by Melody Grace
“Bet you ten bucks.”
“Dude, make it fifty.”
“That’s right, I forgot, you’ve got that graduation check burning a hole in your pocket.” I laugh, passing Jace the blunt to smoke. “Or should I call it the down payment on your soul?”
“Aww, man, don’t say it like that.” Jace exhales in a long sigh, smoke billowing out over the dock. He looks at the joint. “This is good stuff, where’d you find it?”
I shrug. “Some guy at a bar. And don’t change the subject. I can’t believe you’re signing up to play dad’s lapdog come fall.”
Jace rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I won’t even be in his department, I bet I won’t see him at all.”
“Except for lunch, and client dinners, and weekends playing golf at the club…” I tease, only half-joking. “I’m serious, man. Working in that place is like a death sentence. They’ll have your name over the door before you know it. Covington and Son.”
“Sons,” Jace corrects me with a smirk. “You know he’ll be gunning for you too. Just a matter of time.”
I groan, reaching for the joint again. “You ever think what it would be like if we weren’t… us?” I ask, wistful. The ocean is dark and limitless beyond the harbor, and I wonder for the hundredth time what it would be like to sail off to nowhere. “Just two regular kids, I mean, with none of this Covington bullshit to deal with.”
Jace looks at me like I’m crazy. “You want to be just another regular Joe? We’re lucky. We can do anything we want.”
“Anything mom and dad want.” I correct.
He laughs. “You’ll see. You’ll grow up soon, and you’ll realize people don’t get breaks like us. We can run this whole damn state one day. Congressman. Governor. “
“Why stop there?” I remark, sarcastic. “Why not make it President?”
“Why not?” Jace gives me a grin so cocky I have to toss a bag of chips at him.
“Douche.”
“Asshole.”
“Dickwad.”
Jace launches himself at me, and we tumble to the dock, tussling the way we’ve done ever since he was old enough to get me in a choke hold. For years, I struggled uselessly in his grips—four years older is a lot in kid wrestling terms—but ever since I filled out and made the football team as a linebacker, I’ve given him a run for his money.
This time, I nearly have him, until Jace flips me out of nowhere, and I wind up slammed facedown on the dock. “I get it, dude,” I protest, slamming the boards in defeat. “You’re still in shape—for an old man.”
“Watch it, kid.” Jace offers a hand to pull me back up. “I can still take you here, or out there.” He nods at the dark water.
“So put your money where your mouth is.”
“I got a better idea.” Jace gives me a grin. “I win, you have to go talk to that waitress you’ve been drooling over.”
I tense. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t give me that.” He punches my arm. “I’ve seen you. The jailbait one at Mrs. Olson’s, she keeps dying her hair all those crazy colors.”
I shrug, as if I don’t know who he means. “Plenty of girls in this town.”
Jace isn’t fooled. “Whatever, dude. I’ve heard people talk, she could show you a real good time.”
“Don’t say that.” My reply comes out harsh, and Jace raises his eyebrows in surprise.
“See, I knew you liked her.”
“I don’t,” I answer automatically. “I just… I don’t listen to gossip, is all. We don’t know her.”
“We know she wears that black dress thing real well.” Jace smirks again, and I feel anger rise up in my chest.
“Leave it.” I warn him.
He holds his hands up, “Whoa, I get it. Off-limits.” He reaches for his beer and swallows back the rest of the bottle. “So, we doing this or what?” Jace nods at the water.
“Sure.” I reply, glad to change the subject. “Get ready to pay, old man, ‘cause you’re going down.”
The sound of infomercials wakes me.
I sit up, my head pounding, and squint at my watch. It’s 4:00 a.m. and dawn is breaking outside on the far horizon.
I pull myself up off the couch and go fix myself a coffee, pouring in a splash of whiskey to take the edge off my headache as I head out onto the back porch. I settle in the swing, watching the sun slowly edge up over the trees, dark skies brightening with the new day.
