Moonlight & Whiskey

by Tricia Lynne

  My soul was broken.

  Chapter 28

  Avery

  Over the next couple of weeks, I busied myself with client concerns, unanswered emails, and looming deadlines. And I got written up for my little outburst with Jensen Robichaud, but I didn’t give a shit. The asshole had deserved it.

  Though I tried to do business as usual, I’d changed in New Orleans—I knew who I was. I refused to put the mask back on and pull the hair back up. Gone were the slacks and dowdy white shirts, the plain cotton hipsters and practical bras. I was comfortable in my skin and it showed. I traded my kitten heels for leopard print Louboutins. My grayscale for punches of color and the practical bun was a distant memory. I wasn’t putting in fourteen-hour days anymore either, much to the dismay of my colleagues, who counted on me to take up their slack. My approach to design changed, too.

  Most engineers had prescribed ways of doing things. It could be hard to interject creativity into the processes, but I was thinking outside the box, coming up with new processes, new prescriptions, and expecting the same of my staff. The newest generation of fresh-faced engineers embraced my changes and I rewarded them with more lateral freedom without the fear of reprisal for mistakes. A lot of innovation was coming out of my new way of mentoring and my staff was producing higher quality work.

  They had different attitudes about women in the field as well. After all, they had a female supervisor who was very much a woman, very good at her job, and still very capable of kicking ass when needed. My new methods, however, didn’t please everybody.

  While my staff thrived, my peers weren’t thrilled with my new approach to work. Ever afraid of change and threatened by the innately feminine, they fought me tooth and nail. Screaming matches ensued, threats were made. Challenging the archetype wasn’t something the board members were fond off.

  They accused me of lower productivity. I told them it was a natural conclusion. However, if they considered how much of their work I had been doing, how many asses I’d covered over the years, they would inevitably conclude I wasn’t doing my job, because I was no longer doing theirs.

  Colleagues hissed around corners about my disregard for convention. That I lacked respect for tradition and made too many waves. On the contrary, I argued. I was creating new traditions. Melding old systems with the new century.

  Clients were pleased with the results and, quietly, I had offers to join permanent staffing situations with two of them. I wasn’t sure I belonged with this firm anymore. Was I making a difference in the vast scheme? For my staff I was, but what about the corporate culture of the firm? Was I changing the current mindset about women in engineering? And did I really want to fight with a bunch of stodgy old fuckers every day for the next thirty-five years? Unfortunately, I had a no-compete clause in my employment contract. If I left, I wouldn’t be able to practice design at an engineering firm within a 200-mile radius of my current firm for at least two years.

  It all came to a head one wild morning in March when a conference table of grumpy, gray-haired men, and their sons, called me on the carpet, demanding I explain and justify the changes I’d implemented in my department.

  It was bullshit. And that’s exactly what I told them.

  I was through being their workhorse and pretending to be one of them when it couldn’t be further from the truth. I told them that their ideas were antiquated and mediocre, their processes tired and repressive. That I was no longer a good fit for the firm, nor it for me. I would make my goodbyes to my staff and resign, effective immediately.

  They were quick to point out the no-compete, knowing I could take clients with me, and that I would not receive dispensation because I hadn’t given notice. I assured them that I would not practice engineering at a firm in Dallas until I had a long talk with my lawyer, and that I would not solicit their clients.

  They were already murmuring about me and I wasn’t even out of the damn conference room. I paused at the door, heard the word “bitch” being used liberally. And I realized, the mask I’d worn for all those years, trying to be one of the good ol’ boys hadn’t made a damn bit of difference. Any woman who challenged their notions of “tradition” would be labeled a troublemaking bitch.

  My presence here was, and always had been, resented.

  I turned. Marched back to the table, my stilettos clicking on the marble, and yes, goddammit, my feet hurt all the fucking time. When I had the attention of every pair of eyes in the room, I let fly.

