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Summer Girl (Summer Girl #1)

Page 9

by S. Love


  “Boring.” Mariah’s eyebrows draw into one as she looks up. “And that was a bad word.” She barely reaches Topher’s waist, her hair the biggest feature about her—her legs the longest.

  “You only think that because it’s the first ride you’ve been on. Just give it a couple more. You’ll come around.”

  “And she’s five,” I remind Topher. “No more bad words.”

  When she’s bobbing on a blue race car on a children’s go-around ride, I offer Topher some of my funnel cake and ask him about Mariah. “Your brothers aren’t as nice to her as you are. I didn’t even realize you were nice.”

  “I’m not nice.” He swallows the piece of cake and snatches up a handful more from my paper plate.

  That’s it? I give him my cake and he gives me that? I don’t think so.

  “Is Mariah staying just for the summer?”

  The powdered cake pours into Topher’s mouth a strand at a time as he watches Mariah’s car descend the whimsical ramp on the electric track. “I didn’t know she was coming, and now I’m here with you. I’m sure you can work it out.”

  “Aren’t you curious?” I press. Or am I the only one who would like some answers? Ozzie’s suggestion that Mariah’s the real reason I’m here makes me think babysitting is soon to be slapped onto my housekeeping duties, and that’s not happening. Not for anything less than double what I’m already being paid. Mariah’s lovely and everything, but this is America, and I owe Cindy no favors.

  “No.” Topher scrubs his palms together to dust off the powdered sugar. “She stays, she stays. Why are you so interested?”

  “Who’s going to take care of her?” I leave enough dots for him to connect the rest. “Your parents are out all day. Most nights, too.” And not together.

  Topher’s downward look holds one too many negative implications. “You, obviously. My dad just makes babies, he doesn’t look after them.”

  Do not smack him in the mouth. Don’t. Do. It. You might get fired. And remember the Mini Cooper you want so bad.

  I play off a taxing smile that I catch Topher roll his eyes at before he turns his head away. “Shitty jokes aside, where’s this girl’s mother?”

  “Tina’s no doubt done a long-distance runner if my dad’s brought Mariah home and moved her stuff in.”

  Tina? Mariah named her Barbie doll after her mom. The sentiment is as sad as it is sweet. This little girl’s mother might have up and left her child behind. “Is Tina your dad’s… girlfriend?” It’s a bold question to ask of a married man. And Topher’s cranky on the best of days, without pissing him off. But this situation is just so weird to me. I can’t leave it alone.

  “He was giving her the D. I don’t know if she was his girlfriend.”

  Topher isn’t at all bothered by his dad’s infidelity, or the effect it’s probably had on Cindy. When the car ride comes to a standstill, he unhooks the latch on Mariah’s vehicle door, so she can climb down.

  “You want cotton candy now, right?” he asks her. Their hands are joined, and Topher maintains a slow pace, so Mariah isn’t rushing to keep up with him. He plays the role of big brother perfectly, and the picture looks good. But the lens has a few too many cracks, and the glare can be blinding in the wrong light exposure.

  Mariah’s banana flavored cotton candy mountain on a stick requires both me and Topher to help take it down. Several chunks of sticky, spun sugar plucked by Mariah’s brisk hands and she’s done. She’s falling asleep, too. Rapid blinks getting slower and longer until her eyelids finally stick, and her breathing deepens.

  “I’ll take her home.” Topher picks her up from the bench seat outside the cotton candy stand. She settles over his shoulder, her slumber uninterrupted. Topher pats down her curls, so he can see around her crazy, beautiful hair. “You don’t need to come,” he says when I stand from the bench.

  “Ah, yeah, I do. You drove me here, and I’m tired.”

  His gaze drifts over my head. “Tell that to Con.”

  My eyes coast over every face that isn’t his. But when I turn to look over my shoulder, Falcon’s coming up behind me, surrounded by bright, burning string lights and fading crowds. A bold figure cut that little bit leaner and more imposing than the rest. A particularly well-carved face the universe insists you shouldn’t miss.

