Dry, cracked leather poked into her palm, and she cringed. Not from the sting, but from the dejection her mind was plummeting into already. No cranky butts before noon, Sail.
Such was the way of her mind these days. Flip-flopping back and forth between pre-Ryan optimism and, well, everything else on the other side of the spectrum. She wasn’t going to lie. Taking on more hours with Above the Stem and spending a good part of her days parading around town in a clunky van was supposed to ease the pain a little. Or at least keep her mind off it as it worked its way out of her system.
But it seemed no matter where she was, memories of Ryan snuck in. Like now, as she steered the van past the Dirty Bird and images of her dead plant and a drunken Marissa and Ryan with his amused smirk flashed through her mind. Didn’t matter if she stole a peek or not, memories like the first night meeting him had become engrained into her very soul.
Her foot slammed down on the gas, and the van protested with a cough before speeding up. She pinched her lips tight in an attempt to smile against the growing pressure in her chest, but the movement only stiffened everything into place. Solidified it into one big ball of hurt.
He ruined it. Not you. Seemed she was reminding herself of that more and more lately.
He’d accused her of stealing. Lying. Basically everything she’d promised she would never do again. That kind of mistrust wasn’t forgivable.
She pulled the van alongside the curb and hopped out at her next delivery destination. Warmth of the early morning sun seeped through Sailor’s black Above the Stem V-neck, a nice change from the chill that had coated the air during her first few deliveries. Hopefully, a sign from someone above, too, that her last delivery would go a little smoother than the others. Icy stares and frowny faces shouldn’t accompany beautiful bouquets.
Then again, neither should petals on the floor and a puddle of water waiting to claim someone’s intact hamstring. And that spill had been her fault.
From the back of the van, she unsecured the giant vase of white roses. An anniversary, she was told. Sixty years married. Hats off to those who could do it. Apparently, it would never be her, though.
Before that thought could fester, she wrapped her arms around the base of the glass and straightened, sure to watch her step as she wound past the car valet check-in and into the hotel lobby. Stale air blasted her face, and she focused on making it to the front desk without dropping or spilling this one.
Or tripping.
Or rebounding off the wall.
Seriously, would it take a miracle to deliver a bouquet unscathed?
Squinting through a sliver of space between white petals, she directed her voice to the large figure standing behind the front-desk counter. A flat chest, so most likely a man, but she wasn’t one to make judgments. “I have a delivery for one of your guests. Sylvia Greenwood.”
Papers rustled, and then someone cleared their throat. “You can set them on the counter,” the voice responded, and at the same time, her pores decided to jump out of her skin. Geez, the last time they did that was the day she’d left Jordan, just after cops had slapped a pair of handcuffs around his wrists. “I’ll see to it that she gets them.”
Wait a second. Those words. I’ll see to it. It was what her ex used to say.
Slowly, Sailor lowered the flowers, inhaling the sweet scent of them as they passed her nose. It couldn’t be Jordan. The only way he knew how to make money was by doing something that had landed him in jail.
A pen in his hand, he leaned into the counter, occupied with whatever form sat on the desk before him. Pressed starchy material the color of dirt hung over his small but muscular arms. Close-cropped, dirty-blond hair stuck up in that freshly cut way.
She cinched her arms around the vase tighter, pulling it to her chest, and swallowed, her gut sending off a slight protest that her mouth was already opening. “I heard the food in there isn’t as bad as people make it out to be.”
The pen stopped. He glanced up. “Jennifer?”
Any other person saying that name would have coated her skin in gooseflesh, but hearing Jordan say it did nothing of the sort. It felt right to have him call her that. He’d been part of that time. He’d known that girl.
She pushed up a small smile. “Yep, it’s me. You decided to come back to Boston, too?” Between her eyes, her brows bunched together. “I vaguely remember you saying you’d never set foot in this town again because it was a…potty hole.”