  “In light of the comments being made with me still in the room, I would like to leave you all with some food for thought. There are, I’m quite certain, a lot of very small dicks under this table and I have no doubt that I have the biggest set of balls in the room. So, instead of the traditional Southern woman’s slight of ‘Bless your heart,’ I leave you with what us Midwestern farm girls like to say instead.

  “Go. Fuck. Yourselves.”

  While my professional life was somewhat chaotic, at least I had options. My personal life was wretched. I had no direction, no motivation, and no longer distracted by work, thoughts of Declan were my constant companion. My own darkness grew out of control.

  I missed him with every beat of my heart, every rise and fall of my chest. When I looked in the mirror, I recalled his gaze without fail. That last look, the anger and pain…I started avoiding my own reflection. When I closed my eyes, I saw his smile, heard his laugh, smelled his dark scent. And my body…I ached for his arms, his voice, his lips on my skin.

  Declan helped to open my eyes on so many levels. I was smart and sexy. Stronger than I ever believed I could be, soft and curvy—desirable—just as I was. I didn’t have to choose between the light and dark, because they were both within me always, in varying measures at any given time. And it was that delicate balance, the dance of opposites, that made me who I was. If I denied that dark part of me, I didn’t like who I was in the light. Deny the light and the dark will swallow me whole. There’s no moonlight without sunshine, order without chaos, sweet without bitter. To deny the existence of either was to deny the need for both, which negates existence as a whole.

  Yin and yang, matter and anti-matter, love and hate—though they are in constant flux, one simply does not exist without the other. That duality is both necessary evil and inherent good. Declan was the reason I finally understood that, and he’d also taught me fighting either part of your nature was like arguing with yourself.

  Futile. Because you can’t win.

  My memory, however, had become my worst enemy. My time with Declan played on an endless loop of moments in my head with the constant backdrop of NOLA and a soundtrack of one song. The lyrics were so apt, such fitting accompaniment to the shell I’d become. I didn’t see Kat unless she forced me out of hiding. I didn’t eat or sleep much, and holy of holies, I’d lost weight thanks to depression.

  Mattie had called three times and each time I’d sent him straight to voicemail. The first message said he had explained what Declan thought he saw in my hotel room. That Declan seemed to accept it and didn’t kill him. Didn’t even take a swing, though he wished he would have.

  The second message said that he thought Declan had accepted the apology, but their friendship wasn’t the same and Matt didn’t know how to fix it. That Declan had pulled away from everybody, not just him. It was killing Matt. I could hear it in his voice. And I hated myself for it.

  The third message was the day I walked out on my job. Matt said everybody was worried about Declan, that there were things going on and he wasn’t the same man anymore. The band was suffering, along with the staff at Whiskey Moon. Matt added that the woman he thought I was wouldn’t avoid him if I was his friend.

  He was right. But talking to Matthias meant talking about Declan, and I didn’t have enough heart left for those conversations.

  Then one warm Friday morning Kat dragged me out for
breakfast at her favorite spot in Deep Ellum. She ate the last bite of bacon on her plate as she bitched with her mouth full.

  “You’re sinking, girl. Every day you sink a little deeper. Have you even considered the job offers? Or talked to the lawyer?” She started in on my barely touched plate.

  “Have you talked to Jamie?”

  The sting flashed over her face. “No.”

  “Glass houses, Kat. How many times do I have to tell you that?” Except she wasn’t an empty shell with no purpose or direction. My eyes blurred.

  She reached across the table and took my hand. “You don’t have to do this, Avery. He loves you.”

  “It’s not that simple,” I croaked. “I believe him, Kat. I know he didn’t want anything to do with that girl.”

  “What’s the problem, then?”

  I slumped back in the chair. “I can’t let go of what I saw and it’s not something I care to ever see again.” I huffed out a sad laugh. “Frankly, I don’t know that he loves me. He cared about me, yeah. But love?” I shook my head. “He said himself that he’s not capable of love.”

