Wind blows hair from my face and rushes into my lungs. “Just before we got engaged,” I say, boldly wandering into the past. “We took a redeye to Vegas so Jack could get his poker on.”
“Of course,” Lincoln mutters.
I feel the heat of his gaze upon me without even looking and it warms me from head to toe. He’s hanging on my every word and I’m not used to it. I’m used to umms and ahhs that don’t mean a thing. “On the flight there, I ended up in one security line and he was in another. This TSA guy shoves a bin in my face and says, ‘Hey sweetheart, your purse goes in here.’” The touch of a smile curls one corner of my lips. “Jack yells out from the other line, ‘She’s not your sweetheart, she’s your client. Start acting like it!’” Lincoln and I trade a tight smile, holding each other’s eyes in the shifting light. “That was the most romantic part of the entire trip.”
Lincoln lays down on his back, subconsciously drawing me in next to him. We watch the young leaves sway with the breeze, pulling in restoring breaths as the memory fades to black.
“I can’t believe you gave Mary the Corvette.”
Clasping my hands over my chest, I feel like Jack’s coffin pose so I rest my hands next to me in the grass instead. The side of my hand brushes against Lincoln’s, absorbing his electricity. A tingle runs through me, landing in my toes. “You said you didn’t want it,” I tell him, catching another whiff of lavender. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it back. I didn’t even sign it over yet.”
He stares at the branches above. “I’ll bet you a thousand bucks she’s parking up front at Target right now, just to run in and get some nail polish and deodorant.”
“No, she’s not!”
Lincoln turns and stares hard at me.
Looking away, I clear my throat. “Okay, she probably is.”
“This is why you don’t give a restored vehicle to a spoiled brat.”
“She is not spoiled.”
Silently, he glares at me again.
“Okay, maybe a little.”
Turning back to the tree, he exhales. “If there is one door ding on that…” Trailing off, Lincoln stiffens when I take his hand in mine.
Flashing him a reassuring smile, I turn my eyes back to the leaves fluttering above and I never want to leave this park. I want to stop time in its determined tracks and stay here forever. At this age. In this moment. Like one of those corner-curled, magical photographs grandparents show off every anniversary. This is our snapshot in time and I want to savor every second. Breathing in the sweet air around us, I memorize every detail, from the beautiful trees to the lines in his face.
“I have a realtor coming to look at the house tomorrow morning,” I suddenly admit, ruining the whole damn thing. A cringe worms through me. Why do I always do that? Why does happy and content make me anxious?
Lincoln takes his hand back and leans up to watch an eight-man row boat glide past in the water. “And after you sell it…”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you stay in town?”
It takes me a moment to round up my thoughts before deciding to bite my tongue. I’m not a hundred percent sure of anything just yet. First, I have to list the house. Then I have to have one hell of a garage sale. After that…yes, I’m leaving. I have to. I can’t stand the looks people give me around town. I can’t tell if they pity or fear me and I want out. I want a fresh start for the new Sienna and that means a helluva lot more than just new bedsheets.
Sitting up, Lincoln pulls his knees into his chest. “You remember the other car show Jack and I went to last summer? The one in Des Moines?”
“Iowa?”
“We never went to that show.”
My stomach does a quick flip and my mouth is suddenly dry. I don’t want to know anything more. I mean, it’s not like there isn’t enough dirty laundry on the table already. What’s the point in looking back? I remember full well what happened to Lot’s wife when she pulled that move. “What do you mean?” I ask, cringing at my own question.
Watching the water flow past, Lincoln swallows hard. “Jack asked me to cover for him that weekend. He took the Vette, but not with me…and not to Des Moines.”
“Where’d he go?”
“I don’t know.”
I sit up next to him to get a better look at his face. “Who’d he go with?” Revelation widens my bloodshot eyes. “The blond guy?”
“I seriously have no idea. He never told me; said it’d make me an accessory to the crime.”
“Crime?” Staring at him, I let a useless band of scenarios parade through my mind. I say useless because it doesn’t matter where Jack went or with who. He’s gone now and I’m more than grateful.
“I’m sorry for lying to you about that.”