He rounded the counter and relieved her arms of the vase, setting it on the counter. Sailor watched him, feeling like the man she was looking at now and the man she spent years of her life with were no more than distant brothers. Gone was the long, stringy hair and dark bags beneath his eyes, replaced with a face that actually looked like it was living instead of dying. He wasn’t gorgeous, but he looked better than he had in years.
Wrapping his arms around her shoulders, he pulled her in tightly for a hug. Lips close to her ear, he chuckled and whispered, “Actually I called it a shit hole. Is that what happens when you clean up? You lose the ability to say ‘shit’?”
His teasing wormed into her, and muscles in her upper half felt the itch to squirm. Sliding her hands between their bodies, she patted his chest and pushed away at the same time. “Side effects may vary. What’s yours? Polyester shirts and the words ‘How may I help you?’ on repeat?”
It was weird…seeing him. Feeling him touch her. And worse was it only reminded her more of Ryan. How much she wished it was him holding and smiling at her instead. Rocking back onto her heels, her weight sagged into her tennis shoes. Right, because being accused of lying and stealing feels so good?
Jordan pointed at the bouquet. “Or directing vases of flowers to rooms. Do you know how many of these I see a day?”
Sailor shrugged. “I’m guessing two?”
“More like four.”
“Wow.” At least that meant she’d be keeping busy now that she was working deliveries. All the more time to keep her mind off everything else she was trying to forget. “So, how long have you been working here?” She gestured around the empty lobby. Not a fancy hotel by any means, but she had to give Jordan credit. At least it looked like he was trying to get his life back on track.
“A few months. I thought about starting over somewhere new, but my brother thought it would be best if I moved in with him. Just until I was done fucking up, you know?” Yeah, she knew. Marissa had offered the same. Jordan tucked his hands under his armpits, thumbs extended. “I would’ve called if I’d known you were here, too.”
I’m glad you didn’t. Not that it wasn’t good to see that he’d cleaned up, but…that part of her life was over. Besides, she would’ve never met Ryan if he had.
Her heart squeezed tight. Ryan…
Then her brain rebutted. No.
But—
He hates you. Despises you. Thinks the worst of you. Stop wasting your time thinking about someone who will always hold a grudge against you for ruining his life.
“What brought you back?” Jordan continued, snapping Sailor out of her annoying heart-brain conversation. Seemed like the two of them had been arguing a lot lately. “A job with your dad?” By the cackle accompanying his words, the question was meant to be a joke. Why wouldn’t it when their entire relationship had revolved around avoiding her father and his rules?
“No.” She reached for the edge of the counter, suddenly feeling like his words were going to knock her over. Or maybe hers would. “He…um…died a few years ago.”
Saying that didn’t get easier. Wasn’t it supposed to? Hurt a little less each time?
Silence followed her words as Jordan flicked his brown gaze around her face. The look was familiar, but not. Consoling, but not.
“I used to be able to read your face,” he said, lowering his arms. In her peripheral vision, she watched them carefully. She didn’t want him to touch her. Didn’t want that kind of attention. Not from him, anyway. “But,” he continued, “now I can’t tell i
f losing your father is what you wanted.”
“It’s not.”
“Well, then I’m sorry.”
Yeah, she was, too. She inhaled a deep breath, the sudden onslaught of looking someone she thought she’d never see again in the face sending her mind into a sloppy mess—the fact that he was talking about her father jumbling it even more. Straightening, she gestured toward the door. “I should probably get back to work. It was nice seeing you, Jordan.”
The corners of his mouth dug into his filled-out cheeks as he reached up and tugged a strand of her hair. “The shorter hair looks good on you.” He leaned a little closer. The gesture would’ve made her seventeen-year-old self swoon. Now, it did nothing but remind her that he was a part of her past. And nothing more.
“Thanks.” She eased a step back, but he caught her hand just before she was out of reach. From the counter, he slipped a business card from a holder and slid it between her fingers.
