Joaquin and Attila still flank me, trying to hold me in place, but I manage to evade them and bolt for the door. As I push through the exit out into the cool air, I can feel my pulse beating a staccato rhythm inside my veins. I’ve really done it now. Here’s my shot at making a decent second impression and what do I do? Screw it up. Royally. I’ll never be able to face her again.
Way to go, lady killer.
Chapter Seventeen
Dakota
“Hey there.” Emily takes a seat next to me Monday night by the fire pit. All the usual suspects are here—Tomo, Jane, Neville, River’s brothers, Fran, Dad, Emily. Miles is eating with us too, turning on the charm for the oldies and roughhousing with the boys like he’s one of the family.
“Hi.” I try to sound friendly, though I feel secretly annoyed to see her. As usual, she wears the alert, overly eager expression of a puppy.
Emily nods toward Miles and says in a low, secretive tone, “He sure is cute.”
“Who?”
“Miles. Isn’t that his name?”
I nod and concentrate on my drumstick. Fran is talking at top volume with Neville, who’s laughing his booming laugh and there’s music playing and the boys are shouting as they play keep-away, so it’s not like Miles is likely to overhear; still, I don’t know if I really want to have this conversation. Emily has that girly, conspiratorial gleam in her eye that makes me feel obligated to dish secrets.
She leans closer. “If I were twenty years younger…”
I’m pretty sure taking twenty years off Emily’s age would make her ten, but I don’t say this. I just shrug and check to see if Miles overheard. I catch him staring at me, but not in an I-heard-you-talking-about-me way, more in a sexy, come-hither way that makes me nervous. He is cute—not my type, exactly, but attractive in a slick, calculated way. I bet he spends enough on hair products to sustain a small country. I’m not normally attracted to that kind of guy, but it’s easy to see why most girls would find him appealing. So why does the thought of kissing him make me vaguely sick? Why does the thought of Alejandro make my pulse skyrocket, whereas the live, flesh-and-blood presence of my own private admirer leaves me cold?
Because mysterious letters are more exciting than flesh-and-blood boys, that’s why.
I’m starting to worry about myself. Maybe I’m doomed to long for unavailable guys. Alejandro’s a prime example, but he’s not the only one.
I find myself thinking more and more about Jack.
Which is stupid. If he really is as crazy and violent and strung out on drugs as Miles says, I shouldn’t even consider liking him. I don’t have to take Miles’s word for it. I saw the evidence with my own eyes. The guy practically tore Miles’s head off at Café Vida on Saturday. He went crazy. When we left the café and were driving back to Luna Cove, Miles went on and on about it. He made fun of Jack’s violent temper, told me stories about what a dick he was back in high school, before he ditched school and his mom hired the Romanian guy to follow him everywhere like a secret service agent.
“His family’s filthy rich,” he’d said, his lip curling with contempt. “Ever heard of Sauvage Vineyards? Guys like that think they can get away with anything. It’s a good thing he backed off when he did, man. I was going to kick his ass.”
I pretended to forget all about it, but I didn’t. It’s not like anything monumental happened. The whole thing was kind of lame and juvenile. Still, I find myself thinking about it repeatedly. I’m weirdly intrigued by him—his dark eyes, his muscular forearms, his shy smile. He’s obviously not as smooth and charming as Miles; his hair stands up all funny, not coiffed and movie star perfect like Miles’s. But in those moments when he stood before me like a prisoner awaiting his sentence, I felt something. An inexplicable flutter started inside my ribcage—the beginnings of fascination stirring to life under his dark, intense stare.
More evidence that I’d rather fantasize about elusive strangers than get to know real guys who actually show an interest.
“You don’t like him?” Emily asks in a whisper.
“Of course I do.” I keep my tone light, deliberately misunderstanding her. “He’s nice.”
“I mean like him like him,” she says. “No spark happening there?”