I wrap my arms around my knees and force myself to breathe, unsure how to respond. Lincoln should’ve told me.
“I don’t know why I did that.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, growing quiet.
He barely nods and picks another blade of grass. “Yeah, I guess not.” A nearby group of hipsters burst into laughter as if they can hear us. A car horn cries out from a block or two away. “When I said you deserved better than my brother, I meant he didn’t deserve you.” Lincoln looks right at me. “He was a piece of shit.”
My heart blooms with something warm I write off to the edible pot sucker. It feels so right being next to Lincoln under this tree, I don’t want it to end. It’s more than avoiding the uncertain future waiting in the wings. It’s a natural connection even though it’s anything but natural. Being with him is a bad habit I can never start. A male cardinal lands on a low hanging branch above us, tugging at our attention with a pretty song that’s sure to entice. He’s as red as a June rose and watching us through a black mask. Sending out another soothing trill, he lifts his butt and squirts.
“Jesus!” Lincoln cries out, staring in horror at the splotch of bird shit on his shirt. “That sonofabitch.”
My bellowing laughter scares the bird into flight, and watching Lincoln search for a paper towel we don’t have is the funniest damn thing I’ve ever seen. He’s completely helpless and it would probably be hilarious even without the pot-infused lollipops.
Rising to his feet, he yanks a leaf from a branch and uses it to clean his shirt, grumbling under his breath. “Brand new shirt too!” He tosses the leaf to the ground and snatches another, lips bending into a snarl. “It’s not funny.”
“You’re right,” I say, hiding behind a hand.
“This is going to stain!”
Biting back a smile, I can only nod. “Probably.”
Tossing the leaf to the side, he extends a hand to help me up.
I wave him off and help myself up. “No thanks, you’ve got bird shit on your hand.”
“I used the other hand.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, stepping into my shoes and holding onto his muscular arm for support. His touch is electric and I can’t get over how vibrant everything is.
“Hungry?” he asks.
I pull hair from my eyes and study his handsome face for a bit too long. “Starving.”
He checks his watch and then looks me over. “Come with me if you want to eat,” he says in a robotic Terminator voice, winking and leading me through the sunlit park.
Chapter Ten
Lou-Lou!
Outside of the wait staff running around like black-tied chickens with their heads cut off, Lou-Lou’s is dead quiet up front and we own the kitchen in back. The cooks are out in the alleyway smoking their last cigarettes before the dinner rush sends them into the weeds, while I stuff my face with a steak taco that is heaven on a white plate. Normally at Lou-Lou’s, I would have to suffer through tapestry plates of bacon wrapped dates and octopus with kale and crispy leeks that wouldn’t put a dent in my raging appetite. Which is why I never come here. I’m not afraid to eat. Fortunately, Lincoln whipped up the perfect soft-shelled tacos, a hot basket of homemade tortilla chips, along with his secret guac,
and two cold bottles of Dos Equis to wash it all down with. Sitting on stools at a stainless-steel table occupying the middle of the kitchen, I blush when Lincoln uses his thumb to wipe hot sauce from the corner of my mouth. At first, I think he’ll lick it off his thumb but he wipes it on a napkin instead. Hiding my disappointment, I sink my teeth into this amazing taco, notching another worthy dent in the fresh tortilla shell while staring at the wet spot on his t-shirt. After a healthy dose of white vinegar and baking soda, the bird shit is magically gone. Poof!
“How’re you feeling now?” he asks me, using a clean rag to mop up a spot of guac from the table.
I swallow. “High as fuck,” I reply, taking another bite. “I think you roofied me.”
Lincoln frowns at a passing waitress who gives us a doubletake. “She’s kidding, Taylor,” he tells her, trying to smile.
“No, I’m not,” I yell back with my mouth full.
“It’s just an edible lollipop from Colorado,” he explains, watching Taylor push through a swinging door leading to an elegant dining room centered around a beautiful fountain where locals feel the need to propose to their girlfriends on a regular basis. The door swings back and forth through the air behind her and Lincoln swallows hard.
“That’s not funny, Sienna,” he hisses at me, lowering his voice. “She’ll call the cops. She was attacked one time on her way out of Texas Roadhouse!”