  I turn back to face Topher. He’s already walking away with Mariah, one arm behind her knees as he pulls something from his back pocket. His wallet, I presume. I can’t think or see straight because I’m fighting so hard to stop from yelling at him to get his stupid ass back here. The Osborne boys: gifted with looks, brawn, and each one denied an ounce of empathy.

  “Why are you here?” I ask Falcon as he parks his big body next to me, his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. He’s watching Topher and Mariah, before they’re lost among the people who are also headed for the exit and home. Once they’re completely eclipsed from sight, Falcon’s hand engulfs mine, and I manifest into his obedient rag doll for the final time.

  I come from a home where you politely ask, you don’t take. And you’re grateful if you’re lucky enough to get it. Only in the Osbornes’ universe do you just take anything you like without consequence.

  Shaking my hand free of his, I stand my ground, constraining Falcon’s brigade across the midway.

  “You don’t get to pick me up and drag me wherever and whenever you feel like it. I don’t belong to you, Falcon, and I don’t owe you every spare minute that’s mine. You want something? Just ask me for Christ’s sake.”

  I’m expecting anger, impatience. Not the smirk that unfolds and darkens Falcon’s eyes.

  “This is funny to you?” I shake my head to let him see how little time I have for his bossiness and warped humor. “I’m a joke, right? Brought here to solely amuse you.”

  “Hey, hold on there, Angry Bird. No one’s laughing at you, and you’re anything but a joke.” His smirk broadens into a relaxed grin. “First of all, you aren’t funny.”

  My eyes flare with my scowl. Falcon laughs, the deep, gravelly vibration chafing on my nerves.

  “You always get so worked up over absolutely fucking nothing. I’m sure Garrett had his hands full with you and your mood swings.”

  I push back a frown. “I had my hands full with him.”

  “I wasn’t saying it was a bad thing. I’ve got a soft spot for your fire.” Falcon offers me his hand this time, and I stare at his open palm before deciding I am acting more on the ridiculous side. “It’s just my hand, Lyla, and I swear I don’t want to drag you. Just walk with you.”

  Falcon buys himself a root beer and a pretzel, and we sit behind the Music Express. We’re off the midway, and it’s darker this side of the fairground, behind the rides where there’s less lighting. I take a chunk of Falcon’s pretzel when he offers it to me and dip it in the warm cheese sauce.

  The silver flask I’m growing used to seeing is pulled from the back pocket of Falcon’s jeans, and he pours half of whatever’s inside into his root beer.

  “I think you might be an alcoholic,” I say to him, declining his offer of a drink when he flashes me a quick grin. “So, how come you’re here?” Running into each other is no coincidence. Falcon at the fairground of his own volition? I’m not seeing it. I picture him even as a chunky kid, blowing off a day of rides for blowing off pigeon heads with an air rifle. It’s a bit of a cruel thought, but it’s not like he can hear me.

  Falcon’s jaw clenches, and his brown eyes look black beneath the sloping shadow of the Music Express. “You’re here.”

  That’s it. That’s all he says. I’m here.

  I don’t know yet all the reasons he’s buttering me up, but he’s on my watch list, and I won’t be taking my eyes off him. Falcon wants more in return than he’s letting on.

  He drinks his spiked root beer and takes a bite of the salted pretzel. It’s a sin how me misses out the cheese. It’s the best part.

  “Topher told you about Mariah, then?” Falcon stretches his legs out
in front of him, and he leans his back against the ride’s steel frame. Red and blue graffiti-covered metal dulls the screams and chaotic music from the other side, the pulsing tempo vibrating through my sweater to my skin.

  “He doesn’t know a lot.”

  “He’s only got a tiny brain,” Falcon says as he chews. “It’s limited storage up there.”

  I stretch my legs in front of me, matching Falcon. “I meant he doesn’t know a lot about why she’s here. He said her mom probably ran away. Do you think that’s it?”

  The last piece of pretzel sits between Falcon’s fingers and he passes it to me, then uses his jeans to wipe the salt from his hands. “All I know about Mariah’s mom is that she specializes in opening her legs for our dear dad.”

  “Have you met her?”

  “Seen her.”

  “What’s she look like?”

  Cold laughter trickles through Falcon’s smirk. “She’s black, if that’s what you’re asking. Makes it slightly more difficult to keep your illegitimate kid on the hush, hush. He fucked up there.”