“Listen, I know things between us didn’t end well. But if you want to have lunch or something, this is my work number. I’d love to catch up.” Gently, he circled his thumb over the top of her hand—one of those moves that was more like a signature—and she eased back farther, tucking the card into her purse.
After the stressful start to her day, this wasn’t a decision her frazzled brain could handle. Part of her wanted to say yes, just to help suppress all the thoughts about Ryan that decided to pop up at the most inconvenient of times. And the other part knew having lunch with Jordan could destroy all that she’d worked for the past year.
So she did what any normal person would—avoided answering altogether. Nodding, she spun for the door. “Peace out, Jordan.”
…
Another group entered the bar, spilling in over each other like the big dude in front was the only thing holding them up. When he stepped forward, they tilted, caught themselves, and repeated the process until all five of them—two linebacker-sized guys and three mini-skirted chicks—leaned into the edge of the bar directly in front of Ryan.
All were grinning. All looked like they were about to add to his ever-growing list of drinks to make. And with a room this full, he’d be lucky if he made it through the night without clearing out the majority of alcohol stock behind him.
“Two Buds,” the engine of the Hot Mess Express belted out. He was fresh-faced and ready to party hard, and if Trevor hadn’t been checking IDs at the door, Ryan would’ve had to spend the time analyzing his ID.
At least there was that.
Ryan reached into the ice bath below him. “You got it. And for the ladies?”
The guy tapped the counter, his shrugging shoulders shifting the puka shell necklace around his neck up and down. “Whatever the special is tonight.”
Huh, first dude wearing shells tonight, second to ask about a special. “No specials tonight,” Ryan said, twisting off the caps and tossing them into the trash bin. “Are your friends the tequila-shot type or more into Jäger Bombs?” College kids drank cheap, and girls didn’t typically order beer. Standard reasoning to figure out what most people would order.
The guy scratched his temple, his wide forehead dimpling harder than his little blonde friend’s ass cheeks, then turned toward his group of friends. “Hey, Jenny”—Ryan winced at the name—“didn’t you say this place was offering a drink special tonight?”
Blondie flicked her gaze at Ryan, red-lined lips pursing into a grin. The look of sex. Ryan knew it. He also knew he wanted nothing to do with it—not tonight, anyway. He flung two drink coasters onto the counter as the girl cat walked toward him, long hair swishing against her slender hips. “Who’s asking?” she said to her friend.
The guy swigged his beer. “The guy who’s going to be charging us for our drinks.” He rolled his eyes at her. “Show him that ad you saw.”
The girl leaned in, elbows on the edge of the counter, upper arms giving her tits a big enough squish to swallow the charm of her necklace, and tapped her rounded fingernails over her phone screen. “Looks like your boss forgot to give you the memo.” She lifted the phone and faced him, a thumbnail-sized picture of the front of his bar staring back at him. Standing beside the door was the chalkboard, a message he’d never seen before written on it.
Trust me, you can dance.
Jameson
Beneath it all, words in a bold purple read Best Jameson and gingers in town. $5 all night. This Friday!
Ryan planted his feet wide and ground his heels into the floor. Jameson and gingers as a special? Only one person he knew would come up with an offer like that. Considering the publication time, she’d obviously planned this before she’d decided to steal from him, but…why in fuck’s sake would Sailor have put out an ad without him knowing?
Because she’s full of surprises, dumb shit. You learned that the hard way.
Blondie ran her tongue along her lower lip, and Ryan tried to focus on it, merely for the purpose of not giving in to the piercing agitation now coursing up his limbs. “Jameson says I can dance,” she said to him, pointing to the ad. “I’ll take one of these.”
“Make it three.” The guy tossed thirty bucks onto the counter, turned to his group of friends, and wrapped his arms around one of the other girls.
Ryan worked quickly to make the drinks. Glasses, ice, the last of the whiskey, and ginger ale, all the while keeping something in his hands at all times to prevent him from reaching into his pocket for his phone. To keep him from calling Sailor. Keep him from telling her she had no right to advertise without him knowing. Without him preparing for it. He tossed the empty whiskey bottle into the trash. It clattered against the painted cement, just as someone in the distance yelled.
