Breaking the Ice (Juniper Falls)

by Julie Cross

  I turn to my left and spot Jake Hammond leaning against the rink wall, waving a set of car keys.

  “No way,” the kid shouts at Jake. “I’m not wearing that stupid dress!”

  “Jesus Christ, Maddie, you promised—”

  Haley shoots Jake a look that shuts him up and then turns to the kid. “Why don’t you want to wear the dress?”

  “Have you seen it?” She lifts her hands in the air, exasperated. “I never wear dresses. Everyone’s going to laugh at me—”

  “Or say how pretty you look,” Jake tries.

  “I hate both of those options,” the kid says, folding her arms across her chest.

  When she stands with attitude on the ice, the family resemblance becomes clear. This must be Jake’s sister.

  “The thing about weddings,” Haley offers, “is that the bride gets to do whatever she wants, and everyone has to go along with it. Even the ugly dresses. But the good news is that when it’s your turn, you can do whatever you want and everyone has to listen to you.”

  The folded arms loosen a bit on the kid. “Even bathing suits and a Slip ’N Slide?”

  “Oh yeah, even that.” Haley nods. “I just saw a YouTube video where a couple got married while going down a waterslide.”

  “Cool,” the kid says. And then slowly, as if it’s taking every ounce of effort she has to offer, she skates off the ice, snatches a ruffled pink dress wrapped in plastic that I hadn’t even noticed Hammond was holding, and storms out toward the lobby.

  When she’s out of sight, Haley skates over to the wall, and Jake immediately reaches for her, his arms around her shoulders. “God, I love you.”

  Those words hit me like a punch to the gut. Spots form in front of my eyes. But it makes sense. The Prince and Princess of Juniper Falls. They even look like a couple.

  I turn my back to them, hoping to get away without being spotted.

  “I owe you big time,” I hear Hammond say.

  And then Haley’s voice rings loud and clear again. “Hey, Fletch, what are you doing here?”

  I have no other option except to address them, but before I can say anything, Hammond says, “Another workout with Jamie and Leo?”

  Does everyone know about that?

  Lucky for me, Jake’s phone rings, and with a groan he answers, “Hi Mom…we’re on our way, I swear.”

  I watch Haley watching him leave. There’s amusement in her expression, but not much more than that. And I hate the relief I feel discovering this. I don’t do jealousy. Ever.

  “You really are going for Red’s spot, aren’t you?” Haley says, probably assessing my sweaty state.

  “Maybe.” I look her over, evening the score. “What are you doing here?”

  “Racing Jake’s sister, Maddie,” she says simply. “Jake needed something to bribe with to get her in that flower-girl dress for her aunt’s wedding.”

  “Is there anyone in this town whose life you’re not involved in?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says, a grin shining in her eyes. “Yours.”

  My stomach knots all over again.

  “Until now, anyway.” She gives me a long look that sends my heart sprinting again. “Because of the Civics project.”

  “The Civics project. Right.” I shake off the weird, unfamiliar feelings. “So, who won the race?”

  “Tie.” Haley pushes away from the wall and skates backwards around the ice. “But I held back a little.”

  “Really? You holding back? Hard to imagine,” I say before I can stop myself.

  Her cheeks redden, but she holds my gaze with a determined look on her face and nods toward center ice. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “Okay, sure,” I say with a grin. “Three times around?”

  Instead of answering, she takes off, flying past me with surprising speed. With my late start it takes half a lap for me to pass her, and even then, I hear her behind me, close on my heels. Before we even get to the second lap, I feel fingers tugging at my shirt.

  “Hey! No cheating.” I start to turn to face her, grabbing her hand in the process, but my skates come out from under me. My butt hits the ice, and then my back, and then Haley lands right on top of me.

  It hurts less than I expected, but still a shock of pain radiates through me. I wait for it to fade before speaking. “Well played, Haley.”

  Her eyes are wide with concern. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry, seriously. I was just trying to—”

  “Cheat?”

  “Slow you down,” she corrects. “Your legs are much longer. Unfair advantage.”

