He slid his hand over hers and lifted her arm, running his fingers along the milky smooth skin from her wrist to the inside of her elbow. Over the round scars that dotted the area. “Tell me one thing first.” He pressed his thumb onto one of the scars. “Are you still doing this?”
Her expression tightened, but she didn’t pull away. He could see the question forming in her eyes—a how-could-you-possibly-know-that look, and then it morphed into the understanding that her father must have told him. Smart girl.
She flinched but didn’t pull away. “No.”
“How long since?” Based on the healthy color of her skin, it must have been a while, though it still felt like something he needed to know.
A slow breath inflated her chest, and he couldn’t help but notice how her shoulders rolled forward when she let it out. “I got out of rehab sixteen months ago. And aside from a few drinks here and there—which had nothing to do with my problem—I haven’t touched so much as a cigarette since.”
“You don’t sound too happy about that.” Was it because she missed that life?
She shrugged, pulling her arm away from him and standing taller. “It should’ve been longer.”
Or never at all. “But…?”
“But I relapsed after my first attempt to get clean.” The words were barely a whisper, though that didn’t disguise the way she spoke them, as if they tasted bitter and needed to spit them out.
It wasn’t a reaction he’d been expecting. Neither was the conversation, and it had his insides squirming to know more.
More about her.
More about that time in her life and what had led up to her leaving Marty in the first place. His dreams of becoming a pilot were long gone—the schooling and training demanded too much time to complete while running a business full time—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t at least fully understand why they’d been crushed in the first place.
Ryan had never been estranged from someone he cared about. And he’d never needed redemption badly enough to take a job cleaning glasses in a twenty-year-old ramshackle bar. For a blink of a moment—staring deep into her eyes—he believed her, believed that maybe there was a chance she was hanging around the bar in hopes of understanding the man she’d left to die years ago.
He glanced around the bar—to the few customers and Trevor, who’d stopped restocking to chat with them. His best bartender could handle the evening. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it alone, and it wasn’t like they were expecting a crowd like last night.
“I’ll need help with comps tonight,” he looked to Sailor and said. “Care to join me?”
“As long as it doesn’t require me to pour beer or mix cocktails, I’m sure I can manage.”
The wooden floor echoed with his steps as he crossed it then turned when he didn’t hear her following. He expected to see confusion twisting her features, but the small smile that lifted the corners of her mouth and the roundness of her eyes was like draping a warm blanket over sore muscles.
“I won’t be mixing cocktails, will I?”
He shook his head, fighting a smile as he swung the door wide and held it open, the evening air creeping up the sleeves of his T-shirt. “A new bar opened down the street. We’re going taste testing.”
…
Ryan was right. The Boiler Room was right down the street. And with its large gated patio in front, dotted with glowing fire pits and covered in strands of hanging white lights, it was sure to draw in people by the masses. Sailor glanced beside her, folding her arms across her stomach to mimic Ryan’s stance. “It’s cute,” she offered. Definitely a place she could see herself and some friends coming to, though that was something better kept to herself. Based on the furrow of Ryan’s brow and rigidity in his stance, he’d probably been hoping for something less appealing.
With the sun close to setting, yellow light washed over the faces of those standing by the fire, reflecting into the glasses of beer and over the blocky BOILER ROOM sign hanging above them.
“Is this going to hurt business at the Alibi?” she asked. “With it so close?”
He grunted, not moving an inch. “I can only imagine it will. And with curb appeal like this, I wouldn’t blame people for coming here instead of the dump down the street.” The words clipped out, short and bitter sounding, and it pricked at that spot where her neck met her collarbone. She couldn’t imagine what that must feel like, to know there were other businesses faring better than his.
“Maybe the inside is a total dump.” She smiled and pulled at the sleeve of his shirt. He didn’t budge—geez, he’s strong—so she stepped in front of him, blocking his sight of the patio. “Have you ever thought about sprucing up the front of the Alibi? We could do it. I can help you.”