Slowly, the ache in my chest eases. Like every morning, I wait–– wait for the shadows of the night to drift away. For the memories to tuck themselves away in the back of my mind for another night. For the world to slip back in focus.
Just one more day, trying to feel human.
They say it gets better in time, but I’m still waiting. Even now, I still wake to nights so dark I don’t think I’ll live to see dawn. Nights when a bottle of whiskey is my only friend, and the past is a knife, slicing through the façade I’ve built and digging deep into my heart.
It’s in those darkest hours that I find myself reaching for the memory of her, like a kid grabbing at his blanket after waking from a bad dream.
Brit.
Funny, how the idea of someone can mean so much. It was just a few hours we spent together all those years ago, but I’ve clung to the memory of her strength and tenderness, like the only light in my darkness. A north star, guiding me on, making me believe that for all my guilt and grief, I could feel something more too. A moment of peace, some glimmer of joy.
She saved me, and she doesn’t even know it.
The irony makes me smile, but it’s a bitter one, edged with rueful resignation. You’re a damn fool, Hunter Covington, I tell myself, taking another gulp of bitter black coffee. I’m not crazy, I’ve known all along that the girl in my mind doesn’t exist anymore – if she ever did to begin with. It was just a summer fling. Some boy she hooked up with back when she was too young to know any better. It’s not like she even stuck around to see morning with me.
But I’ve kept her with me all this time, like a photo tucked in my wallet, or a letter pressed against a soldier’s chest, folded safely like a reminder of better times. Something to hold onto, some reason to believe.
And now, she’s real again.
I think back to last night, greedily pulling apart the details in my mind. The cutoff denim miniskirt, barely covering her creamy, pale thighs. Her petite frame, lush curves straining at the edge of her bra. And that face…
I’ve often wondered if my memory was playing tricks on me: if any girl could be as gorgeous as my memory of her. I figured reality had faded under my imagination, painting her more lovely than the truth.
I was right. My memories were all wrong. Because Brit is even more stunning now than I thought possible.
Heart-stopping. Soul-crushing. Beautiful.
I feel a surge of desire and let out a ragged sigh. Yeah, I’m a fool alright. A fool for coming back here. A fool to cling on to the vision of a girl I barely even know.
And a fool for wanting her so desperately, all over again.
I get to my feet, and head inside, finding my phone and a scrap of paper with a scribbled number. It’s early, but the person on the other end of the line picks up almost right away. Guess I’m not the only one having a bad night.
“Hey,” I start, “I’m going to need your help…”
He calls.
Garrett must have given him my number, because Hunter rings the next morning, and that night, and all through Sunday too. I don’t pick up, but each time, he leaves me a message in his familiar, sexy drawl.
“I don’t care if you’re playing hard to get.” I play his latest voicemail, feeling a shiver at the casual amusement in his tone. “Your kisses don’t lie. I’ll see you tomorrow at six.”
I hang up, cursing myself for the scene in the storeroom. That place must have a weird power over us Ray kids, because I can’t think of a single reason why I could be so stupid as to swoon right into Hunter’s arms.
Maybe because those arms are so damn sexy…?
No! I push back the dizzying memory of his lips, softly brushing mine, and hurl my cellphone across to the couch, safely out of reach. I made those rules three years ago for a reason, and not a damn thing has changed since then. Even if he makes me feel like nothing else on earth, that’s not enough. He’s still perfect and gorgeous and wealthy, and I’m still… not. Not nearly good enough for the likes of him.
He’ll only break my heart.
But my God, you’d die happy.
I crank my music up and turn my attention back to the sketches scattered across the table in front of me. Hiding away trying to avoid Hunter has been good for one thing, at least: with the whole weekend to spend on my designs, the sketches of my dream dress are coming along at an amazing rate. The silk is still sitting in their bags, carefully folded in layers of tissue paper, but I couldn’t resist pulling out a tiny corner to look it. It spills out onto my work bench in a pool of deep, violet fabric, full of possibilities.