  Now I’ve got one brother talking, I keep the conversation flowing. “Has your dad been seeing Mariah’s mom all this time? Or are they over?” Mariah’s five, so that’s one long, secretive affair. How does a marriage survive those lies?

  Falcon’s eyes travel over me, a dark glint of distrust in them. “You’ve got so many questions.”

  I lean forward, taking off my cap and tucking my hair behind my ears to look into his face. “I can’t believe you don’t.”

  Smoky black eyes narrow on me for a split second, then everything in Falcon relaxes. “I couldn’t tell you what he does. He goes to work, sometimes he comes home, sometimes he doesn’t. I’ve got my own life, and he’s got his. He can screw whoever he likes until his dick falls clean off.”

  “And Cindy does what in the meantime? Sits at home with her knitting basket waiting for him?” I can’t be the only one who thinks what Mr. Osborne’s doing isn’t right.

  The noise Falcon makes sounds like a snort or a grunt. But he mostly sounds bored. “Right. Because that’s what she does. Cindy thinks wool’s made in a factory, and knitting needles are chopsticks. Lyla, some friendly advice? Keep out of it. None of it matters.”

  I pull back and let my hair fall over my shoulder. “Not to you. You can all act like Mariah isn’t there, and I’ll take care of her.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  I think Falcon may have missed my sarcasm.

  One final chug on the root beer and Falcon’s done with his drink. He opens the flask, finishes what’s in there and then stands up, leaving the empty soda bottle on the grass. It’s one more strike against him, and I pick it up for the trash can as I stand.

  “There’s an arcade a little way down the boardwalk, and I’m in the next poker game. Spot’s still open to be my lucky charm if you aren’t heading home yet.”

  Now I’m the one who snorts. “I don’t know anything about poker.”

  “You don’t have to. You aren’t playing, I am.” Falcon drops me a look from the corners of his eyes, beneath low lashes. “And so is Jardine.”

  “You can’t keep using his name to get what you want.”

  We round the Music Express, back among glaring lights and fast, whirling rides.

  “What I want and Garrett Jardine are nothing to do with each other. Garrett’s what you want. Or did you forget already?” Falcon’s teasing and steady eye contact doesn’t stop there. “Why’d you two call it quits? People split for a reason, and normally don’t go in for seconds.”

  The boardwalk’s dying down this late in the night, and we stroll by the frothing black ocean under antique lamps and strung-up fairy lights.

  “He ended it, I didn’t. And I think he made a mistake.” That’s as much as I want to tell him.

  Falcon stops outside a crude-looking building that I’ve never been to before. I’ve never ventured this far along the boardwalk before now. It’s gloomier down here, and the canopy of twinkling lights ended with the safety of the candy stands and seafood restaurants, people, music, and laughter. There’s no laughter around here. No people, either.

  The sign above the scuffed double doors reads: The Alley. The bulbs have blown in the H and the E, and the Y’s flashing, telling us it’s also on its way out.

  “Nice place,” I say to Falcon. “Should I have worn something fancier?”

  “It’s an old arcade. Games upstairs, poker and pool downstairs. Gambling’s the only reason this dump’s still operating.” Falcon pulls open one of the windowless doors by the metal handle. “I’ll cover the entrance fee. You just smile and keep it zipped.”

  “Entrance fee?” I try not to choke on the ridiculousness that you have to pay to get inside.

  Falcon hedges a heavy frown, closing the door over. “Since you can’t keep quiet, Mouth Almighty, maybe try just smiling. You’re here for good luck. I didn’t ask for an extra mouthpiece.”

  Chapter 13

  “One?” A throaty cough chases the question, smoker’s phlegm rattling in the older woman’s throat. She clearly sees me standing next to Falcon, but for reasons unknown, she’s acting like I’m not there.

  Falcon loosens a stack of bills from his wallet and drops them onto the black varnished counter, ingrained scratches in the lacquer revealing the original chestnut pigment.

  “One,” he echoes. His callused palm wraps around the back of my neck as I open my mouth to contest that, a subtle squeeze ensuring my mouth remains closed.