His mouth moved, though the rest of his face remained staid. “With what funds? Something like this would cost thousands. Tens of thousands, even.”
True, and based on the amount of business she’d seen the few times of being at the Alibi, it wasn’t likely he had that much. Sure, last night had been busy, but after paying the cost of the damages she’d caused, along with simply restocking all of the alcohol, he likely wouldn’t have much profit left. And who knew how many bills he had to pay?
She tugged his arm again, this time wrapping her fingers around his rock-hard biceps. “Have you ever played I Spy?” She smiled wider at him, wanting to see the hardness in his expression dissipate. “I’ll start. I spy someone who looks like they could use a stiff drink. And I spy a bar that looks like they might have some fancy ones.”
The stiff line of his lips cracked, and he shook his head. “I spy someone who thinks I drink fancy cocktails.” In a gentle sweep, he ran his hands in front of his body, gesturing to his gray T-shirt and dark denim pants. “Is it the outfit?”
Hmm, no. Certainly not his clothes. If anything, the way his shirt clung tightly to his chest, showed off the muscles beneath, and caught on the brown belt—the same one she’d unbuckled last night in the back office of the Alibi—was anything but fancy-drink worthy. A hot flush radiated over her skin, settling in puddles on her cheeks. She hadn’t expected his brazenness last night. And she surely didn’t expect it to emerge again, especially after telling him not to kiss her, but standing there on the sidewalk with the last traces of the sun sinking behind a row of buildings, one thing became quite clear. She wanted him.
Again.
Fully inside of her like the first night they’d met. Again. And again and again and—
He smoothed a soft thumb in a line over her cheek and across her parted lips. “Whatever you’re thinking about,” he whispered close to her face, “don’t lose that thought. It’s a good look on you.”
Heh-heh. If only he knew.
He smiled knowingly.
Wait, he knew? “I wasn’t—”
Leaning in, he nipped at her lower lip. “Not judging,” he said, his warm breath lacing over her skin. “At all.” He wrapped his hand around hers and tugged her into the patio area and toward the door. “Aside from the curb appeal, we need to see what their draw is. Atmosphere? Drink lists? Anything that might stand out as different.”
The inside was just as cute with reclaimed wood walls and exposed metal pipes. Sheer white curtains billowed over the windows, providing a nice contrast to the chunky wood and softening the space. Obviously recently updated. Very industrial chic. And so very different from the interior of the Alibi.
“This used to be a flower shop,” Ryan said over his shoulder as he led them toward the rounded bar in the corner. “Family owned. They let it go a few months ago.”
“Conroy’s.” Sailor nodded, remembering what Ms. Trost had told her not that long ago. “My boss mentioned they went out of business. I didn’t realize it was on this side of town, though.”
“Your boss?” His steps slowed, eyes widening. “You have another job?”
“Wow, you look as if you think I’m not capable. I’m not a child, you know.” She poked his arm and smiled,
her teasing tone floating along the riffs of music layering the air. His smile grew and matched hers, their eyes connecting and holding for a single beat.
“Oh, I know. And I wasn’t thinking you weren’t capable…just…” He shook his head. “What is it you do?”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call myself a florist. I think you have to make flower arrangements look good to be called that, but, yeah, I work in a floral shop. The one on Fifth and Grand? It’s called Above the Stem.”
“You work with flowers,” he deadpanned.
“Part time. When I’m not doing this…with you.” This? Is there a definition for this? She’d never had a job that’d paid her to hang out in a bar with the boss. Or drink with him, which was apparently what she was going to be doing tonight as he rested one hand on the bar and waved over the bartender with the other.
“Jameson and ginger for me,” he told the girl then nodded in Sailor’s direction.
“The same for me, but with a lime, too, please.” Suddenly, her mouth started watering, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t from anticipation of the drink but a memory of what it had brought about last time she’d drunk it.
“You got it,” the bartender said, flicking her gaze once more at Ryan. “That it?”