The dresses take shape under my pencils, sharp strokes bringing them to life. Should I try this one, with a gathered bodice, or let the silk fall in a single drape? And the hemline…
I work until afternoon, finally taking a break to stretch out my muscles and go fix a PB&J sandwich. I eat on the back porch, watching the ocean waves roll in to shore.
“Knock, knock.”
I look up. Garrett circles the back of the house and climbs the steps. He clocks my grade-school lunch and laughs. “I haven’t seen you in days, I figured you’d starved to death by now.”
“I can take care of myself,” I retort. It’s no secret I live off burgers and fries at Jimmy’s these days, grabbing a snack in between shifts and eating cold pizza for breakfast the next morning. I hold up my sandwich as evidence, “See, a fully nutritious meal.”
“I don’t see any vegetables,” Garrett teases, collapsing on the porch swing.
“Strawberry jam. Fruit,” I declare, and take a big bite.
“Don’t blame me when you die of scurvy.”
I laugh. “Says the guy who lives off of takeout and beer. You better watch yourself,” I add. “I’m starting to see a beer gut there.”
“What, here?” Garrett lifts his shirt, revealing washboard abs, and the scroll of a tattoo that reads Semper Fi. “Nah, I’m good.”
“Put it away.” I toss a potato chip at him. It bounces off his stomach before Garrett grabs it and crunches happily.
“So what’s with you?” He asks. “I haven’t seen you all weekend.”
I shrug. “I’ve been busy. I’m working on a new dress.”
“Oh yeah?” Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And this busy wouldn’t have anything to do with that Hunter guy, would it?”
“No.” I look down, my cheeks flushing.
Garrett chuckles. “Little Brittany Ray, blushing over a guy. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“You haven’t.” I snap, getting up. “Nothing’s going to happen, so just drop it.”
I head back inside the kitchen and rinse my plate. Garrett follows, leaning in the doorway. “What’s the problem? He seems like a good guy.”
“He is.” I admit, reluctant. Too good.
“And he sure seems into you,” Garrett adds, “A feeling which is totally requited, going by the way you two were eye-fucking at the bar the other night.”
“Dude!”
“Just calling it like I see it.” Garrett grins. “So, where’s the damage? Have some drinks, have a little fun. It’s about time you hooked up with someone decent, instead of those skeezy assholes you like to bring around.”
I don’t argue with his description of my usual hook-up type. That’s part of the reason I pick them in the first place. They’re safe territory, a foregone disappointment. If I don’t expect them to do anything besides let me down, then at least it hurts a little less when they screw me over in the end.
But Hunter?
I already know, I would believe every word that comes from those perfect lips. And when, in the end, he lets me down—because they always let me down—well then I wouldn’t just be heartbroken, I’d be a fool too.
And I always swore, I’m nobody’s fool.
Garrett’s still waiting for an answer, so I sigh in defeat. “He’s too perfect,” I confess, leaning back against the sink. I twist the dishcloth in my hands, embarrassed. “That hair and that face and all that money… It’s too much. I end up feeling like a broken mess around him, like I’m nothing.”
“You’re building him up,” Garrett argues. “Nobody’s perfect.”
I snort. “Believe me, Hunter Covington is. You saw him, waltzing into Jimmy’s like he owns the place. Some people are just born with a silver spoon in their mouths. And us mere mortals should know better than to mess around with them.”
Garrett shakes his head slowly, with a ghost of a smile. “Everybody’s got their secrets, Brit. Some people are just better at hiding their scars.”
I pause, wondering if he’s talking about himself. Garrett showed up in town out of nowhere last year, but he always finds a way to change the subject if it ever turns to him. He hit it off with Emerson at the bar, and the two of us fell into our easy, big brother-little sister dynamic, but I’ve always understood, some things are off-limits. Like what he did before he came here, the life he left behind.