A deep voice. A string of words. Something that sounded like dickhead and hands off and girlfriend.
Jesus, fuck. Those words only meant one thing. And he definitely wasn’t in the mood to break up another fight tonight.
Rounding the bar, scanning the floor at the same time, he spotted a growing circle of bodies, two hotheads dead center standing with steam practically rising off their abnormally thick necks. One with white shells jangling.
Around them, the circle tightened, and Ryan picked up his speed, dodging and weaving through the crowd. He just needed to make it before someone started swinging, because one thing he’d learned over the years was that one drunk guy throwing punches in a tight space like the Alibi spread faster than an STD. And with only Trevor and him working tonight, that was sure to be a shit show.
Where was Micah when shit like this went down?
Micah’s big-ass frame—even bigger than these two—could stop any brawl. Barreling through a cluster of hipsters, Ryan had half a second to wish his best friend hadn’t ever left Boston. Left him and the bar. Even though they’d disagreed from time to time, running a business with the help and support of another body, another mind, was far less stressful than doing it all by himself.
He skirted around a woman in a flowery dress.
Sailor could’ve been that other person.
Then the woman’s poufy-haired companion.
No, because she didn’t care about you.
By the time Ryan reached the two guys, anger from his own thoughts clouded his vision. Air burned at the back of his throat with each breath he sucked in, and he stumbled through the circle. Right into the fist of his puka-shelled friend.
Knuckles slammed into Ryan’s face, knocking his entire body off-kilter. Searing pain lashed up his temple and down through his jaw as the rest of his body reacted in a non-business owner way.
“Take your boy drama out onto the street, fuckers.” Ryan blinked hard, pressing the room and two gigantic twenty-somethings back into focus. His temple throbbed. So did the whole left side of his face. Shit, that was going to leave a mark.
Puka Shell leaned in, beer still fresh on his breath. “What’d you call me?”
The circle around them constricted, and somewhere from the edge of the room, Trevor called out, “Boss?”
Ryan waved his hand, signaling to his trusty employee. Yeah, I’ve got this. Standing taller, solidly and at the ready with his forehead now reaching Puka Shell’s chin, he grinned against the aching. “I said get the fuck out of my bar.”
“Uh…boss?” Trevor said again.
Jesus, Trevor had seen Ryan throw people onto the Alibi’s front patio hundreds of times. Tonight was no different, other than the mountainous size of his Bud-drinking visitors. Without looking away from his challenger, he yelled back, “Goddammit, T, I’ve got this!”
White teeth in front of him gleamed. “Leave? Why don’t you make me?”
Ryan chuckled, the sound flat. After the interviews and the Jameson-special ad and the lingering thoughts of Sailor that wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone… Wrong day to ask me to do that, prick. He glanced right, just long enough to distract Puka’s attention, and then cracked him as hard as he could in the jaw.
The rush of adrenaline followed, at the same time commotion erupted around them. Through the thump, thump, thump of his blood pumping in his ears, a deep, commanding voice called out. Demanded people to back away. Leave the premises. Go home.
Ryan reared back for another punch, just to show Puka he meant what he said about getting the fuck out of his bar.
“Boss, no!”
A uniformed figure pushed through the crowd and grabbed him.
Puka threw his hands into the air. “This guy just punched me. I want to press charges.”
Chapter Nine
Truth #29: One tiny lie is all I told. But it was for the better.
“No. Just…no.” Marissa threw herself onto Sailor’s couch and picked up the remote, the corner of her lip lifting and twitching. “That man is the devil. Do you even understand how badly he destroyed your life?”
Sailor buried her hand in the popcorn bowl and shoved a handful into her mouth. Lip twitching? Sheesh, she didn’t realize her cousin felt so strongly about Jordan. “Riss, those choices were made by me. Not him.”
A Moment of Madness (Boston Alibi) Page 18