Throwing my head back, I laugh out loud and immediately begin choking. Covering my mouth, I reach for my beer and knock it over. Lincoln jumps back, narrowly avoiding the golden stream rushing between his legs.
“God, between you and the stupid bird, I can’t catch a break today.” He throws a rag onto the table, blocking the flow. “I’m starting to have a bad trip!”
I laugh even harder and take a long swig of his beer to clear my throat. “I’m sorry,” I pant. “But come on, was she really attacked at a Texas Roadhouse?”
“Lou-Lou!” a high-pitched voice sings out from across the room, literally scaring the living daylights out of me. I turn to see a balding man in a shiny suit and tie sashaying toward us. There’s a silk handkerchief folded like a burgundy flame in his breast pocket, and a dejected look pulling on his jowls. “Lincoln darling,” he says, tenting his hands like he’s about to pray. “I am so sorry to hear about your brother, Jackson.” He sets a soft hand on Lincoln’s wrist. “My sincerest condolences, my friend.”
Smiling, Lincoln wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Thank you, Lou-Lou. And thank you for the flowers,” he adds, nodding at me. “This is Sienna.” He stuffs a chip, loaded with his out-of-this-world guacamole, into his mouth. “Jack’s wife.”
The dejected look on Lou-Lou’s face turns dreadful but I’m used to that by now. “My dear, it is with extreme sorrow to make your acquaintance. My condolences to you as well.”
I shake his hand and toss a chip into my mouth. The hot sauce on the tacos is so damn hot you have to keep eating or the burn will settle in. “Thanks. Hey, you should really put this stuff on the menu. It’s amazing!”
Two servers with black ties and aprons stop and stare, mortified looks brimming in their eyes.
Lou-Lou clasps his hands behind his back and bends for a closer inspection of my plate, inhaling deeply through his nose. “Mmmm, and just what is this white trash delicacy you have brought into my kitchen like a disease, Lincoln?”
“The ultimate hangover cure,” he replies, grabbing a clean rag from a nearby stack and tossing it over a shoulder.
“Try it,” I say, holding out the last bite of my taco.
Lou-Lou waves me off, nose wrinkling in disgust. “No, thank you.”
“You have to,” I say, forcing it into his mouth.
Hesitantly, he chews like he’s eating tinfoil. His eyes bounce between us. Frowning, he pulls the perfectly folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and shakes it out. He swallows and his eyebrows go up. “Ooh-la-la! I hate myself for loving it,” he says, dabbing at the corners of his mouth. “Everyone out! You’re all fired,” he says to no one in particular, waving the handkerchief through the air like a white flag.
“Now, Lincoln!” he says, folding it back up. “Please take all the time you need, my friend, but when might we expect your triumphant return to Lou-Lou’s?” Glancing around, he softens his voice. “The kitchen is falling apart without you. Just last night, I had five dishes returned. Five!”
“That wouldn’t happen if you only served these tacos and guac,” I tell him, taking another pull of Lincoln’s beer.
Arching an eyebrow into his shiny forehead, his eyes drop to the mangled mess on my plate. “Yes, well…”
“I hope you’re not letting that duck go out like that!” Lincoln snaps at a skinny cook with a long beard. “That sonofabitch is still quacking! Get it right!”
“Yes, Chef!” the man replies, removing the plate from the server’s window and dumping it into the trash.
Grinning, Lincoln tosses me a playful look. “Actually, that duck looked perfect. I just like fucking with Stew.”
“Lincoln,” Lou-Lou groans. “That was a fifty-dollar plate.”
Lincoln arches a skeptical eyebrow at him. “I can come back tomorrow night,” he declares, popping the last of his taco into his mouth.
Eyes brightening, Lou-Lou claps his hands two times. “Splendid!” Setting a warm hand on my wrist, he lowers his voice to a soft whisper. “Open bar for you two tonight. Everything on the house.”
“Really?” I blurt, cramming a new taco into my trap. “Thanf-foo,” I say, spitting something across the table.
