Change of Heart
Scarlett E. Edwards
Table of Contents
Change of Heart
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter One
I’m pissed. Seriously, I’m pissed.
I push my way to the bar at the end of the smoky room, not caring how many people I have to shoulder though to get there. Cries of “Bitch!” and “Watch where you’re going!” trail after me. I filter them out.
Right now, I have only one thing on my mind : a drink. A strong one. After six months of abstinence, I’m long overdue. And right now, I need something particularly potent to take my mind off the disaster of tonight.
I get to the bar, and place my hands wide on the sticky counter. I feel like taking up space. I know I should probably be grossed out by the semi-dry paste of liquor that clings to my fingers, but I’m way beyond caring about that now. I make eye contact with the bartender and nod him over. He’s busy serving somebody else. He raises his hand in acknowledgement, letting me know he’ll attend to me soon.
But soon can’t come soon enough. As I wait, irritation about everything that has happened tonight flaring within me, I find my eyes moving over his body. I can’t help it. Even though he’s facing away from me now, I can make out the outline of his strong shoulders and lean, cut arms from beneath a black V-neck tee shirt. He’s not bad looking, with close-cropped dark hair and a jeweled stud in one ear. When he finally turns away from his customers and walks over to me, the features of his face become clearer in the dark. He’s clean-shaven, with a strong, square jaw and hard, black eyes that seem to pierce the hazy air. He flashes an easy smile, revealing perfectly-white-but-slightly-crooked teeth. Despite my mood, I can’t help but give a little sigh. I’m a sucker for those types of imperfections.
“And what can I get you, pretty lady?” he asks.
His southern accent catches me off-guard. It’s completely out of place in the small-time Oregon college bar. It’s not at all what I would expect from someone who looks like him. I recover quickly, and spit out the first drink that comes to mind. “A Dry Manhattan. On the rocks.”
“A Dry Manhattan,” he repeats with a smirk. “On the rocks. That’s a pretty strong drink for a lady your size.”
I roll my eyes. Strike one, I think, you’re out. “I’m tougher than I look.” He perks a curious eyebrow at me in a way that is probably meant to be flirtatious. If he hadn’t made the comment, I might have even smiled back. But I don’t. I’m in no mood for small talk. Not now.
The bartender catches my ill humor, shrugs, and reaches over to right a clean mixing glass from his side of the bar. Bending down, he scoops a handle of ice into it, then sets the half-filled glass on the counter in front of me.
“You have your ID on you?”
“My ID?” I repeat, incredulous. This is the last thing I need right now. “You’re not serious.”
“Serious as can be. You see the sign.” He points to the side, where the words, “NO WRISTBAND – NO DRINKING!” are scrawled in thick black Sharpie on a bright yellow sheet of paper. He makes a point of looking down at my wrists. Both are empty.
“I’ll just pretend you let yours slip off that delicate little arm of yours,” he continues, “not that you couldn’t get one when you came in. But I’ll still need to see your ID before I can serve you.”
I narrow my lips in displeasure. The wristband rule is a vestige from the time this bar was still sponsored by the college administration. Anybody was allowed in, but only those students of drinking age would get their wristbands at the door. I always thought the rule was ridiculous. It is super easy to swap with someone, or have a friend buy you drinks. Never before have I heard of the student bartenders caring enough to check IDs.
To prove my point, I look behind me. The space in front of the bar has transformed into an impromptu dance floor, with some indie DJ pumping out his personal remixes of top 40 tunes from the corner. There are drunk coeds and frat boys everywhere. There must be at least five girls within ten paces of me who are obviously underage and sloshed out of their minds.
“Well?” He picks up the glass he set down in front of me and hovers it over the sink. “You have it, or not?” He tilts the glass ever-so-slightly, threatening to dump the ice cubes down the drain.
“Uh, yeah, hold on,” I say, trying to buy time. As I fumble through my purse for my wallet, I know it’s never going to fly. I haven’t used my fake ID once since moving from California, mostly because it wasn’t very good.
I start to regret my decision to shut out the bartender’s attempt at small talk. Maybe if I’d been friendlier at the start, he would have been willing to overlook the wristband issue. But I hadn’t been in the right frame of mind to think that far ahead. Now, he probably thinks of me as some cold bitch. This is just his way of getting back at me. While I would love nothing more than to pull out a real ID and show him up, I know that that isn’t going to happen.
But, what the hell? I might as well try the fake. If he calls me out on it, I’ll just leave—even if I have nowhere to go after what happened earlier tonight.
Just as I’m about to hand him the fake, I find two arms placed on either side of me, and feel a hard torso pressing up against my back. An unfamiliar voice speaks over my head. “Rod. You harassing my girl?”
“She’s with you?” The bartender sounds surprised. “I didn’t see the two of you together.”
“You’re questioning me?” The stranger’s voice sounds amused, but also… menacing.
Rod shakes his head quickly. “No, man, I believe you.”
“Good. Then whatever you’re making for her, make one for me, too. You can put it on my tab.”
“Sure, bro! No problem.” The bartender picks up a second glass and fills it with ice, then gets a bottle of dry vermouth to start on the drinks.
