How To Save A Life (Emerald Cove #1)

by Lauren K. McKellar

  Somehow he gives all that to me and more in the space of a second, but just as suddenly, it's over and I'm standing there, blinking, his face mere inches from my own in the soft light of the room. His eyes are trained on mine, and it's as if no one else in the bar exists, just him, and me, and—

  "Come on, Jase."

  And Soraya, who now has her arm draped around his waist, leading him to the bar.

  I follow Soraya and Jase up the bar where Kyle is pouring the last of the five empty glasses full with some caramel concoction.

  Jase raises the one nearest him and cheers. "To Class."

  "To Class," we all repeat and chink glasses, careful to make eye contact with each other person as we do.

  "My feet are killing me." Soraya slumps onto a seat and unbuttons the top button of her shirt. Or, more appropriately, the third button, being the highest one that's actually done up. You can now see the sides of her lacy hot-pink bra from almost every angle.

  "Ironic," Hope mutters softly to me as Kyle, Jase and Soraya start debating the merits of whiskey versus rye.

  "What?" I ask, just as quietly.

  "That she's working at a bar called Class when she has none."

  I spit my drink out over the countertop, and Kyle crows then mops the spillage up as I clasp my hand to my mouth. "Sorry, sorry," I apologise, giggles escaping my lips.

  The three others go back to their discussion, Soraya arching a disdainful eyebrow in my direction first, and I turn my attention back to Hope.

  "So you've worked in a bar before, right?" I ask.

  "Yeah, over in Sandy Cove. It was a more commercial pub kinda thing, though. I barely made any cocktails."

  Two words.

  Sandy Cove.

  "What uh, school did you go to?" I ask, taking a huge sip of the beverage in front of me. It burns its way down my throat and I try my hardest not to wince too visibly as it goes through my body.

  "Just Sandy Bay High. Why? You?" she asks, leaning closer. "Actually, do we know each other? You look really familiar."

  There are times I hate living in a small community.

  Now is a prime example of that time.

  Because most people in our area know me, or if they don't, they know of me.

  "Nope." I shake my head and turn back to my drink. I take another huge sip. It doesn't hurt as much this time around. "I'm an Emerald Cove girl."

  "Yeah?" She narrows her eyes, and blood rushes from my face. Crap. No, no, no!

  "Mmhmm." I shake it off like one of the ibises that dip so often in the lake, and hope like hell that she doesn't pursue the line of questioning further.

  Thankfully, she doesn't, and we go back to drinking and chatting again. I discover that she's at uni, studying to be a doctor, and manage to dodge my way around her questions of what I've been doing with my life by referencing The View cafe and my impending scholarship application. Avoiding the truth comes easily, too easily—and even easier the more that delicious warm liquid slips down my throat.

  "What about a guy? You got a boyfriend?" she asks, and before I know what I'm doing, I'm telling her all about Duke, and Kat, and my now solo life.

  "Shots over here, please!" Hope clicks her fingers, and Kyle brings over a bottle of tequila, then pours it into two glasses that magically appear from beneath the counter, complete with lime to the side.

  "To dickhead men, and loose women." Hope shoots a glance at Soraya, and I chink my glass with hers, the tequila spilling down the side and over my fingers. I knock what's left back and lick my hand, scooping up the remaining liquor, then sucking on that lime to try and acid the taste away. But nothing stops that feeling of bile lurching in my stomach, trying to climb up my throat.

  "That's horrid." I make a face.

  "That's life." Hope shrugs, and takes the bottle Kyle left out and pours us another round.

  Shots and cocktail refills come thick and fast, and before I know it it's two in the morning, and Hope is yawning, her hand over her mouth.

  "I gotta go," she says through yet another yawn.

  "But you're awesome." I lean in for a hug, and she laughs and pats me on the back.

  "I think maybe you've had a little too much to drink."

  "No." I cross my arms over my chest. "I has not!"

  Okay ... maybe a little too much.

  "Night, guys," Hope calls and gives a wave to the room.

