by Clara Stone
The line goes dead and I groan, feeling under-appreciated. But the annoyance is soon replaced with a giddy rush of joy. I might get to play the drums again.
Soon.
Holy smokes, Spider-Man.
This is too good to be true.
Could I really get this lucky? A lot of amazing things have happened since I moved away and took my life into my own hands. I found a place to live, with a roommate who’s interesting to say the least, and a job that allows me to both pay the bills and save.
And now this. I couldn’t be happier with the way things have been turning out. Hopping off the bed, I head toward the clock, still blinking at me with its incorrect time from the carpet next to my closet. I pick it up and click the buttons until it’s set to 8:40 a.m. Satisfied, I set it back on the chest where it belongs and turn toward my closet.
I pull on the first decent thing I find—navy blue sweats, the pair I borrowed from Vincent after some asshole spilled alcohol on me at a party—and head out of my room. I walk past Catherina’s room, knowing full well she won’t be up this early—she had to work the night shift last night—and then quietly exit the apartment.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing at my favorite place—the half-way point of a red bridge overlooking the river. Placing my arms on the rails, I take a deep breath of the sweet Florida-fall air and let it out with a happy sigh.
The water glistens in the sunshine, and the array of colors in the surrounding trees adds vibrancy to the normally colorless river below. It’s breathtaking.
It reminds me of home, of the hikes Vincent and I used to take his little brothers on. I feel a sharp pang of loneliness. I miss my best friend.
Plop. Plop. Plop.
The sound of something sinking into the water catches my attention.
I turn and see a man down by the water, about five yards from the bridge. He bends over, picking at something in the duff on the riverbank, and then straightens. He’s holding a stone. He examines it, turning it back and forth in his fingers, before he chucks it into the river. I squint, wondering if my eyes are playing tricks on me; he looks an awful lot like Vincent. But that’s impossible. He couldn’t be here, right?
I run off the bridge and head down the narrow path toward him, a little out of breath. I’m so gonna kill him if he’s here and didn’t tell me.
“Vincent—”
The guy turns around. He’s definitely not Vincent. For starters, he’s a good three or so inches taller, and his blondish hair is trimmed so close to his head it looks like its shaved. In fact, the five o’clock shadow on his jawline is almost the same length as his hair.
His eyebrows are raised, and his eyes, even behind his black-rimmed glasses, are a striking hazel, with specks of blue and green that almost make them impossible to describe.
“Sorry.” I grimace, feeling my hope pop like a bubble. “I thought you were someone else.”
A smile quirks his lips upward as he flips another stone over in his hand. Then he chucks it into the river, like he’s throwing a baseball. It sinks with a plop. He turns back to me, a sort of smugness in the way he looks at me.
Assessing. Studying. Objectifying.
“I don’t mind,” the guy says, walking closer.
I blink.
“A girl like you can stalk me all you like.”
My defenses go up. I place my hands on my hips. “Excuse me?”
“It’s fine. Go ahead. Stare, dissect, picture me naked, whatever, anytime you like. I don’t mind.”
I scoff, my eyebrow raised. Is he serious?
He laughs, his mouth quirking. But I find my gaze wandering to the cut just above his eyebrow. I wonder how he got that?
“So, I’m curious,” he says, bringing my attention back to his crooked smile. “Where did you rate me at? Eleven maybe? On a scale of one to ten, ten being the highest?”
A nine, potentially a ten. But saying that out loud is out of the question. Not with his ego. “Zero,” I respond, folding my arms over myself.
He chuckles. “Snarky and beautiful. I like.” He extends his hand. “Harrington,” he says, and then pauses, like he’s said too much.
“Harri—” I snort, ignoring his hand.
He drops it and glares slightly, his good humor faltering.
I cover my mouth to hold back a giggle. “Are you serious?”
He waves his hand dismissively and turns around, bending down to pick up another rock.