  “Declan told you he was falling for you in a crowded hallway with you ready to rip his balls off. He asked you to stay in New Orleans.” Her look was full of exasperation. “That wasn’t enough for you?”

  “No, it’s not the same.”

  “Well, what about you, Avery?” She let go of my hand. “Did you tell him you love him? Because I don’t think you did.” Kat’s eyes narrowed. “I call bullshit, darling, on this whole damn thing. This is a lot less about that twat putting her mouth on your man than it is about you being afraid. It’s easier for you to stay here where it’s safe than it is for you to take the chance, because deep down, you still think you aren’t good enough, that you’re not worthy of a man like Declan. That you won’t measure up and he’ll find greener grass. Well, guess what, baby? The grass is always greener. But you haven’t even tried, and that makes you a coward, my friend.”

  Kat’s voice had grown bitter and biting. “Jesus, you got a line of excuses a mile long. At least he put his ass on the line for you. What did you do? Did you meet him halfway?” She pushed forward until she was almost in my face. “Did you tell him you love him?”

  I couldn’t meet her eyes. Every single excuse was a way to protect myself from the variables I couldn’t control. What if it didn’t work? What if he cheated? What if he dumped me for someone prettier, thinner, etc.? I still thought Declan was out of my league so I wasn’t even going to step up to the plate and take a swing. Had I truly changed if I still believed that? How could I claim to know my own self-worth when I still thought I wasn’t worthy of the thing I wanted the most?

  Kat pinned me with shrewd eyes, waited for me to meet them. “Did you say the words, Avery?”

  I felt so small, ashamed I’d let fear rule me for so long. “No.”

  “Shit. Seems to me that Declan gave you a hell of a lot more than he should have. And he did it on blind faith.” She leaned back, crossing her legs, and propped an elbow on the back of the chair. “Where in the hell are your balls, girl? Tell me, who stole my goddamned friend, ’cause it sure as shit wasn’t Declan. Jesus, you quit your job by telling a room full of men to go fuck themselves, yet you won’t tell Declan you love him because you could get hurt?”

  She threw a hand up. “What if you don’t get hurt, did you think of that? What? You could live out every woman’s dream of finding her soul mate and sleep with every woman’s fantasy next to you in bed at night?” Her eyes widened. “Oh, God. The horror. Life sucks for you.”

  I tried to hide my growing smile, but her outburst was priceless. Out of the jukebox flowed a familiar melody that drew my attention from Kat’s version of tough love. I knew that song. What was it? It was the song Declan would hum. As the lyrics filtered through my ears winding through my brain, my mouth fell open. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “What?”

  “ ‘Love You ’Till the End.’ It’s by The Pogues.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Declan hummed this song to me. I couldn’t place it. Even asked him what it was, but he wouldn’t tell me.” I sat back stunned. He’d known I would figure it out eventually, given my taste in music. “He told me, Kat, and I didn’t realize….Declan didn’t know how to say it either, so he did it the only way he could.” I stared at her, mouth open, eyes huge in my head.

  Declan had faced down his fear, admitting he was falling for me, dropping the control, letting me see the demons and emotions he was so afraid of. Even telling me he loved me in one of the only ways he could be vulnerable—through music. In truth, he had been facing his demons from early on. But I’d never truly done the same.

  Kat sat back and smiled her Cheshire grin. “There you are, Avery Barrows. So, what are you gonna do about it?”

  When Fate drops a hint in your lap, you should pick it up and run with it.

  I was all out of excuses not to try. I’d learned in the last couple months you didn’t get what you wanted from life without hanging your ass out in the process. “Have you ever been to South by Southwest?”

  “Road trip!” Kat squealed, slapping her hands together. “Let’s go pack. You drive. I’ll make arrangements on the way.” I loved my best friend so much right then. I wished I were gay sometimes. Though I have no doubt she wouldn’t have treated me any better than she had Jamie, but we would have to table that for now. My shit plate was full.