I feel a sudden surge of overwhelming irritation. Who is she to quiz me about my love life? She’s probably going to pulverize my dad’s heart, just like Mom. I don’t know why she’s even here, acting all chummy, insinuating herself into our family when she probably won’t even stick around. He’ll have to spend years recovering; she’ll be off living her life in blithe oblivion while Dad huddles in a corner somewhere, wounded. He might be ready to sign up for that kind of pain all over again, but I’m not. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Why do you care?”
She recoils as if I’ve slapped her.
“I’m sorry,” I amend, instantly contrite.
I can see the effort it takes for her to paste on a weak smile. She stands. “I’m going to get seconds. You need anything?”
“No. Thanks.”
I finish my dinner and head back to my yurt to sulk.
…
Jack
Monday night, the three of us meet in the pool house again after hours for an emergency strategy session. I got pissed off after the fiasco Saturday. I’ve kept to myself for the past couple days, practicing long hours in the conservatory and running for miles on the fire trails, just thinking. Today Joaquin suggested we meet and form a new plan. He looked so sincere and apologetic, I suddenly felt childish. I mean yeah, the attempt to get to know her totally flopped, but that’s not his fault. How often do you meet a guy who cares enough to help you woo some girl, anyway?
Woo. What an old-fashioned word. No wonder I suck at meeting girls. I’m living in a world where wooing is still a viable concept. Maybe it’s all the time I spend with Schubert, Haydn, and Beethoven—men who composed for a world that died off two or three centuries ago. They’ve got me living in the eighteen hundreds, my head swirling with romantic notions that went out of style with hoop skirts and cravats.
As Attila mixes drinks at the bar, I lean back into the overstuffed couch and watch Joaquin pace the room.
“Okay, so Saturday didn’t work out so well—I see that.” He has the good grace to look a little sheepish. “That doesn’t mean anything. You get knocked on your butt, what do you do?”
“Pray the earth swallows you whole?” I suggest.
“No! You get back up and you fight for what you want!”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
Attila delivers our drinks and takes a seat at the table. “You should do what I tell you to do in the beginning.”
Joaquin whips around to face him. “What’s that?”
“Play piano! Girls like a man with talents.”
“Oh yeah!” I smack my forehead. “I should have brought my baby grand to the café. She’d love that.”
Joaquin stands perfectly still, his eyes full of calculations. “Hold on. He might be on to something.”
“Of course I am.” Attila glares at us.
“Play the Mozart angle.” Joaquin nods, mulling it over. “I like it.”
I scoff. “But how? That’s the problem. It’s not practical.”
Joaquin thinks for a long moment, then slams his drink down on the table. “I’ve got it! Here’s what we’re going to do.”
Chapter Eighteen
Dakota
Dear Dakota,
Thanks very much for your letter, especially the picture of a passionflower. It’s exquisite. Even more impressive is the drawing of your own hand. I’m no artist, but I imagine it’s quite difficult to accurately capture human flesh, especially your own. How beautiful your fingers are! No wonder they are so adept at making art.
I have a plane to catch, so I must keep this letter short. Forgive me. Time is not my friend these days. In an hour, I’m leaving for South America, where I hope to find much truth and beauty. Sadly, it is imposs
ible to know when I might happen upon a mailbox again, so I cannot say when I will write next.
May you find everything you seek, my artistic mujer bella.
Yours,
Alejandro
I fold the letter and tuck it back into the creamy blue envelope, feeling a bittersweet concoction of excitement and emptiness. On the one hand, I’m stoked to hear from him at last. The thing is, though, it took three whole weeks for this measly half-pager to get here, and from the sound of it I may never hear from him again. The jungles of South America? Seriously? That line makes me so grumpy. It’s terribly romantic sounding, like Indiana Jones. But it also smacks of a not-so-subtle kiss-off. He’ll whack his way into the jungle and meet some half-naked nubile native girl, a cross between Pocahontas and Shakira. They’ll fall in love and have beautiful onyx-eyed babies. All my dreams of kissing him in front of the Magic Fountain of Montjuïc wither and crumble and blow away like dust.