  She’s even closer now than she was the other night, and it was hard to keep a clear head then. For a moment, I’m sure she’s going to do it this time. Her mouth moves closer to mine until I can practically taste her lips. And God, I want to.

  But the moment pops like a soap bubble. A sliver of doubt crosses her face, and then she pushes herself off me and sits on her knees on the ice. I pull myself up to a sitting position beside her and stare at her for several seconds. “What are you so afraid of, Haley?”

  “Nothing,” she says with a shrug. “Just not feeling it, you know?”

  I lift an eyebrow but don’t call her out on that lie. She was feeling it. I could feel her feeling it.

  Maybe I should just kiss her. Maybe then we’ll both get out of this weird funk and go back to our regular lives.

  “Are you worried you’re a bad kisser?” I ask. “Or that I’m a bad kisser?”

  “You really want to know what I’m worried about?” she challenges, and then she’s up on her skates again. “I’m worried that you only want to kiss me. I’m worried about the fact that you barely trust me with anything personal—like where you work and why panties are involved—even though all I do is spill personal shit to you…” She closes her eyes and sighs. “Like right now, for example. And I’m worried that if I kiss you, it won’t be fun anymore. It’ll be something else, something more. Can you promise me that if I kiss you, it’ll just be for fun? That I won’t keep feeling things after?”

  I can’t even promise that I won’t keep feeling things after.

  I open my mouth to argue, but I’m too caught off guard by this version of Haley to offer anything rational. That seems to be enough of an answer for her. She nods, looking satisfied. “See? I do have a reason to hold back.”

  “Haley…” I stand and skate toward her, but she lifts a hand to stop me.

  “This is my deal, not yours. I’m the one with perspective issues.” She offers a smile. “And when you’re not being a complete asshole, you’re fun to hang out with. I like fun.”

  I clear my throat. “Yeah, I like fun, too.”

  But as Haley’s frustration turns to a more pleasant look directed at me, an uneasy feeling sweeps over me. As much as I hate to admit it, Haley isn’t the shallow, superficial girl I thought she was. She’s funny and smart and gorgeous…but the idea of trusting someone like her, of kissing and getting personal—I’m definitely not in the market for anything like that.

  She’s confused, that’s all. Attraction and emotional connections tangle easily when you first get to know someone. I watch her retreating form, heading off the ice and away from me, and the feeling in my stomach is there all over again. Hell, I’m probably confused, too. Another reason I should just kiss her.

  Next time.

  Chapter Eighteen

  –Haley–

  I’ve just spent two hours doing awesome tumbling and many failed attempts at partner stunting with Jonas. After shelling out fifty dollars of hard-earned babysitting money for the lesson, I’m flying down the two-lane highway from Longmeadow to Juniper Falls. The windows are down, radio blasting, and the place that appears out of nowhere barely catches my attention.

  But it does.

  I make a sharp turn into a dust-filled, nearly empty parking lot. The building appears to be an innocent storage facility. It has a dull gray exterior, no flashing lights or anything of that nature—things you’d expect a
t a strip club.

  I put the car in park and hop out, walking around to the back of the building. When I spot the flyers on the door—specifically one flyer—I have to work hard not to shout triumphantly and punch the air, Breakfast Club style.

  I knew it. I freakin’ knew it.

  Taking up most of the sheet of paper is Fletcher Scott. He’s turned around, but I recognize his dark hair and the black dress pants he was wearing last weekend. And his ass. Think whatever you want, but I know his ass, and I’m looking at it right now.

  Across the top of the flyer, it says “Scott, Danny, Paco, and Rowdy…The Samba Boys of Summer. Saturday nights. 9 p.m.-1 a.m.”

  I snap a quick picture and text it to Jamie.

  ME: Told you he’s a stripper

  JAMIE: wtf?? Where is this?

  ME: some sketchy warehouse looking place near Longmeadow

  JAMIE: r u still there? If yes, leave. Like now.

  My heart picks up. I glance around and then make a run for my car. I’m back on the road, speeding away, when Jamie calls me. I told him about my weird night with Fletcher and the almost-kiss and then the second almost-kiss that followed days later. Surprisingly, he was a decent listener and hasn’t gone too crazy teasing me about not having the balls to kiss Fletch.

