I couldn’t care less.
I’m tired, and buzzed, and need sleep. Whatever everyone is on is making for a frantic upswing of noise, so I search for a quiet corner to text Karina. Spying empty chairs out on the back patio, I head for the sliding doors.
Halfway there, someone collides with my back. A small, feminine elbow hits my ribs and a fist finds my kidney. The force rocks me forward. If not for the back of a nearby sofa, my face would’ve become personally acquainted with expensive Spanish tile.
Oh, hell no.
Ready to break a fucking nose, I whip upright and spin around.
4
“I know what I saw.”
My shoulders tight with defensiveness, I jam a spoonful of cereal in my mouth and aggressively chew.
“I’m not calling you a liar,” Karina says as she butters a piece of toast. “All I’m saying is that you were four Coronas deep.”
Raul drops into the third and final chair at the tiny kitchen table. He’s freshly showered and in pajamas, ready to sleep the day away. After getting off work at the diner, he’d done God-Only-Knows-What until strolling in around ten just as Karina and I were waking up.
Cradling a cup of tea, he squints at me through the steam. “No offense, chica, but white girls like you are a dime a dozen in this city.”
Karina chortles. I throw a cereal O at Raul, who dodges it easily. “Ugh, you guys are probably right.”
I maneuver out of my chair and take my bowl to the sink, rinsing it quickly. As much as I want to deny their words, doubt is chipping away at my certainty.
Karina’s right—I’d been pounding Coronas and things had been a bit fuzzy by the time the woman knocked into me. Plus, she’d looked right at me and hadn’t even blinked. Maybe my eyes had been playing tricks on me.
“Thanks for letting me crash here,” I say, fishing in my purse for my car keys. “And feeding me cereal. And letting me shower and borrow clean clothes.”
“No problem,” replies Karina through a yawn. “Call me later? Raul wants to go to that art-rave thingy out in the valley tonight. Let me know if you want to go.”
I grimace internally. “I will. Have a good day off.”
Karina waves and Raul pauses rolling his breakfast joint to blow me a kiss. “Go sell the rich bitches their lotions and potions.”
I give him a mocking salute and let myself out of their apartment, heading down the outdoor hallway to the cement stairs at the end.
As I tromp toward the parking lot and my car, the midmorning sun hits me full force. Dense and hot, it prickles through the hair on my scalp, which makes me think of the woman’s blonde hair. I try to remember if her roots had been darker, closer to my medium brown.
On the congested drive to Santa Monica, I do my best to stop thinking about it. About her. But it’s too little effort too late. She’s inside my mind; I see her in every blonde on the street and in every car I pass.
I’m fixated.
Almost three years ago, when I started working at Al’s Diner and hanging out with Raul and Karina, I told them I didn’t do drugs, didn’t even smoke pot, because I tended toward obsessive behavior. It was the truth, but it wasn’t until they got to know me—particularly during exams and the months leading to the MCATs—that they realized just how obsessive I could be.
My mom calls it perfectionism. My dad calls it work ethic. Neither of them know how much worse it’s become in Los Angeles, the land of betterstrongerfaster.
Only one thing has ever managed to subdue the monster coiled in my psyche, but it brings with it another set of dangers and repercussions. Two years ago, I learned that the hard way.
Since then, I’ve kept the monster at bay, distracting it with school and working two jobs.
Until last night.
Until her.
5
The same day I graduated college, I called my second job and told the manager my new availability. She promptly started scheduling me twenty to thirty hours a week. Sunday through Wednesday I work retail, and Thursday through Saturday I work nights at Al’s.
It’s hell, but it keeps me busy. I like busy. I need busy. Besides, my student loans aren’t going to pay themselves.
At least my retail gig smells a lot better than Al’s. I sell vegan products for the body, face, and home at a tiny boutique on Santa Monica’s famous Third Street Promenade. Sandwiched between two retail giants, Veritas is a narrow, closet-like space that becomes claustrophobic if more than five customers come in at the same time.