“Yeah. My thoughts exactly. My parents . . .” he says, pausing like he’s looking for the right words, “were thinking unique. I was thinking why have me, if all you want is to scar me for the rest of my life.”
“It’s not that bad.”
He looks over his shoulder, shakes his head, and turns forward again. “You can’t even say that with a straight face.”
He has a point there. I run my hand over my mouth, like I’m wiping away bread crumbs, hoping to regain some control.
He flicks his wrist, releasing the rock with oomph. It sinks.
“You’re doing it all wrong,” I say, pointing to the ripples where his rock sank.
He turns around again, his eyebrow raised skeptically. “And how would you know?”
I bite my tongue, stopping myself from responding. I should go; it’s none of my business. But then again, he looks frustrated, his eyebrows crinkling as he hunts for another rock to sink. Maybe I could just give him a pointer or two . . .
No! It’s not my business. I turn around swiftly, with every intention of walking away, because that’s what the new me should do.
I don’t get very far, though, before I hear the tell-tale sound of a stone sinking. I sigh, and then pivot and march right back to where I was before. The old me obviously has a stronger will than the new me.
“You really suck at that,” I say.
He turns and looks at me, that smug smirk etching his mouth again. “And I thought you were leaving. Couldn’t bring yourself to leave behind a zero?”
I jerk my chin in his direction. “Hardly. I just hate watching so many rocks sacrifice themselves to your sucktastic rock-skipping skills.”
He tosses another stone over his head and winks. “I don’t know. I thought I kinda nailed that one.”
I roll my eyes. “In what universe?”
“The one where I’m always right.”
Wow. He did not just say that. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”
He snorts. “No shit, sweetheart. What gave that away?”
I choose to ignore the obvious sarcasm and point at him. “Your form sucks. And you can’t use those bulky stones. Here, I’ll show you.” I search the area and find a skinny, flat round rock that’s about the size of my palm. I toss it over a few times to check the feel in my hands. Placing my index finger along its edge, I turn sideways and snap my wrist forward, quickly flicking the rock—like an underhand softball—to let it spin counter-clockwise.
“Four!” Harrington says in awe.
I shrug. Not my best. But better than his sunken stones. I pick up another and hand it to him. “Now you try.”
He arches one perfect thick eyebrow.
“It’s really simple,” I say. “Watch.” I demonstrate again, holding the stone between my thumb and index finger. I adjust my form, angling myself into a stable position. I then look back over my shoulder to catch his eye, only to find his gaze glued to my rear. I huff and snap my fingers. “Hell-o! Harry!”
His head snaps up to meet my glare.
I point two fingers at him, then turn them to point at my eyes. “Eyes up here, buddy.”
He grins, not even slightly embarrassed at being caught.
Unbelievable.
“You watching?” I ask, turning back around, getting into position, and letting the rock fly, turning my body gracefully with the movement.
“Do you throw rocks often?” he asks.
I quirk an eyebrow and place my hands on my hips. “What do you think?”
�
��I asked you first.” He grins. “Tell me, how did you learn to throw rocks? Is this like a hobby?”
I tilt my head to the side and eye him. I’ve worked at a bar for over two years now; I know flirting when I see it. And this guy’s definitely a full-on flirt. But there’s something a little off about the way he’s flirting. Almost like he’s doing it just to annoy me. And damn if I don’t find that intriguing. Not that I’ll give him the satisfaction of knowing it’s working.
I shake my head. “Want to give it a try?”
He waves his hand. “I think you should show me again. I didn’t quite catch it the last time.”
I shrug and pick up another flat rock. I get in position, but he calls out “Wait!” from behind me. He walks forward so that he’s standing parallel to me. “Okay, now go.”
I arch a questioning eyebrow.
He shrugs. “Your ass is very distracting.”
I burst out laughing. “At least you’re honest. I’ll give you that.” I adjust my feet and get back in position. “Okay. So, once you’re here, flick your wrist as fast as you can, so that the rock spins like this.” This time, I get six skips. “See? Easy.”
