ, he really needed to stop doing that—remembering her, especially the last night they’d shared when he’d stupidly convinced himself he was falling in love with a lying thief.
Micah grinned, snatching the pickle spear off Ryan’s plate. “You remember that one time Marty caught you in the bathroom with that redheaded bartender?”
The one who hadn’t disclosed she was almost twice his ripe age of eighteen until her thong was around her knees? He rubbed the two-week-old scruff on his cheeks, focusing on its scratchy feel instead of the way his chest was still echoing with the pounding of his heart. “What about it?”
“You look like that.” He pointed the pickle at Ryan. “Guilt might be the only emotion your face can’t hide. At least until that ridiculous beard grows back.”
Ridiculous? Ryan gestured back to Micah, specifically to the gray Nike logo stretched across his torso. “Running drops pounds, beards drop panties.” He tried to smile with the jab, but his mouth couldn’t quite find the right position. Little fingers of thought started to creep in, ones that started with Sai—
Damnit. Fuck. Shit. No.
“Speaking of that,” Micah said, thankfully, “how’s business? Hopefully still on the rise?”
Ryan let out an exhausted sigh and nodded. “Haven’t run the numbers this week, but with how many restocks Trevor has done, I’d say it may have even doubled.” All because of the changes made. Focusing more detail on curb appeal had new customers coming in every night. Women said the look was charming, yet the touches of humor sprinkled throughout and the few flat-screens he’d installed were enough for the guys to feel at home. The black-and-white movies playing inside had become a hit, too, and tended to fill the bar with a forty-something crowd midweek through the weekend.
“I knew one of these days it would take off. You just had to find the right niche.” Micah was a businessman, one who made deals to benefit only himself—and now his family. Now that the bar was becoming less and less of a money suck, it would make sense for him to buy in
to it again. His smile hinted that he would, and metal rods pressed into Ryan’s back as he sagged farther into his chair. Suffering another month of grueling long nights with a lack of employees was not on his agenda.
Finishing off the rest of his tuna melt, Ryan watched Micah closely as he scarfed down the pickle in two bites, but the fucker didn’t so much as blink. Ryan didn’t question why. Laurel and their two kids, his new job, new house… Only an idiot would come back to his old stomping grounds after working so hard to get away.
Micah licked his fingers, grinning around them. “And Sailor Carlson?”
In the emptiness of the small room, the three words glanced off one wall then another, digging underneath his shoulder blades like an unforgiving knot. He cringed against it, shoving his cleaned-off plate to the middle of the table, and cleared his throat to ensure the words coming out in response would be smooth as the macaroni salad he’d just finished. “Haven’t seen her in weeks. Guess she decided bars weren’t her thing.”
Being the only customers in Augie’s had its advantages. No lines. Quick service, and an extra helping of potato chips. The absence of background noise, however, bristled against him. And Micah’s eagle eyes didn’t miss it.
He leaned back in his chair, legs spread wide, and clasped his hands behind his head. A new tattoo covered the inside of his biceps—three dates, likely having something to do with his kids and Laurel. Ryan would’ve asked, but the smirk he was staring at poked at him like a fireplace tool. “The last time I saw you two,” Micah said, a lift to his brow, “she was playing stripper, and you were turning soft. Or hard, depending on which way you look at it.” He laughed. Goddamn Micah and his annoying chuckle. “But now you’re not talking?”
He left it at that, letting the silence of the room stretch out until Ryan couldn’t stomach it anymore. He shrugged. “Flings come and go. Has marriage completely sucked the dude out of you? Do we need to review what it was like not to be tied down?”
Strands of brown hair bobbed against Micah’s forehead with the shake of his head. Arms down, elbows now braced on the edge of the table. “That girl was no fling. Not to you, brother.”
She was, because anything more than that and she would have never betrayed him. End of story.
“With every other girl on this planet I’d believe it, but not Marty’s daughter.”
Ryan stared. Micah stared back. What was he doing?
“Marty was like an uncle to you—or shit, a dad even. And ever since the day he took you in and gave you a job at the Alibi, you’ve cherished everything about him. What he said, what he did…what he had.” He raised his hand and ticked his fingers up one at a time. “E.g. that little pug with its tongue permanently hanging to the side.” One finger. “Thank God that thing died. It was hideous.” A second finger shot into the air. “And what about that tool chest? Is it still sitting on your dresser like a woman’s jewelry box?”
He hadn’t moved it in years, but that was irrelevant. “Did you just say ‘e.g.’?”
Micah ignored the comment and continued, emphasizing his first word with a crooked grin. “Ergo, I don’t believe for a second you’d let go of something belonging to him—aka Sailor.” Third finger, waggling. “It was the reason you decided to give her a chance in the first place, wasn’t it? Because a connection to him—no matter how damaging her past—was better than none at all.”
Ryan swatted at his hand, his stomach turning with the full plate he’d just inhaled. “I have other connections to him. E.g. the bar I practically live in.”
“This is different, someone living and breathing with memories of him, too. Four walls and a roof can’t give you that.”
Or maybe that feeling was his body’s way of telling him to get the hell out of here before his best friend got a fist in his mouth for talking such shit. He’d let Sailor in because she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Because, more than her gorgeous looks or the addicting taste of her mouth, she’d said she’d changed.