Sundays usually start off slow, and today is no exception. My manager, Lucille, is taking advantage of the lull by doing next month’s schedule in her cramped office. I spend the first hour and a half of my shift cleaning the glass shelves with our signature vegan multipurpose cleaner—that leaves streaks if I’m not careful—and humming along to mellow indie music.
I still study every blonde woman I see walking outside, but the multitasking helps me stay focused on the present.
When there’s nothing left to clean or dust, I stand near the front door and smile at passersby. Another distraction is in order, and customers will fit the bill nicely.
I discovered early on that friendliness goes a long way in sales. If I talk to people like they’re more than just wallets, they pretty much buy whatever I tell them to. Which means I win employee contests and take home free products. Not a bad arrangement, all told.
Around twelve thirty, two repeat customers are browsing the store while I linger in the doorway chatting with an elderly couple. Joy and Marvin walk the promenade every day around lunchtime with their two Pomeranians, all four of them dressed in matching Hawaiian shirts. They’re always good for a laugh and are currently arguing about which of them guessed last night’s Wheel of Fortune final puzzle first.
While they bicker, I tune them out and feed vegan treats to the dogs. I’m cooing and scratching the chin of Twinkles—or is it Chuckles?—when Joy’s age-spotted fingers snap in front of my nose. Looking up, I see her head twitching back and to the right. She’s blinking oddly, fast and unsynchronized.
I straighten, eyeing her worriedly. “Are you okay?” I ask, glancing at Marv, who merely rolls his eyes.
Out of the corner of his mouth, he whispers, “She can’t wink.”
I bite my lips on a smile.
“Oh, Jesus,” mutters Joy. With an aggravated huff, she stops twitching and points sharply over her shoulder. “Two o’clock. There’s a boy who’s been staring at you and he’s quite a looker.”
I glance in the direction she indicated. There’s a kiosk selling cellphone cases, but no one standing around it besides Franco, the owner. Franco and I are friendly, and he’s married with six kids, so I highly doubt Joy’s referring to him.
“I don’t see anyone,” I say, then glance into Veritas to check on my customers.
The two women are chatting near a display of essential oils. I stick my head inside and ask if they have any questions even though I know they don’t. Between the two of them, they own every product in the store.
They wave me off with smiles.
“Oh, there he is again!”
At Joy’s words, the back of my neck crawls with the sensation of being watched. My head jerks toward the kiosk. A family crosses before it, angling toward a nearby coffee stand. When they pass, I see Franco again.
This time, he’s talking to someone.
I let my gaze wander down from the stranger’s reddish-brown hair, over a face that needs a shave in all the best ways, and along a jaw that could cut glass. Broad shoulders and a trim torso fill the jacket of a charcoal suit so perfectly it has to be custom made. His shoes are dark and shiny, reeking of labels like Handcrafted and Made in Italy.
He’s way out of my league.
And looks oddly familiar.
When I look back at Joy, her smile is smug. “Told you.”
“That’s definitely not a boy.”
She giggles. “At my age, they all look like boys. You should wa
ve him over. Tell him he can buy you a drink.”
“Uhh—”
Marvin clears his throat. “Time for us to scoot. Twinkle and Chuckles need to potty, and I need lunch. Eden, wonderful as always to see you.”
I smile at him in gratitude. He winks—properly, with only one eye—and touches the brim of his cowboy hat. Joy, already on to the next adventure, waves over her shoulder.
I watch them depart in a flurry of yipping dogs and lime-green Hawaiian print. As I turn to reenter the store, I can’t help another glance toward the kiosk.
The stranger is gone.
6
A half hour later, the store is empty and I’m bored again. Crouched behind the counter, I attempt to restock our recycled-material bags. They’re slippery as hell, and just when I have the last stack tucked away, they avalanche onto the floor for the third time.
“Damnit.”
A shadow falls over me as someone leans across the counter. “Everything all right down there?”