  “We have to check it out,” I say right after I answer. “He keeps denying it, and I think he needs to see that we’re in on his little secret, and the world is not going to end.”

  “So, you’re cool with Scott being a stripper?” Jamie says. “I thought you were into him?”

  “I’m not—” I stop, trying to find the most truthful answer. “I’m not sure what I am. And he had his pants on when I found him passed out with the panties and the money. Maybe he only strips a little?”

  “If he only strips a little, then he must not be very good at his job,” Jamie says. “And you don’t really expect me to go watch dudes striptease, right?”

  “I’m not coming to any conclusions until I see whatever it is that happens on Saturday night with my own eyes.” I blow out a breath. I have a fake ID. A great fake ID, actually. I can get in, no problem. But I really don’t want to go alone. And Jamie’s the perfect accomplice—he knows how to keep a secret. Unlike my best friends, Kayla and Leslie. “You don’t have to look. You can cover your eyes.”

  Jamie is quiet for a long minute, and then finally he sighs. “You gotta let me bring Leo.”

  I hesitate, not wanting to blow any trust Fletch has in me, but I know Jamie and Leo will keep it to themselves. Whatever it is. “Yeah, okay. Bring Leo.”

  Before he hangs up, I add another warning. “And delete that picture from your phone. I know how you get when you’re wasted, leaving your phone lying around for anyone to look through.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  It isn’t until I get home to my empty house that it really hits me: Fletcher Scott—the quiet guy who sits behind me in Civics, who stayed up until two in the morning reviewing all the quiz material with me—does some kind of…performing arts…while women (or men?) stuff money in his pants. And his coworkers call themselves the Samba Boys of Summer. Okay, how can I not assume he’s a stripper? Is there any other way to connect those dots?

  I flop onto the couch and stare at my phone, working hard at coming up with a text that doesn’t sound too leading or too forward.

  ME: Got a B- minus on yesterday’s quiz. Thnx again for helping me study

  FLETCH: no prob

  ME: I owe u one. We could do something…like Saturday night. I can make dinner?

  Oh shit. That sounds like I’m asking him out. Uh-oh. That is likely to send Fletch running or telling me to butt out again. And yet it’s weird how easy it was to type those words. It’s like I didn’t realize until right this very moment that I have the power to ask someone on a date. I keep thinking I’ll have a moment of connection with someone, and this will lead to being asked on a date—in college, of course, because JFH is not bringing me any new boys anytime soon—but really, I can ask someone. Go out with him, and either it works or it doesn’t.

  Is that what Fletch was trying to tell me with the kissing issue? I do make too big of a thing out of this stuff. I had Tate and me married and our photo hanging in town hall when we were only fifteen. At least inside my head, I had accomplished those things. So of course, my life is over when something I want doesn’t happen. And then I quickly become obsessed with making it happen anyway.

  My phone buzzes, causing me to jump.

  FLETCH: I can’t. I work Saturday. Plus that sounded a lot like a date. I don’t do that.

  ME: wait…u don’t date? Like ever? ’Cause love is obsolete, right?

  FLETCH: have u ever seen me on a date? Or heard about me dating anyone?

  ME: no, but u do take college classes. I’ve heard the college girls are highly skilled

  FLETCH: and 40something with minivans and mom jeans. Have u been to Juniper Falls Community before?

  ME: ok, I get it. U don’t date. Whatever

  FLETCH: why do u seem pissed?

  ME: I’m not pissed. Just…frustrated.

  FLETCH: sexually?

  ME: lol. Stop.

  FLETCH: u started it. And that’s a real thing. It happens.

  ME: is that how u end up with all those panties in ur pockets.

  FLETCH: butt out, Haley

  And we’re back to where we started again. I toss the phone onto the love seat so I’m not tempted to keep pushing him. What am I even trying to accomplish? Is it that hard for me to accept that one person in this town won’t open up to me? Doesn’t like me enough to trust me? Yeah, it is that hard to accept. If Fletch won’t tell me his secrets, then I have to find out so I can prove myself trustworthy.