Though Ryan wouldn’t ever say so to his friend, Micah was right. His connections to the bar didn’t give him what time spent with Sailor had. But it did give him an excuse to leave.
Ryan pushed his chair away from the table and stood, chugging the rest of his ice water. “Speaking of those four walls, I have a string of interviews to host. Unless, of course, you’d like to come back to the bar? Manager pay plus all the whiskey you can drink?”
Ryan expected Micah to refuse the offer, with his life now settled in the suburbs and a decent nine-to-five job. But what he hadn’t expected was the way his friend looked at him just then, with pity etched into every crease along his face. And it sucked.
Ryan shifted in his chair, bracing his heels against the wooden bar, and tried to pull his attention back to the girl sitting across from him. He glanced at his watch. Six minutes. It may have been a record for the longest answer to an interview question ever.
Tell me about yourself.
Note to self: next time rephrase so the interviewee doesn’t feel the need to start her story at the ripe age of fetus. She’d been a twin, and toward the end of the pregnancy the sister had started stealing all the food. Ever since then, she’d been working hard. Her claim was supported with an example of when she learned to walk earlier than normal and then with the very detailed story of mastering a cartwheel when she was three. Ryan had tuned out not long after that.
The girl pushed her long, dark hair from her face and started in on something about her third-grade teacher. Ryan glanced at the note he’d scribbled on her application. Talker. Then added the word “excessive” to it. Appearancewise, though, she’d fit in. In her twenties, a nice smile that could lure men into having just one more drink… If she didn’t scare them away with boring-ass stories.
Ryan cleared his throat, hoping to cut off her monologue. Middle school. Getting closer, but being a rambler, four years of high school was going to be torture. Mid-sentence in a story of working for the school yearbook, the girl inhaled, and Ryan jumped in.
“Sounds like you’ve been through a lot.”
She tipped her head, thick brows falling in to the top of her nose. “I have another example about trying out for cheerleading in high school.”
Please no.
“I didn’t make the cut.”
Smart cheerleading coach.
“But I think that failure—”
“Made you a better person?” Attempting to sound like he cared was like forcing down a glass of Metamucil. Trying not to say something dickish was even harder. He swallowed and tapped the pen against the paper in front of him. “I can see that. You seem very…resilient. Do you have any experience working in a bar?”
The girl shook her head.
“Restaurant then?”
Shifting in her seat, she pressed her intertwined hands into her lap. “Nothing in the food industry at all. But there was this one time…”
At band camp?
“…I served food in a homeless shelter for Thanksgiving.”
And the rest of the day went like that, a torturous train of a ditzy brunette—Do you have any morning shifts available?; a slurring granny—What is your policy on courtesy shots?; and a salivating middle-aged man who literally drooled onto his Hawaiian shirt while talking.
Interview after interview. Disappointment after disappointment.
As the last prospect whisked out the door, Ryan lowered his head to the table, the cool wood a slight relief to the pounding that hadn’t stopped since the excessive talker.
His phone buzzed.
Micah: Any luck?
Ryan: Did the circus come to town?
Micah: Hah! That bad?
Ryan: I’m screwed. And ready to offer Vinny his job back.
Micah: That guy was a douche.
True. And he hardly showed up. And he called Ryan bro.
Like he told Micah, he was screwed.
Micah: I can think of one other person to offer a job back to…
R
yan: Can you see me flipping you off?
Micah: Just sayin’.
Ryan tossed his phone onto the table and went to the bar to pour himself a drink, the exhaustion of the day wearing down his mind just long enough to allow memories of her to seep in. She was everywhere in the room. In the empty floor space, standing with a leash tangled around her. Arms deep in a soapy wash basin. On top of the counter, Coyote Ugly style, and then over by the taps, fingers gingerly wrapped around a handle. His cock suddenly roused. Damn. There was that, too, the absence of her flawless body beneath him.
“Day drinking.” Trevor waltzed across the room, nodding his chin to the half-filled glass tumbler in Ryan’s grip. “Assuming that means we’re on our own again tonight.”
Ryan straightened, forcing the insides of his body to stop reacting to something no longer in his life. He slammed the remainder of his drink. “Unless you’re willing to train a sixty-year-old woman who drinks wine for breakfast as your wingman.”
Trevor twisted his face and dropped his tattered canvas backpack behind the bar. A smile stretched his lips, but the slight roll of his shoulders and release of a slow breath hinted that he was tired of this shit, too. “Maybe we could put a now hiring sign on the door. We’ve been getting a lot of college students coming in lately, and it seems like they’re always broke and looking for a way to make some quick money.”
“Not a bad idea.” And the best part? Staring at a computer screen for the next hour ensured his occupied brain couldn’t lob ridiculous ideas at him. At least, he hoped. Because for a split second before Trevor had walked in, one had been flitting at the edges of his thoughts—one that considered rehiring Sailor for more reasons than he was short on staff.
Obviously, that was out of the question. Every boss knew thieves didn’t make good employees. Hopefully, his body would get the memo soon.
…
Staring straight ahead, Sailor settled into the sticky vinyl seat, tightening and loosening her fingers around the peeling steering wheel. It was like her skin a few days after the beach—flaking and shedding worse than a molting snake. So…Ms. Trost had enough business funds to up her hours and start her on deliveries, yet not enough to buy a new cover for the wheel?
A Moment of Madness (Boston Alibi) Page 17