Deep, amused voice.
I shove fruitlessly at the bags. “Hi! Yes, just a stocking mishap. Be right with you!”
Finally admitting defeat, I stand up to greet my customer. “Welcome to Veritas. What brings you—” My chest deflates, taking the rest of my words on an exhale.
The stranger from the kiosk stands in front of me. Only he isn’t exactly a stranger.
Hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks, he wears the same smirk he had last night while watching me reject Greasy John’s advances. In the light of day, the blue of his eyes is startlingly vivid. Almost turquoise.
He stands absolutely still and relaxed, exuding the easy confidence of a man who’s sure of his place in the world. Not arrogance—deeper. Born not of external trappings like wealth or a handsome face, but of inner discipline. There’s something else, too. Something powerful behind his eyes that I’m unused to seeing directed at me. It makes me flush. Makes my lips part on a shaky breath.
The stranger blinks. His mouth curls the tiniest bit, and I suddenly know what that something is. A predatory intent simmers behind his amused blue eyes. His approach, his confidence—they are the alpha tendencies of a virile male.
This man dominates the world around him.
“Do you carry soap?” he asks, the mirth in his eyes flaring.
Does he not recognize me?
What does my hair look like right now?
I pull together my frayed edges, gluing them into place with my years of customer service experience.
“Yes, absolutely,” I say, walking quickly around the counter.
I gesture for him to follow me the paltry six steps to our soap display, while out of the corner of my eye, I study his face for flaws. I find none. Even the little laugh lines beside his eyes are sexy.
Though he wears a suit like a second skin, I decide he’d look more at home in jeans and a t-shirt bent over a car engine. Or even khaki shorts and an unbuttoned white shirt, standing on a yacht somewhere being all rich and famous.
Is he famous? I don’t recognize him, but it’s not like I follow the revolving door of celebrities in the city.
“Hello?” His concerned voice brings a hot wave of mortification to my face.
Clearing my throat, I do my best to pretend I wasn’t just ogling him. “Is the soap for body or home?”
His shoulder touches mine as he leans toward the display, the heavier fabric of his suit whispering against my cotton t-shirt. The contact makes my stomach clench.
“Body,” he answers, glancing at me with a small smile.
Did he touch me on purpose?
Is he flirting with me?
Oceanic eyes travel my face, no doubt delighting in my schoolgirl blush. How old is this guy? He doesn’t look that much older than me, but there’s something about him… a stillness, a depth that speaks to maturity.
I want to tell him to stop staring.
I want to tear his pants off.
Focus, Eden.
I stare pointedly at our soap display. “Sorry. I, uhh… didn’t get much sleep last night. Do you have a preference for fragrance or treatment? Our bestseller for men is this bar, Tuxedo. It’s a mix of clary sage, cedar, bergamot—”
“Sounds great, I’ll take it.”
Reaching past me, he grabs two bars of soap. His chest grazes my bare arm; driven by primal instinct, I take a greedy pull of his scent. Freshness with an underlay of earth and spice. In that aroma I imagine the hard heat of his body, the pressure of his fingers on my hips.
My spine tingles. My knees go weak.
On a biological level, I realize my visceral reaction to him simply means my pheromones like his pheromones. As in really, really like. Unfortunately for me, my life experience thus far has proven that trusting those instincts is tantamount to self-destruction. Men like this are my weakness.
Men like this are my downfall.
An unwelcome thought floats up from the recesses of my mind, from the prison it’s festered in the past two years. My former professor’s face, stern and flushed. Lean, corded arms braced to either side of my head. He’d told me I was special. Beautiful. The smartest, most promising student to grace his classroom in a decade. He’d said a lot of things—like he was leaving his wife. That we had a future. That he loved me.
As repugnant as the reminder is, it’s the impetus I need to resist the threat of this stranger. Because my professor’s magnetism doesn’t hold a candle to that possessed by this man.