His eyes light up. “Yeah. Let me try.” He searches for a rock and picks one up.
I shake my head. “Too bulky.”
He reaches for another.
“Too stubby.”
He shoots me a look and mumbles something incoherent under his breath.
Finally, I pick one that I know will skip with ease and hand it to him. He gets into position. I watch his form and the way he moves his arm; he pitches it forward like he’s throwing a right hook, releasing the rock too early.
“Well, shit,” he exclaims, running his hands through his hair in exasperation. The tips of his ears turn red.
“Here, try again,” I say, selecting another stone and holding it out to him with an encouraging smile.
And so he does. Over and over again. And again. Each time, I give him tips on the things he’s doing wrong. After his twenty-first try, I finally say, “Okay. Stop. Stop. Stop.”
He looks at me, his expression defeated. It’s so adorably cute, I might just give him that ten rating after all. The way his shoulders slouch slightly reminds me of the time I started teaching Vincent’s youngest brother, Chucky, how to skip stones. We’d spent almost two hours trying to get his rock to skip. But when his last one sank, he stared up at me with big round eyes and fell to ground, crying his little heart out.
I guess when it comes to disappointment and failure, age really doesn’t change much.
“Okay, let’s see.” I pace back and forth, tapping my chin as I think. With the little Gallos I pretty much had to hold their hands and guide them. But this guy isn’t exactly a kid, and that would definitely not be in my comfort zone.
For a second, I consider calling it a day. After all, why do I care if a complete stranger can’t skip rocks?
But then I shake my head. No. That’s just my fear talking. I’m fine, it’s just a little hand holding. It’s not a big deal. I can do this. I’m not afraid.
So I pick up a handful of good rocks and pocket them. “Okay, we’re gonna try something a little different. Give me your hand.”
He looks at me, his head tilted, that cocky smirk playing across his lips and mischief dancing in those bright hazel eyes.
“Just trust me, okay? I’ve done this before. I’m going to guide you,” I explain, pointing to his hand.
His grin widens, a small dimple appearing at the corner of his lips.
Why is he smiling like that? I rehash the last sentence I said, twice, before I see how not-so-innocent it sounded. My cheeks heat up and I momentarily look down. Then I force myself to stand up tall and look him straight in the eye. Well, as much as I can, given that he’s a giant next to me. “Get your head out of the gutter, pervert.”
“Hey, now. No need to throw insults,” he says. “I’ll have you know, plenty of women have left my bed fully satisfied.”
“Um . . .” Awkward.
“Seriously, most of them couldn’t stop grinning for a month after . . .” He thrusts his hips forward with a wink.
I groan. “Is that the kind of pick-up line that usually gets you laid?”
He grins. “I don’t need a pick-up line to get laid, sweetheart. Have you seen this?” He gestures to himself. “I usually have a line of women falling at my feet—”
“Well, I don’t see anyone lining up now,” I mumble under my breath.
“What was that?” Harrington asks, leaning in with a hand to his ear and an expression that clearly says he heard me. “I couldn’t hear you over all that jealousy.”
I feel heat flush through my cheeks. God, this boy is annoying. Cute. But oh so annoying. And that smirk. I just want to knock it right off his face.
He blinks, innocently. And then blinks again, clearly waiting for me to say or do something.
“Right. Okay. Where were we? Right.” I grab his hand, pull open his palm, and place the stone in it, positioning it against his smooth skin. Then I turn his body to the side and place my hand over his huge one. And by “huge,” I mean, mine’s engulfed inside his. I can’t help but think about that old adage about the size of a man’s hand reflecting the size of his—
No! Stop it. Do not think about that. Focus, Jess. Focus.
“Now,” I say, pulling his arm back and trying to ignore the way my cheeks flame. Everything feels so out of place. We stand in this weird position where I can barely see what’s in front of me and I realize the flaw in my plan—Harrington isn’t a little kid.