  "I better go too," Kyle says, ducking into the kitchen and grabbing his jacket. "She shouldn't walk back alone."

  "Guess that leaves the two of us," Soraya purrs, her hands on Jase's shirt collar.

  "And Lia." He nods pointedly toward me, over her shoulder.

  She flicks her head back, her ponytail whipping around. "Yes," she finally agrees after giving me the once-over. "And Lia."

  "I can go ..." I hold my hands up in self-defence. "Although don't you want someone to mop, Jason?"

  "Jason?" He smiles, standing and stepping out so he's in between Soraya and I.

  "I'm presuming Jase is short for Jason." I furrow my brow.

  "You presumed right," he says, and I smile in victory. I'm right!

  "That's hot," Soraya breathes, and I snort at how stupid she sounds. Soraya turns to give me a malice-filled glare. "Excuse me?"

  "Sorry," I say, pressing my lips together. "I was ... thinking of something someone did before." Because what's one more lie when you've already told them all?

  For some reason, I find this even funnier, and I start to giggle, and soon I can't stop.

  "She's drunk, Jase." Soraya jerks her thumb at me.

  "She is going to mop and go home. You can continue ... whatever." I flick my hand toward the two of them, as if I'm the boss around here.

  Jase laughs, then nods. "I'll give you a hand, Lia. Soraya, you can head home."

  She frowns and folds her arms, pushing up those balloon-like boobs. She reminds me of a peacock, so proud to strut her stuff in front of him, and I giggle again as I walk into the stock room to find a mop.

  I halt just before I walk back inside, leaning to the side of the mop when their murmured voices reach me. They're standing close, very close, and I stare at them for a few moments. There's something about the way she leans into him, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear that makes me think of people in love. People like my parents used to be.

  People I hate.

  For the second time today—or was it the first time yesterday, now that it's sometime after two?—bile lurches in my throat, and I clutch at my stomach, as if doing so will grant me the power to claw it back down. Amazingly, it does, and I walk into the bar, mop and bucket in hand, a smile plastered over my face.

  "Just coming through," I say cheerily as I head to the kitchen and grab the disinfectant I'd seen under the sink to pour liberally into the bucket. Seconds later, I add jugs of hot water, and the scent of pine and clean filters through my nose. Then I raise the mop and slap it down into the hot liquid surface, jumping out of the way as the water splashes out, threatening to land on my leather court heels, the only shoes aside from my soaked Cons I could justify wearing tonight.

  My heels ache, and glancing out the front and seeing the bar empty, I take them off, placing them on the counter and rubbing my arches appreciatively. It feels so good, I toss my head back, well aware that I must look like a weirdo to anyone who walks past, but not caring because damn, that ache.

  "You ... okay?"

  I turn to see Jase standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a bemused smile upon his face.

  I grin back at his freaking dimples. "Yeah," I sigh.

  "You know you're rubbing your foot, right?" He tilts his head.

  "Yeah. I don't normally wear high heels. So my arches are sore. It's just common sense, really." I shake my head, as if talking to a child.

  "Yeah? Where did you used to work, before this?"

  "At a cafe. The View. And my boss was a jerk and a bully." I give a particularly strong rub to a spot right between the pad of my big toe a
nd the second one. My eyes roll back at the orgasmic feeling. "Oh, that feels amazing ..."

  "I ..." Jase's eyes are wide, his pupils dilated, then he shakes his head and quickly speaks. "I'll mop. You sit."

  He steps to my side and goes to take the mop, but I clutch it at the same time, only he's much stronger and I fall toward his chest.

  His big, muscly, wow chest.

  Wow ...

  His chest is so pretty.

  "Uh, Lia?"

  So, so pretty ...

  "You're touching my chest."

  Oh caviar on a crab cake, I am not.

  I look down at my traitorous hand.

  I am!

  Wait ... I looked down ... does that mean before I was gazing adoringly at his face?

  "I'm sorry," I blurt out, pulling the mop away, then picking up the bucket and power-walking into the bar. What the hell is wrong with me? No wonder Mum struggles with alcohol. You don't know what you're doing, and you can't control your actions.

