by Kylie Scott
“Actually, I heard one of your songs on the radio a couple of years back. It wasn’t bad!”
“Thanks.”
“Ma’am. Your order’s ready.” The neat white-clad pharmacist nodded my way and sat a small box on the counter. “Side effects and more information are listed on the brochure inside the box. And please remember, it may delay your menstruation cycle by a couple of days. If you’re over your usual menstruation date by more than two weeks, you might want to try taking a pregnancy test.”
“Okay.” My hand shook as I picked up the package and handed over the cash. “Thank you.”
Nina stared at us, her mouth a perfect O. Like she’d never had unprotected sex. Puh-lease.
I charged toward the exit. Vaughan mumbled a goodbye and followed. The minute he unlocked the passenger door I jumped in, grabbing my bottle of water. Out came the post-coital contraception pill, then down my throat it went. Done.
Vaughan just looked at me, his face a blank mask. He was good at that. I’d seen it a couple of times now, but it was still impressive.
I on the other hand gave him my best plastic professional smile. “All good.”
A nod.
“I am clean, I promise,” I recited for the tenth time in the past few hours. “I had a test after college just to be safe. But I’ve always used protection.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“We’ve both been vigilant. This was just an anomaly.” It was embarrassing, really. How foolish I’d been, first with the wedding that wasn’t, and now with Vaughan. I frowned out at the glitter and glare of the drugstore’s neon sign. A dancing bottle of drugs waved its arms back and forth. What the ever-loving fuck? “If I hadn’t forgotten to take my pill on Sunday we wouldn’t have even had to worry about rushing to the pharmacy like this.”
“It’s fine,” he said.
“It’s good that we did this. You can’t be too careful.”
“Yeah.” He paused, shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lydia. I should have thought, I just got—”
“It’s okay. We’re both adults, Vaughan. We were both there.”
He opened his mouth like he was going to say something. But he didn’t.
With a turn of the key the Mustang’s engine roared to life, same as always. Such an ostentatious hunk of metal. Much too loud for the middle of the night.
I thought again about how muscle cars, tattooed men, and other wild cool things weren’t my thing. I craved stability. A sensible, settled life. The whole Chris thing had been a mistake, yes. Obviously. Next time I’d take things slower. Not get so carried away. Whatever the future brought, this temporary time of insanity was at an end. Dirty and crazy were not for me.
“I think I might test-drive a Prius tomorrow,” I said, decision made. “One of the used car dealerships has a four-year-old model for sale.”
Another nod.
We didn’t talk again until we were back at his place. Even then, it was just a quiet good night as he disappeared into his bedroom, closing the door.
Me and my annoying ovaries were shut out.
Nausea and cramping made it difficult to sleep. So I sat up and read through the settlement offer from the Delaneys’ lawyers. In fact, I read through it twice. Then, just for kicks, I read through it a third time. It took that long for the shock to die down.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Do I look like someone who wants to spend the rest of tonight crapping myself?” The cranky man shoved the antipasto platter into my hands. “I told the waiter I needed gluten free. I was very clear about it.”
“I apologize for the mistake, sir,” I said. “Let me get that fixed right away for you.”
“Thank you,” he ground out, his expression far from appreciative.
Whatever.
I hauled ass to the kitchen, where Boyd raised an eyebrow at me. “I need a new antipasto gluten free, please.”
He nodded and got busy. Or rather, as the only chef in the kitchen tonight, stayed busy. Nell had called in sick after vomiting all day, the poor thing. Luckily the Dive Bar was only half full tonight.
God, I hoped I didn’t come down with her virus. The morning-after pill had messed with me enough.
An almighty clatter came from the front counter. I spun around to find Masa standing there, a tray full of glasses shattered at his feet. Ice cubes, lemon slices, and straws, all spread out across the floor.
“Crap,” I muttered.
Masa just made a small sound of despair and dropped to his knees, to clean up.
I grabbed the dustpan and brush, then joined him down there.