“Okay, this isn’t working.” I sigh, frustrated, and step away from him. I rub my forehead with one hand and place the other over my hip, trying to figure out another way.
“I thought you said you’d done this before,” he says, turning to face me.
“I did. With little kids that were less than half my size, so I could manipulate their movements.” I wave at him. “You . . . well, you’re too big.”
He grins. I can almost see the innuendo forming on his lips.
“Oh shut it, Harry,” I say dryly.
His grin fades. “Don’t call me that.”
“Call you what? Harry?”
“Yes. Though, if you’re into nicknames, I’d be happy to give you a list of them: Sex God, Stud, Best Night Ever . . . there are just so many to choose from!”
I throw my hands in the air. “You’re so damn frustrating. You know what? Forget it.” I whip around and walk away, just as I should have the first time.
“Wait!” Harrington calls after me. “Hey, wait.”
“What?” I ask, swiveling around. “What do you want?”
“Teach me how to skip stones,” he says. “Come on, I even used the right terminology. That’s gotta mean something, right?”
He has a point there.
I think on it for a second, watching him. He actually looks sincere, his face serious and open, pleading almost. “No more joking around.”
He mimes zipping his mouth and locks it, throwing away the key.
“And no more innuendos.”
He crosses his heart and grins. “I’ll be on the best of the bestest behavior.”
“Harr—”
“Promise.”
I stare at him for a moment, unsure why I can’t seem to just turn and walk away. What is it about him that’s keeping me from leaving? Finally, I relent, deciding to stick it out and see what happens. “Well, in that case . . .” I extend my hand. “I’m Jessica. Jessica Owens, not related to the movie actor.”
He slips his hand into mine and gives it a firm handshake, returning my smile. It’s the first genuine one I’ve seen from him, and I feel myself relax. “Nice to meet you, Jessica, Jessica Owens, who’s not related to the movie actor.”
I grin wider. God I hope I don’t regret this.
THESE PAST FEW weeks, I’ve been focused on only one important task: find Fisher and bring him home. I’ve used plenty of vacation
time and devoted all of my off hours to finding leads that would get me closer to my missing best friend, and I’ve fought in two underground fights so far. But neither got me closer to the fighting ring where I suspect Fisher’s gone, well, fishing. And my frustration over that is what led me to the river, and Jess.
Now, I’ve been known to be a lot of things—complicated being one of them—but the thing that’s always shined brightest is my ability to annoy people. It’s the kind of reputation that took years to build. And Jess, she’d been an easy mark, with her innocence and seriousness over something as simple as skipping stones. At first, it was a just distraction, a way to get my mind off my nagging failure and kill time before the fight tonight. But there was something about her, an energy, a glow that’s been missing from my life for quite some time. Maybe that’s why I stopped her from walking away.
For those few moments, I had concentrated on something other than the tension, the anger, the need to punch myself—and others.
I don’t even care that I gave her my real name. I don’t care that I have so much at stake right now and need to keep things clean. I need to know her.
Caution is overrated, anyway.
Diving in head first has always been my go-to strategy. So why change now? Besides, it almost always works in my favor . . . well, okay, forty percent of the time. But I’ll take forty over thirty-nine any day.
I crack my knuckles and crane my neck, giving it a good stretch. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, like I’m being watched. My gaze slips from person to person, studying the crowd, searching faces and people as I watch the previous fight come to a conclusion.
Tonight is the night. I know it. I can feel it in my bones. And if tonight isn’t the night, well . . . at least I’ll get to punch someone. I crack my knuckles again. I’m good with punching faces.
“Anyone else?” the guy inside the ring yells, beating his sweaty chest.
I always thought I was a giant, seeing how I’m close to six-three, but this guy’s at least half a head taller than me and wears pants a size or five bigger than mine.
Things are about to get interesting.
“Anyone else feeling lucky, hmm?” he yells into the crowd.