He handed her his credit card. “For now.”
“Wait,” Sailor called out. “Could I get a splash of that red stuff in mine, too?”
Beside her, Ryan chuckled. “She means grenadine.” The bartender turned to grab the glasses, shooting Ryan an and-you-are-with-her sort of look.
Little did she know…
“You know”—Ryan leaned in, his shoulder touching hers—“for someone who works in a bar, you really should know what that red stuff is.” His mouth curved into a tummy-tingling grin.
No, not tummy-tingling. Tummy-bursting. Because when that smile cracked the stern look his beard brought on, that was what it felt like her organs would do from the sheer magnificence of it.
She mock scowled at him, nudging his arm with her elbow. “Because it’s in the glasses I clean?”
“I think we both know mixing cocktails isn’t your forte.”
Couldn’t argue with that.
“So what about you?” Sailor asked as the bartender set down two glasses in front of them. “What other jobs have you had? Anything embarrassing I can make fun of you for?”
He shook his head, lips to his glass. After a sip, he licked the glistening liquid from his lips. “Working at the bar is the only job I’ve ever had.” His gaze ticked away from hers, a sign that maybe it was something he wasn’t proud of. The bitterness in his voice hinted that he didn’t want to talk about it, but Sailor had never been good at following hints, so…
“Well, if you could do anything in the world, what would it be?” She shrugged. “I mean, assuming you didn’t have the responsibility of owning a business.”
Around them, people pushed their way to the bar, tightening the space. She inched closer to Ryan when a pair of blondes squeezed in. The lack of space between her and Ryan zapped through her like a sizzling live wire, though it didn’t seem to erase the way his face pinched with her question.
The moment lingered, his silence drawing it out. It wasn’t a look she’d seen on him before and, if she had to be honest with herself, it hurt to see. The kind of look that was haunting and painful all in the same instant.
The kind of look that made her want to know more.
About him. His wants. Needs. Past. Future. Dreams. Every darn thing that could cause her heart to suddenly ache. Did it have something to do with her father? The bar? Her ears were still perked and ready for his response, but her brain was doing the math. If he was twenty-seven now, he would’ve been twenty when he took over the bar. He must’ve worked at the Alibi for at least a year or two before that—enough time for her father to learn to trust him enough with the business. That would put him just out of high school.
She circled her hands around her glass, the cold coating her palms.
With the glass to his mouth, Ryan downed half his drink and then met her stare. “If I could be anything,” he finally said, “I’d be a commercial pilot.”
His airplane tattoo… Becoming a pilot was a real dream of his, not just a silly answer to a silly game.
“But it will never happen,” he continued, “because I’m far past the age of training for it, and, because of the bar, I have no time to put in the hours something like that would require.” His brows tilted inward, forming little creases above his nose. “Not really what you wanted to hear, is it? That I won’t be giving up the bar any time soon? Leaving it to pursue some ridiculous dream?”
“I…” Was that why she’d asked? With the underlying hope that maybe he’d consider doing it?
She shook her head, answering both of their questions at once. “That wasn’t what I meant. I mean, I know you won’t do that—give up the bar. Specifically to me.” Pausing, she sucked in a breath, pushing away the tension growing in her chest. This wasn’t where she wanted the conversation to go, especially if it was going to lead to them fighting again. Sure, she didn’t know the reason he was holding on to the bar, but tonight wasn’t the night to find out. In a slow exhale, she blew out her breath and faced him. “It’s a good goal to have—becoming a pilot.”
He rolled his eyes. “‘Goal’ implies I’m putting effort into achieving it.”
“But why couldn’t you? Surely, the schooling can’t be that demanding. They probably even have online classes for some of it. Have you ever looked into it?”
The incredulous look on his face said of course he had, though he didn’t snap it out like she somewhat expected him to. Instead, he licked his lips and said, “While your optimism is sexy as hell, Carlson, I’m not exactly in the mood for it right now.”