  It makes me want to forgive her a little ...

  Almost.

  "You have a girlfriend, and I shouldn't have been doing that," I blurt out, and I mean every word. I can't be that girl. I can't be the one who hits on a guy who's taken. I know too well how that feels.

  A fresh wave of pain balloons in my chest.

  "Soraya isn't my girlfriend, Lia."

  My chest swells, but I tamp it down. I can’t be excited about Jase. I’m still hurting for Duke.

  I mop with furious abandon, pushing all my energy out onto the hard wood floor beneath me. When a spot feels sticky, or the mop struggles to get through it, I relish in the extra push I have to give to get there, loving the satisfaction of getting the job done. Making it work.

  When I finally finish, I walk into the back room and rinse the mop out over the sink, propping it up against the large stainless-steel basin to dry, then putting the now-empty bucket in the corner with the two others.

  I spin around a little too quick and my head throbs once, twice, a whole fifty million times. Oh God. Oh no. I don't like this at all.

  I do not like this, Sam—

  Get a grip, Lia.

  "All done?"

  I don't know where Jase appears from, but wow, there he is in the kitchen doorway again.

  "Yep." I smile and take a step forward to leave. "Thanks for the shift."

  "No worries." He doesn't move, blocking my exit. Then he frowns. "Look, consider your debt repaid. If you want to walk out now, it's fine with me."

  "No!" The word is out my mouth before the ten per cent of me that's sober can stop it. "No, no I don't want to stop. I … I really enjoyed tonight."

  At least that part's true. I did enjoy the rush of being busy, and the glory of not thinking for once, not being the responsible one, the person leading the way who everyone relies on. It was nice.

  "You know, sometimes you seem to disappear inside your head," Jase muses, and I beam up at him.

  "Sorry." I pause. "Well, I'll be off."

  I push past Jase, but he touches my shoulder, and I turn, and he turns, and suddenly we're facing each other in a doorway, two, maybe three inches of space separating the two of us. I think back to earlier today in the car, when there was possibly less space between our shoulders, but this time there isn't a flimsy car seat stopping our bodies from colliding. The only thing in the way of us ... is us.

  "Lia ... you’re a really … you’re something. Something special."

  Thu-thunk. Thu-thunk.

  "I just washed dishes." My bare feet squirm on the ground.

  He pauses and runs a hand through his hair, as if this whole thing is more difficult for him than he lets on. "I’m not talking about the dishes."

  Oh.

  I freeze in place, unsure of what to do. Jase turns to face the white painted doorframe behind him and rests his forehead against it. "You should go."

  Hurt flutters through my body. For a moment there, I'd thought maybe he felt it too, that the pull that drew me toward him dragged him toward me also.

  He understood me.

  At least, in the notes he left on my car.

  "G'night." I grab my shoes and my bag and race past him, swiping at my stupid leaky eyes, no doubt a result of the stupid alcohol I consumed at the end of my stupid job. I yank open the door to the storeroom then press the button for the garage door, all but flying down the ramp and heading to my car outside.

  Pain throbs through my body as I take shelter in the tin machine, and I sob my heart out, all the pent-up emotion finally falling from my eyes. Because my best friend and my boyfriend are in love, and yes, it was stupid, but I did kind of have feelings for Jase, and no, I didn't think my mum would remain sober. I cry because of everything.

  I wrap my arms over the steering wheel and sob against the hard rubber, my shoulders shaking with each pressure-relieving cry.

  I'm going to have to quit my job. I can't work here when I act like such an idiot in front of my boss. Not when he is so clearly not interested, and—

  My car door is jerked open, and cool night air engulfs the car, goosebumps rising on my arms.

  I turn my head and make out Jase's figure huddled there, the light from the bar illuminating his silhouette.

  "I'm not going to drive," I sob, in case he's worried about his sense of responsibility as an employer toward me.

  Something dark flashes across his eyes, then he ducks his head under the shelter of the car.

  "I didn't come here for that."

