by Violet Duke
I always told myself it was better this way. No use believing in a dream that would only fade to ashes in the end. But feeling this used and empty, over and over again⦠Whatâs better about that?
I take a gulp of the whiskey, feeling it sting in the back of my throat. The anger, the adrenalin, it slowly seeps away, leaving me with nothing but the low burn of rejection in my gut. I look out across the harbor and the few lights bobbing on the water, down past the row of tourist stores and the new beachfront townhouses. In the pale dusk light, Beachwood lies quiet and still, lights glimmering,âwith nothing to drown out the echoes in my mind.
âYou know what everyone says about her. Sheâs just a crazy slut. Sheâs nothing.â
Itâs true. Thatâs what they do say about me. Growing up in a small town like this, with a junkie mom and a runaway dad, I was never going to escape the gossip. I figured Iâd just embrace it instead. Let people say what the hell they want about me: I wonât tie myself up in knots trying to live down the family name. They want to write me off, spread rumors, and âtskâ under their breath as I walk by? Let them.
I even used to revel in it when I was younger: strutting around town wearing the sluttiest outfits, flirting with all the men, seeing the look of disapproval in everyoneâs eyes, like their good opinion meant a damn thing to me. It was all just a game, anyway. And this way, I could feel like I was winning.
Then everything changed.
One night: thatâs all it took for me to get a glimpse of what life could be like, and after that, it all just felt wrong. The victories didnât taste so sweet; the gossip and rumors started to get to me. Slowly, my bad reputation felt less like a badge of pride, and more like an albatross around my neck, always dragging me down. Now I wonder what it would be like if Iâd grown up normal. Unknown. Able to walk down the street without the whispers behind me, to meet some guy who hadnât heard the rumors, the half-true legends of all my wild antics. Someone who didnât think they had an easy shot just because of my last name.
Someone to know me, the real me.
I brush away the thought and take another swig of whiskey. This is the rejection talking, and the booze. I know, even if they got to know me, it wouldnât mean a thing. A few weeks of playing at happiness, maybe, before they hit the road again.
If thereâs one thing Iâve learned in my life, itâs that people always leave.
I sink down into one of the chairs. The whiskey is finally working its magic, warming my bones from the inside, even though it feels like Iâm made of solid ice. I should go back down and help out Garrett, I know, but I canât drag myself away just yet. The last wisps of twilight are fading, and way up here, I can pretend the ugly mess downstairs doesnât exist. Nothing exists but me and the distant lights of the shoreline, so pretty that I can almost forget what this town is like up close.
I come here all the time. This is my secret spot, up above it all. Itâs where I come to think and be alone, to spend hours just watching the bustle of the town below, letting the distant sound of the ocean wash away my pain as I daydream of some other life, some other future, far away from this town and all the memories chasing me down.
Some good those daydreams are. The years slip past, and Iâm still here: hiding away up on my rooftop, while they all gossip and scorn me behind my back. I wanted so badly to prove them wrong, but all I do is live up to their low expectations.
âThat was quite some scene.â
A guyâs voice comes from behind me, amused.
âLeave me the hell alone,â I snap, not turning. Iâm not in the mood to deal with any more bullshit tonightâespecially not from some guy who heard the whispers and figures Iâm an easy score. âThis is private property.â
Thereâs a low hum of laughter. âThe Brit I knew never cared about that.â
My heart stops.
It canât be, I tell myself. Not here, not again, after all this time.
But it is. I know the truth even before I brace myself and turn. Iâd recognize that voice anywhere: the low, sexy drawl that echoes in my dreams, smooth as honey and sweet as the night we shared together, three long years ago.
Hunter Covington.
CHAPTER TWO
âWASTE OF A GOOD plate of nachos, if you ask me.â Hunter grins at me across the rooftop, hair glinting dark gold in the setting sun. âAnd you always said, nothing exciting ever happens in this town.â
My heart pounds as I stare at him, disbelieving. Heâs leaning in the doorway, casual as can be. A ghost, a relic, a memory Iâve clung to through dark nights and desperate days.