“I’m sorry,” he said, hands moving frantically. “This won’t take a minute.”
“Slow down. You cutting yourself on broken glass won’t help anyone.”
He didn’t say anything, but he did calm down. A start.
“What’s going on with you?” I asked, carefully scooping up the remains of a beer bottle.
“What? Nothing,” said the young man.
“Try again.”
He just sniffed.
“Masa, you served mint to the woman with mint allergies, got the gluten-intolerant guy’s order wrong, and told Boyd that the vegetarians at table eight wanted the chicken satay pizza instead of the margherita. And the list goes on.”
He looked at me, dark eyes swollen and red.
“You’re clearly upset and distracted,” I said. “Talk to me.”
He hung his head. “My girlfriend dumped me.”
“Oh no. I’m so sorry.”
“She’s been fucking her tutor for months behind my back.” Masa’s chin wrinkled, his jaw rigid. “They’re in love, apparently. She texted me just before work, told me all about it.”
“What a bitch.”
From over behind the bar, Eric watched us as he poured another beer. He made no move to come over, and communicated nothing with his gaze. So be it. Broken hearts were serious shit. Someone had to act before Masa accidentally set the place on fire while serving Baked Alaska, or something.
“Clean this up, then head home,” I said, handing Masa the dustpan and brush. “I’ll make sure Eric’s okay with it.”
“Are you sure?” He looked worried. As he probably should be.
“Yeah. The dinner rush is almost over. I can finish up here.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.” I smiled and got back to work.
Gluten-intolerant dude didn’t leave a tip and cleanup took a little longer than normal, but there were no more complaints or catastrophes. I’m pretty sure I spotted the reporter who’d wanted the scoop on my botched wedding lurking out on the sidewalk at one stage during the night. So long as he didn’t actively get in my face, however, I was willing to ignore him. For now.
The Dive Bar felt different after closing, all shadows and quiet. A change from all the bright light and music of business hours. It was nice.
Vaughan was missing in action when I woke this morning. When it came time for me to head in to work, Boyd drove up in a late-model Jeep and honked the horn. I guess Vaughan organized the ride for me. It’s not like Boyd was talking. Ever. I was about to start walking since I didn’t have a phone to call a cab—an issue I’d dared raise with my driver. Boyd kindly stopped at a phone store, allowing me to race in and purchase a cell.
Ah, technology. I didn’t actually miss it, but in this modern world of constant communication, it was a necessity. The first thing I’d done was leave a message for my folks. Not that I really expected a reply before the annual Christmas card. Communication wasn’t their strong-suit. As parents, they fundamentally sucked. It was just a fact of life. People were who they were, yada yada. Hormones and social expectations had a lot to answer for when it came to population growth.
I could still hear Boyd banging pots and pans around in the kitchen. Assuming he was my ride home, I’d be waiting for a while. Which was fine. I’m sure I could find something to do here. Maybe I’d go ghost hunting for Andre Senior Scare the crap out
of myself down in the dark basement. To my knowledge, I’d never been in a haunted building before. It could be fun. A once-in-a-lifetime experience.
“Lydia, think it’s time we talked,” said Eric from the bar.
Ruh roh.
“All right.” I wandered on over, untying my apron as I walked. If I was about to be fired for telling Masa to go home, at least it would be in comfort. I climbed onto one of the stools, giving my poor whiny aching feet a break. Actually, they weren’t so bad today. Guess I was getting used to being on them all the time.
Eric set a drink on the bar, served in one of the chunky pretend-cut-crystal, vintage-style glasses. I loved them. He clinked his matching drink against mine, then took a sip. It was an amber liquid. Scotch, judging by the smell. A spiral of orange rind and cubes of ice swam around inside.
“It’s an Old Fashioned,” he said with a smile. “Ever had one before?”
“No.” I took another sniff then dared a sip. Scotch and sweetness and something else I couldn’t recognize. Not bad. “Nice. Thank you.”