  Kat worked her magic while we drove. She took care of everything, from the hotel room—which she had to trade on her name for and call in a favor with a friend—to hitting up Sadie back in New Orleans to see when and where BlackSmith was playing.

  Sadie wasn’t all that forthcoming at first. Apparently, she wasn’t too fond of me after the way Declan had taken to treating people since we left, but she was more helpful than Matt about what the “things going on” were that he’d mentioned.

  Declan had been getting into fights. She said he would fight at the drop of a hat, didn’t even need a reason; he’d just start throwing punches with little or no warning. That meant the only one who could control him was Shaun, and Declan had taken his share of swings at Sadie’s husband for trying to intervene.

  She also said that he was drinking. A lot. He wasn’t showing for rehearsals and was biting employees’ heads off. Two of the bartenders had quit in so many weeks and Sadie was helping to cover shifts.

  Declan had become a mean, unmanageable, drunk asshole and his family was at their rope’s end, ready to tie his noose.

  She didn’t shy away from blaming me for twisting everything up in knots. Everyone knew Matthias spent the night in my room, but in the end, it came down to one question and whether she’d give us the information we needed.

  “Do you love him, Avery?”

  “I won’t lie. It absolutely scares the shit out of me. But I do love him, so help me God, and I will find him with or without your help.”

  It was what she wanted to hear because she spit out the name of the bar and the set times. “Don’t fuck this up, girl,” she added. “I really don’t want to square up with you, but I will for my boys, you hear? And Avery?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s not going to make it easy on you, but Shaun was right. You’re the one.”

  Chapter 29

  Avery

  South by Southwest was a huge deal. Bands from all over the country descended on Austin, Texas, for a few weeks in March to play the big venues, parks, and little clubs and bars. Most of the bands were undiscovered talent like BlackSmith trying to get noticed by the industry people who flocked to the festival, looking to sign the next big thing.

  Austin was a seriously funky town by Texas standards. Like most university towns, it was progressive, but Austinites took laid-back to a whole new level—from the “Keep A
ustin Weird” T-shirts to the Bat Festival, which revolved around a colony of Mexican bats that slept under a bridge downtown and took flight at dusk.

  Cruising down the “Dirty 6th” in my Mustang, Kat directed me to the hotel. As we passed by the Dirty Dog Bar, where the band was set to play, my stomach lurched and my hands started to sweat on the wheel. I didn’t expect Declan to fall at my feet. He wasn’t that kind of guy. I’d have to work for it. I just didn’t know how hard. Maybe he’d cut me out of his life for good because of his old scars, but he needed to know how I felt. The emptiness had weighed on my chest too heavy. Too long. And if he turned me away, at least I’d know I hadn’t backed down because I was afraid.

  Kat and I shared the only room we could get and when I changed into my skinny jeans, she pointed out that they weren’t all that skinny anymore. I hadn’t done it intentionally. I’d finally learned to appreciate my curves, but fifteen pounds was a lot to lose in a month. I wasn’t thin by any means, but I wasn’t…me.

  We walked from the hotel and grabbed a bite to eat, though I was so anxious my stomach revolted and I thought I might throw it all back up. The opening band was set to go on at seven with BlackSmith on at nine. We strolled into the Dirty Dog about five. If the guys weren’t there yet, at least we wouldn’t miss them.

  We didn’t have to wait.

  A handful of people milled around the dim interior. The stage was at the back, off to one side and empty except for instruments. Declan occupied a barstool, spinning a lowball between his fingers and flirting with the bartender—a slender little thing in a black wifebeater with a red bandanna tied into brunette hair—right off the cover of Hot Rod magazine. Just because I’d been wallowing in self-pity didn’t mean he hadn’t been out nailing anything with a pulse. The thought turned my stomach up to spin cycle level.

  “Ohmygod! I’d know those tits anywhere.” Jamie’s voice rang out from a corner table where he was sitting with a couple of guys I didn’t recognize.