  He cups my cheeks with his hands and leans in and kisses me. A million thoughts race through my brain, including I’m not ready for this and I’m still hurting, but his full lips are soft against mine, transporting me from the parking lot to a place far, far away, where there's nothing but bliss and kindness and this stupid feeling blossoming in my chest. The kiss deepens and his hands tangle in my hair, his tongue seeking out mine.

  After what could be hours or minutes, he pulls away, the taste of his whiskey-flavoured lips still sweet on my own. It ends this moment of passion that has me wanting so much more and yet at the same time, has me frightened. Afraid . Because I’m not supposed to be kissing strange guys out the front of bars. And because my heart still aches, so, so much for what I’ve lost. For what I’m about to leave behind.

  "Sorry," he whispers, his hands draping down to my cheeks once more as he pulls away.

  "S'okay," I say just as quietly, though I'm not sure what he means, or why we're being so quiet.

  Then a taxi pulls up, and he walks over to it and opens the passenger-side door. "C'mere, Lia. I got you a ride."

  I frown as he hands some money to the driver, then gestures for me to come over again.

  Slowly, I lock my car and walk over to the cab's open door, sliding into the cold leather seat below. Jase looks down at me, his arms folded across his chest.

  "Get home safe, yeah?" he asks, and I don't know what he expects me to answer. He doesn't know that my real safety issues lie inside my house.

  "Good night, Jason." I wave and pull the door closed, and the smile that graces his face is worth a thousand dimples and million of those delicious cocktails Kyle made earlier. It's everything.

  And I can’t wait to see it again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The lights are still on downstairs when the taxi pulls up in the drive, but Smith's car is no longer in its usual spot. I frown as the driver hands me some change, which I look at in confusion then stuff in my pocket, knowing I need to give that back to Jas—

  That kiss.

  Wow.

  I stand up and blink, only my eyes stay closed for a second too long as suddenly I'm falling, and I stumble in an effort to stay upright.

  Shaking my head to try and stop the three houses in front of me from turning into one—no wait, the one house in front of me from turning into five, I plod toward the front door, twisting the handle open with ease and cursing when I realise it's unlocked.

  Unlocked means didn't bo
ther to make sure it was shut.

  Unlocked means careless.

  And unlocked often means drunk.

  She's not on the couch. No Whitney Houston is playing, and no photos are spread out.

  Except for one.

  One black and white image.

  Her. Him. On their wedding day.

  "Shit," I mutter, pushing off against the wall as I race toward the kitchen where I know she'll be. Where she always is when she gets like this.

  I trip in through the doorway, and sure enough, she's there. She's been drinking again. The realisation slaps me upside the face and then clocks me in the jaw. Two empty bottles of wine and one half-empty bottle of bourbon are littered over the bench top, along with an empty packet of crisps and an ashtray that's full to the brim. I scrunch up my nose in distaste as the combination of smoke and stale booze hits the back of my already-embracing-a-hangover throat.

  None of that gets my real attention though.

  My real attention is on the woman standing by the sink in just her underwear, one hand clutching the yellow Formica bench top behind her, the other on our big kitchen knife pointed at her stomach.

  It doesn't matter how many times I hide it, or throw it out. She finds it, or she finds something worse.

  "Mum ... put the knife down, please." I try to keep my voice level as my palms hold flat, parallel to the floor.

  Her hand shakes as she drives the point toward her white flesh, and it puckers as the blade hits her skin. "But I ..." Tears of true unmonitored anguish stream down her cheeks, and I feel her hurt as real as if it's my own, because in a way it is. It always has been, ever since that day eighteen months ago when she fell apart and I was there to pick up the pieces. She can hurt herself but it only hurts me.

  "Please." I take a step closer and she shifts the knife a little. A drop of scarlet blood ekes out from underneath the sharp surface and I suck in a breath. No.

  Her eyes are cold, as steely as the knife. I can see the challenge written there. It's almost as if she's asking me, you don't think I'll do it? And that blood is her testament that she will. That she can be pushed over the edge at any moment.