A nod. “You told Masa to go home.”
“Yes. He wasn’t feeling well and we weren’t crazy busy, so … given Rosie and Nell have got this virus…”
“We sometimes get large groups coming in late. Friends and other people in the area who know we’re not going to turn them away.”
I took another sip of my drink.
“You really think you’d have been able to handle it on your own?” he asked.
“Having to apologize for the service being a little slow would be preferable to having a customer get puked on, I think.” I didn’t bother crossing my fingers to protect against the lie. Masa could be sick too. You never know.
Eric coughed out a laugh. “Fair enough.”
Phew.
I took another sip of the Old Fashioned, trying to appreciate the scotch. Doubtless it was the top-shelf good stuff. Aged for three hundred years or something. But it was pretty much wasted on me.
Eric’s green eyes studied me from across the bar. His dark hair was tied back and he was wearing a crisp black button-up shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Vaughan wasn’t classically handsome, more of a custom job. Starkly unique and beautiful with his long lean body and angled face. Eric, however, was pure pretty. You could see how growing girls went from obsessing over ponies to boys like him in the blink of an eye. They were both lovely and just a touch wild.
“Saw you reorganized the front desk,” he said. “Cleaned up the reservations book.”
“We were quiet this afternoon.”
“Mm.” He did some more drinking. “Nell says you’re just passing through. That this isn’t your usual line of work. But if you were thinking of staying, we could definitely use someone to be in charge of the restaurant section.”
“Oh.”
“Nell’s got the kitchen under control. There’ll be a new assistant starting next week to help her and Boyd out. And between me, Joe, and Vaughan while he’s here, the bar’s fine,” he said. “We need a manager, or maître d’–type person, to keep the restaurant floor running smoothly, though. The job’s yours if you want it. A month on trial then we consider permanent, discuss suitable money and the rest. I don’t know what you earn selling houses, but we’d make it worth your while.”
Huh. My eyes felt very wide. “I was not expecting that.”
“You were good with the angry customers tonight. Calmed them down without us losing business,” he said, then nodded to my glass. “Drink up.”
I drank up. Given my mostly empty stomach on account of the earlier nausea and cramping, it was going straight to my head. “There are people with far more experience managing a restaurant out there.”
He stared at me for a moment then got busy grabbing a couple of bottles off the wall, pouring out shots into a cocktail shaker. “When we started this place, we just wanted to earn a living and have somewhere to hang out with our friends. Nell wanted to run her own kitchen, cook what she liked. I’d worked behind a few bars, figured it was pretty much just more of the same. We were naive as shit.”
While he spoke, he worked, mixing up something new. I watched, fascinated. Ice went into the cocktail shaker along with the alcohol then on went the lid. Silver flashed back and forth before my eyes as he shook the concoction. Next, out of one of the fridges below the endless shelves of bottles behind him came an elegant frosted martini glass. In went the liquid, poured through the cocktail shaker’s strainer. The drink was off white, cloudy. Eric pierced a single red rose petal, then the fruit of a lychee, with a little stick of bamboo, tied with a knot at one end. He carefully added the garnish.
“Try that instead,” he suggested, sitting the fresh creation in front of me. “Might be more to your taste.”
“Thank you.” First I studied it from various angles. The cocktail was a work of art. If I had my new cell on me, I’d have taken a picture. Not that anyone currently cared what I was drinking for dinner. “It’s beautiful. I don’t think you’d get that at your normal dive bar.”
“You’d be surprised.” He smiled. “But we’re not your normal dive bar. Drink.”
“Right.” I carefully raised the glass to my lips. Ice cold and syrupy sweet. It definitely had lychee liqueur in it and vodka. This mix tasted like heaven served up in a swanky glass.
“Lychee martini.”
“Whoa. Eric, I love it. I want to bathe in it from now on,” I said, only partially joking. “What are you, some kind of clairvoyant mixologist?”
He laughed. “No. I just know women.”