I hold the envelope close to my face and inhale deeply. I think I can detect the slightest whiff of citrusy cologne. It smells expensive and slightly familiar. Where have I smelled it before? I picture him in jungle-ready adventure gear—lots of khaki and leather—and then I try to imagine how this smell fits in with that. It doesn’t. I can’t put the two together, no matter how I try.
Maybe it’s best if I don’t hear from him anymore. What’s the point of fantasizing about someone I’ve never met? Shouldn’t I stop chasing phantom boys and try to connect with real people? And anyway, if I’m so jealous of Alejandro’s exotic adventures, maybe it’s time to start planning my own.
Anya comes in from the storeroom just as I slip the letter back into my bag. She’s got eyes like an eagle, though. Nothing escapes her.
“What’ve you got there?” she asks, trying to sound casual.
“A letter from that guy I told you about.”
She arches an eyebrow. “I thought you liked him. Why do you sound all pouty?”
“Because he’s going to marry a jungle princess and have gorgeous bambinos.” I hang my head.
“Not sure I follow.”
“I suspect this is my last letter from him. He’s leaving for South America.”
“And they don’t have mailboxes in South America?”
I read from the letter in a sulky voice. “‘It is impossible to know when I might happen upon a mailbox again, so I cannot say when I will write next.’”
She makes a sympathetic face. “Sounds like you could use a little pick-me-up. Want to run next door? Get us a couple hot, yummy drinks and maybe a cookie?”
“Yeah, okay,” I say listlessly.
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a twenty. “My treat.”
Leave it to Anya to solve every problem with a healthy dose of caffeine and sugar. It’s amazing she runs an herb shop and still manages to maintain her steadfast devotion to carb-and-caff-therapy.
I’m still feeling mopey when I walk into Café Vida. Relief flickers inside me when I notice Miles isn’t working today. Then I get annoyed with myself for not wanting to see the one guy who shows consistent interest. Shut up, I tell my rational self. Let me mourn the loss of this totally inconsistent, ephemeral dream guy I’ve never even met.
That’s when I smell it. Underneath the warm scents of pastries and coffee, a note of citrus and spice. The same citrusy cologne I smelled on Alejandro’s letter. I spin around, searching for the source, and find myself looking up at Jack.
“Hey.” He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. His eyes find mine, then look away, then back again. His expression is complicated—sheepishness and hope mingling with fear, like a kid who’s done something naughty.
I tell myself not to smile. This guy’s trouble. He’s violent and into meth and who knows what else. “Hi.”
“Listen, I want to— When I saw you here last time—that was so…”
I cross my arms and watch him struggle, his sentences smashing into one another like bumper cars. My own thoughts are in a similar state of chaos. Why does he smell like Alejandro’s letter? Is that pure coincidence? Is it a sign? If so, a sign of what?
He takes a deep breath and starts over. “Miles and I have a history.”
“Oh?” I say coolly. “What kind of history?”
“We went to school together.”
“Yeah, he said.” It comes out kind of mean and smug.
“Are you two…?” His cheeks and his ears turn bright pink. “Sorry, it’s none of my— I just meant—”
“Are we what?”
“Going out, or whatever?”
“No.” I say it too quickly. Even I can hear how defensive I sound. I don’t owe this guy an explanation. Why am I eager to set him straight?
His relief at my response is so obvious, I can’t help softening a little. Why does he have to be so tall and cute and smell so good? I flash back to that “Faces of Meth” campaign I saw on the internet once. Those tweakers looked nothing like this guy. They had horrible, scabby skin, hollowed out cheeks, and rotten teeth. It occurs to me that Miles could have been lying. Why would he, though?
Jack is back to making eye contact for only a second at a time, like I’m the sun and he can’t look at me without wincing away. “I don’t usually— I’m not like that. Normally I’m totally peaceful, really.”
“That’s not what Miles said.”