I want what this man offers with the very air he breathes, and I’m terrified of what that means.
7
I ring his purchase as quickly as possible. I don’t even look at the name on his credit card or ask for ID, just swipe it and hand it back. Seconds later, I pass him an eco-friendly bag with his soaps and a few free samples inside.
I flash a bright, fake smile. “Thanks so much, have a great day!” Without waiting for a reply, I drop behind the counter to deal with the bags.
Leaveleaveleave.
A few moments later, I realize with dismay that his shadow hasn’t moved.
I swallow hard and look up.
Long, elegant fingers swipe over the stubble on his cheeks and jaw. He’s staring at the ceiling, frowning like there’s an answer to a riddle up there.
“You know,” he says suddenly, his eyes lowering to mine, “when I saw you standing outside earlier, I thought you couldn’t possibly be the same woman from the party. For one, you were smiling, and I didn’t see you smile once last night.”
My heart kicks into gear, stampeding against my ribs. Memory fractures, dissolves under the weight of his gaze. A familiar urge takes hold of me, stirring the dark, coiled monster at the root of my obsessive tendencies. It’s what my professor saw in me, the need he drew to the surface and—for a brief time—fulfilled. My craving for the threat of pain. For pain itself.
Caught in the jaws of my baser self, I stand up, grabbing the counter for support. “I didn’t think you recognized me.”
His eyebrows lift. “That makes two of us.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. His gaze narrows briefly on my lips before meandering across my face. His perusal is lazy and thorough. I feel catalogued—every freckle, imperfection, and flyaway hair. But when his eyes drift back to mine, all I see in them is interest.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Eden Sumner.”
He chews on his lower lip, a line forming between his brows as he mulls on thoughts. Finally, he says, “I’d like to take you out, Eden.”
Effervescent wings tickle and clash in my belly, while my heart simultaneously squeezes in warning. Thump—not again. Thump—not again. Before I even know I’m doing it, my head shakes.
Testing the waters is one thing—lighting them on fire is another. I have the scars to prove it.
“Thank you for the offer, um…”
“Liam Rourke.”
“Liam,” I echo. “I’m flattered, really, but I’m moving out of state in a fe
w months. I’m not looking to date anyone before I leave.”
His head tilts, eyes churning with curiosity. “Why not?”
My expression goes incredulous, which makes him laugh—a deep, dark sound that shimmers down my spine like a touch.
“I’m not asking you to marry me,” he says, a smile lingering on his lips. “I want to take you out. Have a meal. Some drinks. Ask you questions and see if you’re as interesting as you look. Say yes.”
Thump. Thump.
I’m standing on quicksand. Fighting a losing battle. I know it—he knows it. The darkness behind his eyes captivates me, slowly leeching my will to resist. I’m a butterfly under his pin.
I think of the woman at the party. My doppelgänger. What would she say to him? She’d been wearing high heels, expertly applied makeup, and a short, sassy red dress.
I know what she’d say.
So I say it.
“Yes.”
God help me.
8
There are moments in my life that, when I look back, are mile-high walls between my past and future. Once erected, there’s no longer any question of going back. There is before, and there is after. We all have them. You just have to look hard enough.
These walls cut us off forever from who we thought we were, forcing us to write new stories about our lives. To mold our thoughts in new ways. They alter how we feel in our skin. Change the shape of our smiles. Extend the depths to which we love, grieve, and regret.
The conversation on my parents’ couch before I left for college was one such wall. Another was erected when I met Liam Rourke.
And one more wall, the highest of all—Alexis.
The first time I saw her, I thought I was hallucinating. Karina loved LSD, and that night in the Hollywood Hills when I saw Alexis for the first time, I seriously thought my so-called friend had somehow dosed me with a hallucinogen.
But the truth crashed into me. Literally. Five-feet-eight-inches of truth, with eyes my dad calls cracked marbles. Blue and yellow and green with drips of brown.
Double Vision Page 2