I snorted. “Don’t they all.”
We shared a smile. Though in all honesty it was probably closer to a smirk on both our parts. The battle of the sexes waged ever on.
“How’s things going with Vaughan?” he asked, downing his Old Fashioned. And yeah, my currently nonexistent relationship with my temporary landlord was so none of his business.
“Banged any waitresses lately?”
“No. You’re not interested in me.” The man made flirty eyes at me. You had to give it to him, he had the sexy heated promising looks all locked up. A total professional man whore. “Sadly.”
I drank my drink and otherwise kept my mouth shut.
“I’m having to go further afield to find new partners.” He reached for a bottle of scotch. Top shelf. What did I tell you?
I still had nothing to say.
“Getting back to my point,” he announced. “Nell and I didn’t know a shitload about running a place like this. Pat wasn’t much better. They’d been running the tattoo parlor for a while, but that didn’t involve working as closely with suppliers, managing stock to the same degree. And none of us are really great at schmoozing. But you are.”
“Really? You seem like a people person.”
One side of his lips kicked up. “Hmm.”
“Eric, this is all very interesting. And for the record, just as I told Nell, I think this business is solid and has a good future ahead of it.” I took another sip of my stiff drink. This conversation needed it. “But I don’t see me as being part of that future. I have other plans.”
“Starting somewhere else selling houses.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s what I know.”
“But is it what you love?”
I shrugged.
He shrugged right back at me.
I drank.
“Well, that’s a shame.” A new Old Fashioned sat by his hand, but he started in on making another cocktail just the same. “Good staff’s hard to find, especially people who fit in here. Someone we can pretty much all get along with. This work, dealing with people all the time and more than occasionally taking their shit, isn’t for everybody. I told Nell I’d try and talk you into staying. Consider yourself talked to.”
“Okay.”
“Drink up,” he repeated. “Boyd will be in the kitchen for a while. I’ll make you a Caipirinha next. See if you like that one too.”
Oh boy. Hangover, here I come.
>
* * *
Thursday had morphed into Friday by the time I stumbled in the door. Vaughan sat on the sofa, the lone piece of furniture left in the living room since the sad demise of the coffee table and an old sitting chair during the men’s epic battle. Men were such idiots. Meh to them.
“Was starting to worry about you,” he said, strumming away at the guitar on his lap. Andre had been right, Vaughan had gifts. The way he played, his ability to bring out the most amazing beautiful sounds from this instrument, was just one of many.
“Hey.” I plonked myself down on the couch beside him, head only spinning a little. Regular glasses full of water and a bowl of gnocchi with this incredibly delicious cheese and spinach sauce care of Boyd had helped mitigate the booze. A little, at least.
Vaughan picked up the notebook and pen I’d partially planted my butt on, setting it down on the floor. He did not have his happy face on. Thankfully, he didn’t have his blank face on either. His lips were a flat line, his gaze troubled.
“Let me guess, Eric invited you to stay back and sample his wares.” He resumed playing his guitar quietly. “Nell said that’s how he operates.”
“We had a few drinks,” I admitted.
“Did you fuck him?”
“Do you care?”
He licked his lips, wrinkles crossing his brow. “Guess I do or I wouldn’t be asking.”
Grace be damned. I flopped back on the sofa, leaning my head against the cushion and closing my eyes. “Is it the penis that makes you all such abhorrent shitheads? It must be. That bit of anatomy is the one real point of universal commonality between you all, isn’t it?”
Nothing from him.
I opened my eyes, rolling my head in his direction. “Do something for me?” I asked.
“What?”
“If you honestly believe there’s a chance I had sex with Eric tonight, be a good boy and shove that guitar where the sun doesn’t shine.”
His expression hardened. I daresay it matched mine. We were two angry emotional people. One of the main problems with being female, however, is our propensity for tears. Even when we’d rather not, those sucker glands get all worked up, squeezing out the salt water, making us look and feel weak when we’d rather be going medieval.