I never thought Iâd see him again.
My legs give way beneath me, and I clutch at the back of the lawn chair for support.
âYouâre here,â I breathe.
âIâm here,â he agrees, and fixes me with a crooked, heartbreaking smile.
Everything falls away.
The bar, the rejection letter, Treyâit all dissolves under Hunterâs piercing gaze. My eyes devour him hungrily. Heâs older now, we both are, but somehow Iâve been carrying the picture of who he used to be. The boy he was, not the man heâs so clearly become. Thereâs power to his athletic body now, clear in the broad frame of his shoulders, the muscles beneath his preppy Oxford shirt. His blonde hair falls over his golden skin, blue eyes still blazing like the brightest summer sky Iâve ever seen.
I feel an ache slice through me, longing, and pure bittersweet regret. Just one night, thatâs all I had with him, but somehow, itâs meant more to me than anything else in my life since. I thought in time it would fade, that I would feel those feelings with some other guy, that I would dilute Hunterâs power with a hundred other kisses, dozens of other bodies and lips and hands.
I was wrong.
Heâs still the only one. The one guy I let slip through my defenses. The one guy who shared my pain.
The man I walked away from, before he could have a chance to break my heart.
âI didnât mean to surprise you,â Hunterâs brow furrows. âI figured after that show, youâd be up here celebrating. Notâ¦â
He trails off, but I can fill in the blanks.
Not moping here, defeated. Not stuck, exactly the same as when he saw me last. Not hiding from the whispers and scorn like some scared little kid.
I lurch up. âI canâtâ¦â I stutter. âItâs notâ¦â
Hunter stares at me, confusion masking his chiseled, tanned face. He probably expected some witty banter, my usual tough barbs, but right now all my defenses are down and I feel like my chest is ripped wide open, heart beating bloody and raw for the whole world to see.
Why tonight? Why him, here, now of all nights?
âBrit?â Hunter moves towards me but I flinch away.
âNo!â I stumble back. I canât do this. Hell, I donât know if Iâll ever be ready to face him again, but right now, every instinct in my body is screaming out to run.
âYou shouldnât be here.â I gasp. I turn, bolting for the door, but my foot catches on the gravel and I stumble, scraping my shin painfully against the jagged metal edge of the chair.
In an instant, Hunter crosses the distance between us to hold me up.
âEasy there,â he murmurs, holding onto my arm. A shock of sensation floods through my body at his touch, and despite everything, my heart leaps just to feel him next to me. He holds me to him, tight against the solid warmth of his body, and for a moment Iâm caught there, lost in his eyes, in all the memories of the past.
But the past is done. It was over almost as soon as it began.
âGoodbye,â I manage, breaking free from his embrace. I hurry down the stairs, crashing through the bar hallway and out into the back parking lot. Garrettâs truc
k is parked right by the exit, and I know the keys will be up under the mirror. I scramble in, gunning it into drive and taking off, not stopping a moment, not until Iâm a mile away, speeding down the dark streets, and Hunter is just a memory in the rearview mirror.
If only he could just stay that way.
I slam the steering wheel, my cheeks burning with humiliation. Whatâs he even doing back here? Hunter Covington, Ivy League prince, heir to a society fortune. He should be off playing tennis at the country club, or partying in Monte Carlo, or whatever it is that young, gorgeous men do when they have the world at their feet and a multimillion dollar trust fund burning a hole in their designer pockets.
He could be anywhere, doing anything, and instead, heâs back here in Beachwood?
I shake my head in determination. Just because heâs back doesnât mean a thing. Heâs probably just passing through, the way his family did every summer when I was growing up. The Covingtons had an old horse ranch out on the edge of town, and a fancy new mansion on the waterfront too. They would come for July with Hunter and his brother, Jace; bring their rich friends down too, dock their yachts and stroll around town, cooing over how âquaintâ and ârusticâ we all were.