A muscle in his jaw pulses, and I can see him fighting his temper. He manages to get it under control. “He’s got a right to his opinion. Even though he’s wrong.”
I can’t help laughing at this.
The girl working the counter scurries in from the back room looking flustered. “Sorry! What can I get you?”
I order Anya a double latte, a chai for me, and two chocolate chip cookies. When I go to pay, though, Jack moves closer. “Let me get this.”
“What? No!” I protest.
“Come on. I was a complete asshat the last time you were here. Probably ruined your lunch. Let me make it up to you.”
“Asshat?” I echo.
“Or whatever epithet you prefer.” His crooked grin is so disarming.
“Okay, fine,” I say, amused. “But only because you used the word ‘epithet.’”
He pays the girl, puts a dollar in her tip jar. Pocketing the rest of his change, he finally looks me straight in the eye. “Listen, I was wondering…”
He pauses so long I can’t help leaning forward slightly in anticipation. “You were wondering…?”
“Do you want to come hear me play tonight?”
“Play what?”
“Piano. I play piano.” He closes his eyes in frustration. “Sorry, I’m so bad at this. I’m playing piano tonight at my parents’ restaurant, Pinot Noir.”
Anya eyes me suspiciously when I hand her the latte, a cookie, and her twenty. “You left here five minutes ago with a great big frown, now you’re all sunshine. You didn’t even spend my money. What’s going on?”
“I’m not all sunshine.” I can’t hide my smile, though.
She takes a bite of her cookie and rolls her eyes in pleasure. “God, that’s good. So what’s up? Something happened.”
“Do you know any tweakers?”
She looks alarmed. “Crackheads, you mean?”
“Aren’t meth and crack totally different?”
Her brows pull together in confusion. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, there’s this guy…”
“A tweaker?”
I sip my chai, considering. “Somebody told me he’s a tweaker, but I don’t know if I believe it.”
“Who told you?”
“Miles.”
“Who’s Miles?”
“This guy who works next door.”
She pockets her twenty and squints at me, still confused. “So Miles gives you free cookies and coffee?”
“No, Miles wasn’t there.”
“But the tweaker was?”
“The alleged tweaker,” I correct her. “Jack.”
&
nbsp; She shakes her head. “You have so many boys in your life, Dakota. I can’t keep them straight.”
“He asked me to come hear him play,” I say shyly. “He’s a musician.”
“Who is?”
I shoot her an impatient look. “Jack!”
“Really? Where’s he playing?”
“Pinot Noir.”
“The restaurant in Geyserville?”
“Yeah. You’ve heard of it?”
She nods. “At Sauvage Vineyards. Is he a Sauvage?”
I try to remember what Miles said about his family. The name rings a bell. “I think that’s his last name.”
She whistles, impressed.
“Why, what’s the big deal?”
“Sauvage is a big name around here. You’ve never heard of them?”
I guess growing up in Luna Cove really has kept me sheltered. Aside from the stuff Miles told me about Jack’s family, the name means nothing to me. “Not really. Why, what have you heard?”
“They’re just a really successful wine family. Pinot Noir is supposed to be amazing. When is he playing?”
“Tonight.”
She widens her eyes. “Maybe we should go.”
“Really? You feel like it?”
“Jo’s got some family thing, so I’m on my own.” She pokes me. “I’ll check him out, tell you if he’s a tweaker or not.”
“You didn’t even know the difference between a tweaker and a crackhead,” I complain.
“So what? I’ve got good instincts when it comes to men.”
“You’re a lesbian,” I remind her.
“Thank you for that insight, Little Miss Smarty Pants. It’s widely known we’re the best judges of male character. Our perceptions aren’t clouded by a haze of hormones.”
I giggle. “Okay, fine. You can get a good look at him, see what you think.”
She squints at me for a long moment, sipping her coffee in silence.
“What?” I exclaim when I can’t stand being scrutinized another second.
The Truth About Jack (Entangled Crush) Page 13