  The woman slips him a ticket, and Falcon slides it off the end of the counter.

  Without another word, he pushes open the black-painted door. I follow him into a narrow hallway with black carpet, purple walls, and blacklight panels in the ceiling. Holding my hand out in front of my face, I study the freakish white neon glow of my grainy, unpainted nails. My fingers almost look dirty.

  “Are you kidding me with this place?” I whisper loudly from behind, while also wishing for a mirror so I could check out how scary my ultra-violet teeth look.

  “The Alley’s a popular spot.”

  My skin prickles off the cold breeze lifting from the stale carpet, despite the hallway being windowless. I do get my wish though, flashing my clamped teeth in front of a square wall mirror before my reflection’s ripped away from me. No way am I lingering in this hallway alone while Falcon goes on without me. “Why didn’t she charge for me?” I ask.

  “Freda knows I’m here for the poker game.”

  At the end of the hallway, we descend a winding set of stairs, the blacklight replaced with a pulsing pink glow that hurts my eyes. Falcon pushes through a curtain of black beads, the round balls rattling as they clink together, enveloping one half of his body. He shoots a hasty look over his shoulder, stops and comes back for me. His mouth dips to my ear as he says closely, “Stick with me.”

  A green, glass lightshade hangs above a round table. Men of different ages sit around it, deeply invested in a game of cards, drinking liquor and smoking. To the far right of the room, at the top of three wide steps and a wooden banister, there are several pool tables on a higher-level landing. Only one of the tables isn’t being used, and at the one closest to the bar, Garrett’s bent over the tabletop with a cue stick in his hands, ready to take a shot aimed at the top left pocket.

  His Billabong t-shirt rides up his back as he leans across the table, the muscles in his shoulders bunching as he lines up the tip of the cue stick with the cue ball.

  I’m getting ready to go over there when Falcon’s arm at my waist tugs me in the other direction, toward the card game and the scary-looking men.

  I grip my cap in my hands to stop from cussing Falcon out, and for always being so controlling, even when I’d specifically asked him to stop it. He asked me to stick with him, I can live without the manhandling.

  A round of Texas Hold’em is starting as Falcon pulls out a seat at the table. He and everyone else places their bets while I sit on Falcon�
�s knee like a child. No one questions why I’m attached at Falcon’s hip, so it wouldn’t surprise me if he regularly detained females in this position while he won or lost hundreds—possibly thousands—of dollars.

  I angle my head and hold my hair to my neck as I twist my body awkwardly to speak to him. “Aren’t I heavy?” I feel heavy. Like his thigh can’t hold my weight and I might plummet to the floor at any moment.

  Falcon’s answering grin brushes my jaw, his hand flattening over my midsection possessively. The cold metal from his watch stings like ice for a string of paralyzing seconds.

  “No,” he says. His voice is pure husk. “In fact, shuffle back. I can’t feel enough of you.”

  My stomach lurches. I turn away from him and roll my eyes. No way am I sitting like this. I’m in the way, and I’m starting to think Falcon’s only got me pinned to him for the friction.

  Without a word, I stand up. Immediately, his fingers are around the frayed hem of my shorts, and I knock it away.

  Hope you like the view of my ass. I head toward the steps, hoping I look more confident than I feel, because inside, I’m shaking. Walking past the pool table Garrett’s occupying, I don’t look at him, just keep on until I’m at the bar.

  Opening my mouth to order a lemon-lime soda, my voice is replaced with a masculine one.

  “Vodka and soda.” Ozzie’s hand dips into the back pocket of his dark jeans, digging for money.

  I rest my elbow on the bar and prop my chin on the backs of my fingers. “You could just stick your hand up your ass and pull Benjamin Franklin’s out, couldn’t you?”

  Aqua-hazel eyes reflect a millisecond of a reaction, then the cockiness I’ve come to loathe rips across Ozzie’s face in a smirk that darkens my insides and unfurls my stomach like a blossoming, toxic flower. I don’t know if it’s this sketchy joint, or the terrible lighting, but something about Ozzie makes me more uneasy than usual.

  “What’s Con playing at bringing you here, anyway?”

  The flower shrivels and dies, the poisonous afterglow waking me up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

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