With a tilt of her head, her hair spilled forward, covering one side of her neck while exposing the other. “The sexy part?” she asked with a teasing smile.
Her bare skin caught his attention, and he ran his gaze from her ear to her collarbone. In the space between them, his hand twitched, as if he’d considered touching her there but then thought better of it. “The optimistic side.”
Playfully, she puffed out her bottom lip. “But being optimistic feels so good.” Wait, why was she talking about feeling good with him? And why did it suddenly throw images of her naked body beneath his into her head? Shivers zipped up her legs and settled somewhere low and deep in her belly.
Great, now she was going to be thinking about that all night.
“Heh-heh. I mean, I just think life is too short to waste it not doing what you want.” She traced a circle around the rim of her glass. She didn’t want to tell him, but maybe he would understand her better if she did. “God knows, I wasted years being someone I knew I shouldn’t, someone I detested. So just be glad you’re not trying to make up for that.” A familiar twinge of pain balled in her throat. Faint, and nothing like the size it would’ve been a year and a half ago when she’d found out her father was dead, but nevertheless, it was there. Threatening to choke her. She cleared her throat, pinched a smile, and found her teasing voice again. “It’s a daunting task.”
Ryan stared at her, his gaze not straying from her eyes. Sheesh, she could get lost in that, in the way the shades of blue churned and eddied against each other. “Someone you detested?”
The sound of someone else’s voice saying those words tightened every muscle on her body. Yeah… Here goes nothing.
“I don’t know what else you would call a seventeen-year-old who emancipated herself from the only man who loved her, married a drug addict, and spent the next few years working to run his”—she held up two fingers on each hand to form quotations—“business, AKA drug house.” Only Marissa knew all the details of her past, and if someone had asked her before the start of her shift if she’d tell Ryan—her boss—about the ugly parts of her, the answer would’ve been a big fat no. Maybe it was because he’d known her father, or maybe it was the
nonjudgmental way he was looking at her now, but something about telling him didn’t stab angrily at her like she thought it might.
“Why’d you leave your dad?” Again with the softness—something she really didn’t deserve.
“Because I was an idiot.” She tried to leave it at that, but the little crinkles crawling out from the corners of his eyes when he narrowed them told her he wasn’t going to let her. She pushed out her lower lip. “I was an idiot in love?”
“Carlson,” he warned, toeing the tip of her shoe.
Fine. “Fine. I wanted to marry my boyfriend. Long story short, Dad despised Jordan—probably because with his father’s instincts he could tell the guy was a loser—and I despised my dad for not letting me. And then he refused to agree to the emancipation, too. But I was determined, so I convinced my school counselor of all the right things for the process—living on my own, working to support myself, blah, blah, blah—and before you know it, I was disowning my dad. All because he loved me and didn’t want me to throw my life away because of a drug addict.”
“And he let you just walk away? Without fighting for you?” The way he said it, with a question in his voice, made it seem like he thought her dad wouldn’t ever have given up on her, that he wasn’t that type of guy.
He wasn’t. But Sailor had made him that way.
“He fought,” she explained. “But I disappeared for a few years—hitchhiked out to California with Jordan—and I think after a while, it exhausted him too much.” Letting that sink in, she sipped her drink. Ryan wasn’t walking away, a sign that he’d possibly be willing to answer what she really wanted to know. “Did he ever talk about me? I mean, I know he did because you knew of me and knew that I’d abandoned him, but…did he ever say anything else about me?”
Maybe anything good?
…
Shit, why did she have to look so goddamn hopeful with that last question? It was a look that screamed please tell me something that won’t drop me to the floor. But the thing was, Ryan didn’t have anything positive to tell her. Not about what Marty had said.
“He mentioned he had a daughter who didn’t want a father,” he explained, sliding his glass to the inside of the counter for the bartender to see. “That she’d chosen drugs over him, abandoned him—”
A Moment of Madness (Boston Alibi) Page 10