  Saturday. It’ll all be out in the open.

  Chapter Nineteen

  –Fletcher–

  After rehearsals for tonight, I sat on the couch in the back room and fell asleep. Too much hockey practice, extra running, extra training with Jamie and Leo, plus helping both Haley and Jamie study for Civics has wiped me out. I’m working hard to peel my eyes open when a warm body lands in my lap.

  “Rosie or Henrietta?” I say. When there’s no answer, I know I’m supposed to play the guessing game. Henrietta has been on a long no-panty streak, so I could walk a hand up her skirt and find out that way—God knows the other guys would do it—but instead, I go for the hair.

  I was wrong on both accounts.

  “Brittney.”

  She laughs, and I open my eyes and have to endure the sting of hairspray wafting into my breathing space. Brittney ruffles my hair and then slides off my lap. “You look like a little boy when you’re asleep.”

  “Thanks?” I stand up to my full height and take in the commotion around me. I must have really been zonked. Angel is seated in a chair nearby—pale and bent over, her head between her knees. Her fiancé, who is one of the club’s bouncers, is cradling their screaming toddler.

  Paco walks into the back room and immediately covers his ears. “Hey, Scott! Braden wants you.”

  I brush past Angel and give her a pat on the back. She hasn’t said so, but I’m sure she must be pregnant again. She’s been my longest partner, except when she was über-pregnant, so I know the signs. Ricky—the club’s owner—didn’t want any issues, since I was under eighteen when I started, and Angel is very professional and practically married, so that’s why we’ve always been paired up together.

  I stumble through the doors and walk across the center-platform stage to where the bar sits. Braden has several shots lined up for the staff. It’s so strange how different it is for me here than at school or any public place in town. All it took was Ricky saying once, “Don’t bring any of these foods in the building, or you’ll kill Baby Scott” (that’s been my nickname for a while, unfortunately. Partly because of my age when I started working here, but mostly because my brother bartends. He’s Big Scott, I’m the baby), and everyone followed Ricky’s orders without questio
n.

  “Enjoy your nap?”

  I rub my face and debate slapping myself awake. “I need something.”

  “Booze or uppers?” Braden asks.

  “Uppers,” I say. “Definitely uppers.”

  He produces a pot of coffee from under the bar and fills a wineglass. “Sorry, the mug is missing.”

  Apparently, mug is singular here. Whatever. I don’t care. Coffee is coffee. I hate it, but I love the side effects. I choke down a long sip and then fall onto the barstool. “I think I might have a problem.”

  “You mean Angel?” Braden says, lowering his voice. “She looks…”

  “Glowing?” I supply, though it’s quite the opposite from what I saw moments ago. More like about-to-puke.

  Braden nods. “Ricky will pair you with Rosie, probably. She says Henrietta will corrupt your innocence.”

  I smirk down at my wineglass of coffee.

  Braden tosses a dirty wet rag at me, and Ricky emerges from her office and glares at him. “You ruin the talent’s shirt, and you’re fired.”

  I look up at Ricky. “I get to wear a shirt tonight?”

  She attempts a stern look, but grins anyway. “If you’re good.”

  Braden waits for her to go back into her office and then leans in. “Seriously? Henrietta?”

  I shrug. It was one time. Several months ago. “Angel isn’t my problem. It’s Haley.”

  “Haley Stevenson?” Braden is all ears now. “What about her? She’s not into Cole?”

  “No, definitely not into Cole.” I shake my head. “I think I might be into her, though…” I sigh again and wish I were still sleeping on the couch. I don’t know what’s going on with Haley, and that’s the part I can’t handle. I have a handful of people I’m close with who I share shit with, and I have a larger handful of people who I share, um, physical closeness with, but never both. Aside from Angel and her fiancé, I haven’t really even seen both before. I don’t know what it looks like or how it works. And then toss in the Princess-of-Juniper-Falls factor and the gossip circle that comes with that…yeah, I’m a little out of my comfort zone even thinking about it.

  “You stay away from that sweet girl,” Braden snaps. “The thought of you and her…I’m getting physically ill here.”