“My pleasure, Sienna,” he replies, twirling a finger through the air and spinning on his shiny heels. “Lou-Lou!” he cries out, strutting across the kitchen and disappearing into the dining room.
I stop chewing. “Does he always announce himself like that?”
“Coming and going,” Lincoln breathes out, tipping his beer back to find it already empty. “Great guy though.”
I watch a waiter hurry past with a gray tub of silverware topped with a small stack of burgundy napkins. A big man dressed in a gray chef coat with black trim comes in through the backdoor, the smell of cigarettes clinging to him like cologne. He stares at me before looking behind him.
Turning back to me, he shrugs. “What?”
“You need some help on the grill tonight, Tex?” I ask, dunking a chip in the guac pool. “I watch The Pioneer Woman all the time.”
He blinks at me before looking at Lincoln. “I like her,” he says, heading for the sauté station.
“Hey, do you guys make lemon pancakes?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t you get hot in that?”
He looks down at his chef coat. “Yep.”
“Marcus can handle the heat,” Lincoln says, pulling two beers from a built-in cooler beneath the counter. “Best goddamn sous chef this side of the Skunk River.”
“Thank you, Chef,” Marcus replies, pulling out some pans. “I think.”
Pushing my plate away, I take the cold bottle Lincoln passes me and cool the hot sauce scorching my tongue. Swallowing with a relieved sigh, I notice Lincoln and Marcus staring at me. “What?”
Marcus grunts. “Thirsty much?”
My nails drum against the steel table, heavy-lidded eyes shifting between them. “Did somebody say shots?”
Chapter Eleven
DeAngelo’s Saw Blades
Slamming our shot glasses back to the stainless-steel table in the middle of the – now hot and steamy – kitchen, we breathe in through clenched teeth, trying to cool the burn seeping down our throats.
“Okay, that’s enough for moi,” Lou-Lou exclaims, adjusting his silk necktie. “Time to mingle.” He snaps his fingers in the air. “Places everyone!” he says, strutting across the kitchen and pushing through the swinging door. “Lou-Lou!”
“I like him.” I chase my tequila shot with some beer. “How come he gets two names?”
Staring after him, Lincoln shru
gs. “Just lucky, I guess.”
I have about as much chance of stopping a laugh as I do not staring uncontrollably at Lincoln. I’m buzzed as hell and can’t tell which is more intoxicating: the booze, the sucker, or his smile. Regardless, my mind is running wild and my courage is high.
“Do you still want me to call the cops on him?” a female voice rings out from behind. Turning, I find the blond waitress, Taylor, staring back with an oval tray hanging in her hand. “Because I’ll do it.” She shoots Lincoln an impish grin and I rotate my head just in time to see him roll his eyes at her. My stomach sinks because, even in my altered state of mind, I know he’s fucked her a time or three after a long shift running late into the night. I can tell by the slightly annoyed, yet frisky, look in her eyes that he’ll only fuck her under the cover of darkness and he never calls or texts. The boldness of her transparency stirs my anger.
“No thanks, he’s my ride,” I smile.
That smug-ass look on her face wilts a little and that calls for a celebration. Tipping my beer back, I watch Lincoln give her an unapologetic shrug and finish his drink. Rising from our stools, we pass the server’s window and I snatch an orange potato chip from a steaming plate and crunch down. My face sours.
“Moroccan carrot,” Lincoln informs me, pulling me out of the way of a scrambling waiter with a full tray of tiny plates.
“Gross!” I spit into a garbage can near the backdoor and Lincoln passes me a bottle of water.
“Tell me about it,” he says, pushing the door open and ushering me into the alleyway out back.
Clearing the weird carrot chip with a long drink, I tuck a loose strand behind an ear so I can see him better. “Do you like anything on that menu?”
“Not really.”
“Then why do you work there?”
“Because it’s the most expensive menu in town, which means Lou-Lou pays the best.”
“He must be fun to work with,” I say, letting Lincoln take my hand and lead me out onto Main Street where smiling faces stroll the festive walkways. Their lively eyes reflect the white party lights dangling above and it’s clear these people don’t have a worry in the world. I study their faces while trying not to trip over my two feet, imagining where they’re heading and what’s going through their mind.
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