I can’t believe that worked. I don’t know who the person speaking above me is, but something about his calm, collected voice just oozes sex appeal. I sneak a glance to my left, and notice a small tribal tattoo decorating the inside of his forearm. Okay, now I’m intrigued—if still trying to suppress the annoyance boiling in me from earlier tonight.
“Look,” I begin, turning to address the stranger, “I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t particularly like being called ‘my girl’. Especially by someone I don’t even know…” The words die on my tongue as I get my first look at the man who still has his body so close to mine.
He’s tall. Much taller than I expected. At least a good foot taller than I am, and I’m not exactly tiny at five-foot-five. I have to tilt my head back to look at his face.
Stunning grey-blue eyes greet me. They regard me calmly from beneath a mane of dark reddish, unruly hair. His cheeks are hard and angular, his nose in perfect proportion to the rest of his face. His broad shoulders project power and confidence. “Handsome” would probably be the way most girls describe him. Maybe even “dreamy.” But I’m not most girls.
“Hello there,” he says. I’m struck again by the raw male edge that his voice carries. The effect is somehow augmented now that I have a face to match the voice to. “I think this is the time I’d ask if I can get you a drink,” he comments. “But it looks like we’ve already got that covered.” A knowing smile plays on his lip
s.
“Yes, I think we do,” I say flatly, trying to cross my arms to better relay my mood—and to create a little bit of space between us. He doesn’t budge. Instead, he nods, cocks his head to the side, and continues smiling at me.
“Is something funny?” I ask.
“No,” he replies. His eyes still haven’t moved away from my face. He’s either extremely confident, or extremely drunk. But, I can’t smell any liquor on his breath. His unwavering stare is a sure sign of sobriety. Confident it is, then.
“I’m Richard.”
To prove I’m not intimidated by him, I match his eye contact one-to-one. “…And?”
“Annnnd,” he drags out the word, “It’s nice to meet me? I think this is the part where you tell me your name.”
“Why would I do that?”
He chuckles, and finally takes a small step back. His body isn’t pressing against mine anymore. I find myself feeling an odd sense of loss at the change. “Because, that’s what we do in polite society, woman! It’s what separates us from the animal kingdom… and people from Jersey.”
“I’m from Jersey,” I lie, just to see how he’ll keep up.
“Then you’ve just proved my point.” He winks. “But, I don’t think you’re beyond hope. We can get some culture in you, I can feel it.”
“Is that so?”
“Definitely. In you, I sense… potential.”
“Potential?” I repeat drily. “What are you, a fortune teller?”
Richard laughs, and I’m amazed at the way the sound carries over the din of the bar. His laughter cuts through the air, full and hearty, and very attractive. “Woman, if you’re this defiant with every guy who comes to say hi, it’s no wonder you’re all alone right now.” He leans in, bringing his lips close to my ear. “Don’t worry though,” he whispers in a way that makes shivers run down my spine. “I can handle it.”
“Two dry Manhattans, on the rocks,” Rod announces from behind us, breaking the tension of the moment.
Rich pulls his head away and takes an appraising look at me. “That’s your poison?”
I hide a little smile. “What? A girl isn’t allowed to drink?”
“No, no, I’m impressed. I was just expecting something more delicate out of you.”
“Oh?” I murmur. “I think I can be full of surprises.” I bring the drink to my lips to take a sip. Richard catches my hand before it gets there.
“The least you owe me so far, anonymous girl,” he says, “is a toast before the first drink.”
“A toast?” I ask. “To what?”
He smiles. “To people from Jersey.”
I consider it for a moment… and find myself grinning back. “To people from Jersey,” I agree, clinking glasses with him before having my first drink in months.
***
Earlier That Night...
The cabbie pulls up in front of my destination. I hand him my last twenty dollar bill.
“Keep the change,” I say without thinking. Then, I cringe at how much of a scrooge I must look. The final fare shows $19.34. My measly tip probably offends him more than anything.
He grunts as he takes my money. I’m tempted to throw a few extra ones in there, but decide against it. I’m strapped for cash. With the twenty gone, all I have in my wallet is a single five, those few ones, and a credit card maxed to its pathetic five-hundred-dollar limit.
The entirety of my last paycheck went to my roommate to cover rent.
I climb out and look at the building in front of me. Barren, the only night-time venue open on campus on a Wednesday, is looking anything but. The doors are gated off by a red velvet rope, and a long line of people stretches out along the sidewalk, waiting to get in. Lively sounds filter out from the entrance. I can hear people’s laughter over the music playing inside.
I take a deep breath before I pull out my phone. This is not where I want to be right now. Not after completing eight grueling hours of class, split only by two hours of lunchtime waitressing at a small diner across town. But, my roommate Abby texted me to meet her here tonight, telling me that it was important.
I find her number in my contacts and send her a text, letting her know that I’m outside. She replies half a minute later.
B riiiight theeerrrre!
I hope to God she’s sober, but I’m not holding my breath. Abby only elongates her texts like that when she’s blackout drunk.