Thatâs not fair, a voice warns me. Hunter wasnât like that.
No, he wasnât. I sigh, remembering him back then. I was fourteen, fifteen, too young to really care at first, but even I noticed that every year, he got more gorgeous: growing taller, his muscles filling out. The slim, athletic boy who first bounded around town like an eager puppy turned into a strapping young man, in front of all of our eyes. God, the girls in town would go crazy over him: flirting and giggling if he so much as looked in their direction. And with his older brother along, tooâ¦
They were the golden boys, alright.
Handsome. Charming. Wealthy.
Untouchable.
At least, until that nightâ¦
Donât even think about it. I tell myself, pulling the truck into the drive of the beach house. Whatever the reason heâs back in town, heâs still the boy whoâll inherit the whole world, and Iâm still the girl with nothing.
Some things never change.
*
I WAKE AT DAWN to the memory of Hunterâs eyes, watching me on the roof. Iâd never seen a blue like that before him, and I havenât found it since. Maybe itâs the golden tan of his skin that makes them shine the way they doâ¦
I stop that memory dead in its tracks and leap out of bed. Thereâs a restlessness stirring in my veins, and I know I canât just stick around townâespecially not with the thought of Hunter waiting for me around every corner. Iâm not due at the bar until the evening shift, which gives me the whole day to myself.
I quickly shower and throw on a denim miniskirt and one of my favorite shirts. I made it myself, taking a bright neon printed scarf and sewing it over on itself to make a handkerchief top. I fasten it in a halter-neck with a thin leather cord, pull on my ankle boots, and head downstairs. I want to get on the road right away, but I force myself to take a beat and circle the house, checking the windows, and watering the plants out on the back porch. Itâs the least I can do, since Iâm house-sitting, rent-free, for my brother, Emerson, and his fiancée. I couldnât understand it, when he said he got it for her; I mean, who buys a place right before they move to the city? But they wanted to keep it in Julietâs family, and I canât complain, I know. If it wasnât for them, Iâd be crashing on the couch up in Garrettâs tiny apartment, or stuck in a tiny studio somewhere in town. My big brother, always the one looking out for me.
Iâm lucky. Heâs all Iâve got. Dad left when I was barely four years old, and Mom bounced on and off the wagon for years. Booze, pills, and fucked up menâyou name a ticket to self-destruction, and Dawn Ray would give it a try. Us kids watched her fall apart, and there was nothing we could do, like seeing a slow-motion car-crash on the road ahead and you canât find a way to swerve in time.
In the end, it was a twisted relief when she left us for good, the summer I turned fifteen. My heart broke that she could walk away from me, but at least I didnât have to spend every waking moment fighting the fear and uncertainty that cloaked my life. No more wondering if sheâd come home or not at night, or if I was going to walk in the front door to find her passed out, coming down off another Oxy high.
She was just gone.
I shake off the shadows. It must be seeing Hunter again thatâs got me drifting down memory lane, but Iâm not getting caught up in my same old disappointments, not today. Everythingâs safe and locked tight, so I finally grab a Pop-Tart and hit the road, but Iâm barely past the county line when my cell rings. Garrett.
âYou took my truck.â
âOh, yeah, sorry.â I cringe. âThere wasnât time to leave a note.â
âAre you planning on bringing it back anytime soon?â Garrett doesnât sound pissed, just amused.
âIâll drive it back for my shift tonight, I promise.â
He laughs. âThat means, not today.â
âIâm already halfway to the city.â I admit. âI really am sorry, I just had to get out of town for a while.â
Garrettâs voice softens. âIf it helps, that asshole is barred for life. And if you want me to go sort him outâ¦â
âItâs OK,â I sigh. âHeâs not worth it. No use in you getting all beat up over nothing.â
âAre you saying I canât take him?â Garrett sounds outraged.