“I’m just saying, some people can surprise you.” Garrett offers with a grin. “So,” he changes the subject, “What are your plans tonight? Are you going to lock the doors and pretend you’re not home when he comes to pick you up?”
I groan, realization dawning. “Shit, you’re right. He’s going to show up.”
And when he does… My record for resisting him is zero for two.
I don’t like those odds.
“What am I going to do?” I turn to Garrett, pleading. “Everyone in this town keeps telling him where I am, there’s nowhere to hide.”
“Way to be dramatic,” Garrett grins, but he doesn’t understand. This is my heart on the line here. I know without a doubt that if I go to dinner with Hunter, and spend a couple of hours talking over candlelight in some romantic restaurant like he promised, gazing into those blue eyes, then I’ll have no choice. I’m going to kiss him again. And if I kiss him again, I know, soon it’s only a matter of time before I tear off his clothes, leap into his arms, and finish the job I started three years ago: falling headlong, heartbreakingly in love with him.
“Relax,” Garrett takes pity on me. “I came to pick you up. There’s a county fair over in Hendersonville. A local brewery I want to check out for the bar has a stand there. You can tag along.”
A way out of Beachwood Bay, with beer?
“I’m in!” I declare, leaping to go grab a sweater and my keys. “Just get me far, far away from this town.”
It’s evening by the time we make it to Hendersonville, and the fair is packed: the huge grounds filled with livestock displays, fairground rides, and all kinds of stalls and games. The crowd bustles, a noisy hum of kids and families and the bursts of music as we pass. The chaos washes over me, and for a moment, I forget all about Hunter and feel like a little kid again.
I make a beeline for the concession stands. “Fairground food is the best junk food,” I say, through a mouthful of cotton candy.
Garrett laughs. “Just don’t barf all over me if you go on the rides.”
“Please.” I give him a haughty look. “I can do six shots of tequila without losing my lunch. This is child’s play.”
We stroll slowly through the crowds. Garrett checks his watch. “You need to be somewhere?” I ask.
“Nope, just, want to catch that guy from the brewery,” he answers, looking around. “It’s this way, I think.” We veer off the main drag, and I follow him through the crowd.
“What’s that smell?” I wrinkle my nose.
“What do you think?” Garrett laughs. “Can’t have horses without a little horseshit.” We’re
moving through the livestock section, where ranchers and farmers have their best cattle on display. Kids cluster around a petting pen of baby goats and piglets, and up ahead, there’s a large sand ring getting raked out from the day’s rodeo events.
I drift closer to the paddock. Someone is leading a horse out into the ring, slowly circling in the enclosure. The horse is a young, spirited chestnut: she pulls at the leading rope, and shies, ducking away, but the handler doesn’t seem deterred. His face is hidden by a baseball cap, and I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I watch the way he moves with the horse, walking steadily alongside and carefully unspooling the lead, until she relaxes and is trotting in a circle around him.
I never spent much time with horses. Round here, it’s like a rite of passage for some girls, the way they fall in love with their ponies as a practice run for when they fall in love with boys. Me? I skipped straight to boys. But watching the handler sweet-talk this mare into submitting to him, I can’t help but be amazed by the strange communion between man and beast, like he’s talking a secret language with his words and movements only she can understand.
Whatever he does, the mare seems to be trusting him. Then suddenly, a burst of music blares from a ride nearby.
The horse shies away, dragging the handler forward. I gasp, but he quickly regains his footing. The horse rears up, neighing in distress. There’s a rush of activity near me, men moving into place to go open the paddock gates and get the animal under control, but the handler motions for them to wait.
I expect him to back away from the danger, but instead he moves towards the skittish animal, palms open. The mare is showing the whites of her eyes, snorting and shifting, ready to bolt, but he walks slowly towards it, not slowing for a second. He murmurs words I can’t make out, soothing, certain, until finally the jittery animal calms, snorting and pawing at the ground.
I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding in.
The handler laughs. “She’s a beauty alright,” he calls over to the men watching from the side of the ring. “I’ll take her.”