I see her pop out from the front doors, holding onto the shoulders of some guy I don’t know. She stumbles a little as she looks around, searching for me. Oh yeah, she’s plastered already.
I give a wave as I come over, forcing myself to smile despite my complete lack of enthusiasm for being here tonight. “Abby!”
“Oh my God, there you aaaarrrreee!” Abby tries to take a step forward, but her heel catches something on the ground. She almost falls before the guy she’s with catches her and holds her up. She collapses into a fit of giggles against him, sweeping her long blonde hair away from her face.
“Yeah. Here I am,” I say. I feel distinctly underdressed in my schoolmarm sweater and old, tattered jeans. But that was the only clothing I had left this morning after putting off laundry for two weeks.
Still, it’s not like I came here to impress anybody. My plan is to talk to my roommate, get back home, and collapse into bed for a glorious, uninterrupted six hours of sleep.
Abby grabs my hand and pulls me forward. I duck under the velvet rope. The bouncer gives us a hard look, but when Abby screams “She’s my friend!” he backs off and lets us in.
“So, what’s so important you needed to talk to me tonight?” I ask once we’re seated at a table. “And don’t you have class tomorrow? How much have you had to drink?”
Abby explodes into uncontrollable laughter. “Come on! As if I need to worry about class! Look at me! I’m hot!” She bats her eyes and flips her hair, then adjusts her skimpy halter top to expose even more of her cleavage. If this were any other night, I might even feel a little bit jealous. Abby is definitely more gifted than I am in the boob department.
The guy she’s with is still hovering near us. He hasn’t said a word, and Abby hasn’t introduced me, either.
“Abby,” I start, “you know I’m exhausted. Couldn’t this have waited until tomorrow?”
“Oh, no, no, no…” Abby protests. She looks around, and seems startled to find her guy still there. She reaches over and pulls him in. “Leave us alone, will you?” she screeches into his ear. “I need to talk to my roommate!”
The guy shrugs, puts his hands in his pockets, and walks away. I start to get a bad feeling about what Abby has to say. I sigh. “Just tell me whatever you want and let me go back to our apartment so I can pass out,” I say stoically.
“Well, Penn, that’s the thing.” Abby puts her elbows on the table, and leans toward me in a way that she must think makes her look more serious. Great. A serious drunk. That’s just what I need right now. “We… kind of have a problem with our apartment.”
“A problem? What do you mean?”
“Remember last week when you gave me cash for rent?”
“Of course. But what does that have to do with—oh, no. Abby, tell me you didn’t…”
The guilt that flashes on my roommate’s face seems so genuine that I almost believe it… until I remember all the times this same thing has happened before. “You did, didn’t you? You spent our rent on something else.”
“Oops,” she says meekly.
“Abby, we were two months behind already! The landlord is going to evict us if he doesn’t get that payment!”
She shrugs, seeming completely oblivious to the implication. “Money’s just money. Rent is rent. This…” she gestures around the crowded bar, “this is fun.”
“You’re drunk,” I spit, getting up. My disgust with her grows stronger by the second. I can’t believe she threw away our rent money. Again! I need to get away from this crowded place, somewhere to clear my head. “Talk to me when you’re so
ber. I’m not going to waste my breath when you won’t remember a thing I said in the morning.”
“Oh.” Abby’s voice becomes small again. “You’re mad, aren’t you?”
“No shit, I’m mad!” I push off from the table and spin away. Abby catches my arm.
“Wait, wait, Penn! I’m sorry. Really, I am. We can figure this out,” she pleads.
“How?” I ask, defeated. I let her pull me back down. “At least tell me you didn’t spend the money on something stupid like booze.”
She frowns at me like I’m a little girl. “No. I’m not sixteen anymore. I got something better.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a little Ziploc bag. It’s full of colorful pills. She slides it across the table to me.
I catch it with a grimace and count the pills inside. There are eleven of them. “Drugs,” I say flatly. “You spent our rent money—my rent money—on drugs.”
“Not just any drugs,” Abby says. “That’s MDMA.”
I can almost cry. “Why, Abby?”
“Why? Why do you always have to be such a sourpuss, Penn? Don’t you ever want to party?”
I ignore the jab. “How many of these did you have tonight, Abby?”
“Oh, maybe two or three.”
“Two or three,” I repeat. My disbelief grows stronger by the second. “Mixed with how much alcohol?”
“I’ve only had five shots tonight,” Abby defends. “Thank you, mother.”
Five shots and it’s not even a quarter to ten. I shake my head at the absurdity of the situation.
“Here.” I fling the bag back at her. “I hope it was worth it. Because if we get evicted over this—”
“Oh, did I mention?” Abby giggles. “When I tried to go home before coming here, the funniest thing happened.”
A sinking feeling forms in my stomach. “What?”
“The key didn’t work.”
My mouth drops open. “What?”
“I don’t know, Penn! I used it like a regular key. I went to our door. And it just… didn’t work.”
“Oh my God.” I sink down against the back of my chair. “You don’t get it, do you? That’s it. We’ve been evicted. They’ve changed the locks.” Now, I definitely feel like crying. “Abby, what the hell were you thinking?”
Change of Heart Page 1