I grin. âFine, itâs not worth you getting an assault charge for nothing. You know heâd just run straight to the sheriff anyways.â I feel a shiver of disgust for Trey, and all his slimy, lying, cheating ways.
âI mean it, Brit, you just say the word.â
âYou donât have to.â
âSure I do.â Garrett says quietly. âYouâre family.â
I feel a warmth in my chest. âThanks, but Iâll be fine. Trey wasnât even the half of itâ¦â
I stop, but Garrett picks up on the change in my voice and demands.âWhat happened?â
âNothing. Iâll tell you tonight,â I sigh. When Iâve had a whole day to pick apart the humiliating experience in my mind. âAnyway, thanks for the truck. Iâll see you later.â
âDrive safe.â Garrett rings off.
I turn onto the interstate, using one hand to flip through the mix CDs in the dashboard until I find a rock mix from the last time I borrowed the car. I slip it in the player, turning up the Paramore track and letting the miles drift by, cool breeze whipping around my bare shoulders, a new chill to the usual sweltering temperatures.
Summerâs almost done, I realize with a pang of regret. September will be here soon, and Beachwood Bay will shut down for another year â our temporary inhabitants heading back to their lives, kids going off to college in the fall, tourist stores shuttering for winter. The buzz of weekend beach parties and festivals at the harbor will fade, my tips at Jimmyâs dwindling until itâs just the locals in on a Friday night for beers and burgers.
And Iâll still be there. Another year older, and no closer to my dreams. Not if the stack of rejection letters have anything to say about it.
I knew it wouldnât be easy, making something of myself. Iâve thought about getting out of town like Ray Jay and Emerson, starting fresh somewhere, but Iâve always felt trapped, caught suspended between the safety of Beachwood Bay and the unknown of the world out there. I may have a reputation here, but I know how to get by; I have a place, even if it is as the town bad girl. At least this way, I get to cling onto the hope that life outside will be different, something better. But what happens if I actually make the moveâpack up and move on, only to find that itâs exa
ctly the same?
Same whispers, same judgment. Same me.
Not that I have to worry about that anytime soon, I remind myself. Not until I find a job, or some plan beyond waiting tables for a living. As the city rears up in the distance, sunlight glinting off the tall buildings, I feel the same rush of possibility I always do leaving Beachwood Bay behind. I grip the steering wheel with determination, merging into the traffic downtown. I donât know how Iâll make it, but I will, one day. This will be my life, not just for the afternoon, but for good.
And until then⦠Well, I have the day to myself, far away from the disappointment of my life, and Iâm going to make the most of it.
MY FIRST STOP is the same place as always: a nondescript warehouse building on the edge of the college district that houses my favorite place in the whole entire world: Emiliaâs. Thereâs no sign, or website, but thatâs what everyone calls it: a vast fabric warehouse ruled over by the eagle eyes of Emilia herself, a fearsome old Russian woman with tiny gold-rimmed spectacles and the best taste in materials Iâve ever seen.
âBrit-Brit,â she pounces on me the minute I walk in. She clutches my arms with her wizened hands and lands a kiss on both my cheeks. âYou so skinny now, you need to eat. Men like meat on their bones!â She bursts into laughter, shooting a glance over at her long-suffering husband, Henri, who sitsâas alwaysâsilent in the corner, laboriously pouring over the books.
âIâm fine!â I protest. âBelieve me, you should see me put away a burger, you donât need to worry.â
âHmm,â Emilia squints at me, unconvinced. âHow did the skirt turn out? It was like I said with the hem stitching, no?â
âYou were right,â I admit. âThe fabric didnât take. I had to do it by hand.â
âI told you.â She glances past me at a group of fashion students manhandling some velvets. âNo!â She calls. âHands back! Shoo!â she turns back to me with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, âThe new class, ay ay ay. They put their sticky fingers over everything.â
