Luckily, they still seem interested in me. Lowe tells me the firm was pleased to receive my application and I should expect a phone call after the holidays to coordinate a formal interview. The wordage she uses makes me suspect they've already decided to hire me and the interview is a formality. And though I know it's nowhere near a done deal until I receive an actual job offer, the conversation leaves me feeling light and refreshed. The two ton weight that's been sitting on my chest over the last few days shifts and I'm able to breathe again.
But the next call I get is far less fun.
"Emily, you can't disappear like that and not answer any of my texts or calls. Where are you?"
My roommate's tone is so frigid the phone grows a few degrees colder at my ear.
"I'm fine, Elle, I'm with my sister for the holidays. I meant to return your calls, just lost track of time."
I'm talking through a mouthful of burrito. The truth is, I don't have a good excuse for why I never got around to returning her texts. I read them and avoided responding right away because her questions required explanations I don't yet possess. Like where I'm going to live.
"Okay, fine," she says, "but you've got to get all your stuff out of here. You do know that, right?"
"Yes. Obviously, I'm aware."
"Good. I don't want them holding our deposit—"
"Elle, I get it. I promise I'll have my stuff out after Christmas. I'll stick it in storage if I have to. Consider it done."
My friend Amelia's the only person I bothered to text when I arrived in San Diego Monday evening. But when she invited me out for drinks tonight, I didn't think she meant to a North County bar.
"Why'd you want to come here?" I do a slow circle to take in the crowd. "This place is a buzz-kill. My old high school is, like, half a mile away. I thought you'd want to head downtown."
Amelia leans in, her long, brown hair falling over her shoulder. "There's a conference going on up the road. At the Park Hyatt Aviara. Huge, conservative conference. We're talking half a billion in donations each year, all funneled to right wing projects. But here's the thing, no one really knows which ones. It's all insanely secretive, from the location to the guest list. But guess what? I had a source leak the location to me two days ago."
"I didn't realize you wrote political pieces."
"I don't, usually. But this information fell into my lap when I was working on another story. I need to sink my teeth into something meaty. Something that'll convince my boss I can do more than fluff pieces. I need to break the front page."
"I'm not following," I say. "How does us coming here help you with that?"
"There's no getting into the conference, obviously. Security is too tight. But, I mean, let's be real. This is the only decent bar in half a mile radius. Some of those overworked suckers from the conference are bound to end up here."
"I doubt anyone important will come to a place like this," I say. "This place is stuffy, but not that stuffy."
"Big wigs aren't the ones that leak information. I'm talking small fish. Assistants, crew members, stressed out security guards."
We scan our surroundings, where we stand, hovering around a pair of barstools. Protecting them like they are the sacred lands of our ancestors, all but hissing at anyone who tries to nonchalantly slide in and take one. We aren't even sitting on them. It's just nice to leave our options open.
"I guess this place will do," I say, shrugging. "At least the cab ride's cheap. Not to mention the drinks. I happen to be in a celebratory mood tonight."
My problems are far from resolved. I don't have a job secured and still have no idea where I'll live. But this is where I'm different from my sister. She broods over things whereas I have the keen ability to focus on the tiniest rays of hope. At least long enough to enjoy a drink and dance to some overrated tracks.
"And what are you celebrating?" Amelia asks.
"My almost landing a maybe job interview."
"That's right." Amelia holds up her beer to my glass of gin and tonic.
I tilt my head at her. "Since when do you drink beer?"
"Since I wrote a piece on all the ways your cute drinks can be ruffied at a bar."
"Nice." I take a hesitant sip of my drink.
I want to dance, but the music overhead isn't exactly the type I can shake my butt to. It's the sidestep and finger snapping music. Those moves don't exorcise stress. At least not for me.
Amelia and I drain our drinks before long and order new ones. The conversation turns to the nuances of my predicament.
"Let me get this straight," she begins, "you have to get all of your stuff out of your apartment in two weeks and you still haven't started looking for a place to live?"
"I've been looking for a job."
"You've been shelving."
"What?"
"You know…putting problems up on shelves. Pretending they aren't there. You do that."
"Okay," I say, casting my eyes to the ceiling. My friends have one thing in common; they are candid and unafraid to speak their mind. I love surrounding myself with that type of honesty, especially in a world where everyone goes out of their way to tiptoe around everyone else's feelings. But sometimes I'm not in the mood to hear it. A candid tongue isn't as amusing when it's lashing out straight at me.
I change the subject without preamble. "That guy over by the window keeps looking at you."
I should know better than to think Amelia will find a subtle way to glance over her shoulder. Instead, she turns on her heels and stares right at the guy, long enough for him to smile at her.
"Meh," she says, turning back to me. "Dude gives me serial killer-ish vibes."
"Really?" I eye him again, trying to decide what part of him leans toward homicidal. He's in his early to mid-twenties with short dark hair, dressed sharply in a light blue button-down. Not bad looking at all.
"He's got that tight-lipped smile," Amelia says. "You know? The kind that doesn't reach his eyes."
"He's cute," I muse.
"Ted Bundy was cute. In fact…." She turns to look at the guy again, eyeing him carefully. The guy's smile slips slightly, as though he's not sure if our conversation is working in his favor. "I bet he rents a basement apartment from his mother. And when he goes home every night, he takes off his shoes under a solitary light in the center of the ceiling. You know…the one that inexplicably hangs from a string and sways from side-to-side like there's a draft in the room. Then he goes and checks on the pieces of people's limbs he keeps in his refrigerator."
"You're so morbid."
"I'm a realist." She shrugs. "That's how I stay out of serial killer's refrigerators."
Half an hour and a few strong drinks later, I feel nice. I mean really, really nice. My cheeks burn under the strain of my constant, liquor-induced smile. The music, which was just bearable before, is now somehow exactly my type of sound. The words touch me in all of my special, sensitive, feeling places.
"Bingo." Amelia's wandering eyes widen when they land on a short blonde in a purple dress, standing on the other side of the room. "Look at that. Hair slicked back in a bun. Dress down to her knees. This girl came from somewhere super conservative."
"Or maybe she's just not into getting laid."
"I'll be right back," Amelia whispers before heading off in that direction.
With Amelia gone, I notice giggling noises coming from beside me. A group of three much younger ladies stand there, visibly wasted.
When my eyes lock with one of them—a brown-haired girl with bangs cut over her eyes—she stumbles forward and hugs me. I shrink back in surprise and try to resist the urge to knee this stranger in the stomach. She pulls away just in time.
"Your hair color is so pretty," she says in what is either an accent or a tongue weighted from the effects of liquor. "Lila, look—" she gestures enthusiastically to get her friend's attention, standing on wobbly legs as she towers over me in her giant heels "—should I get this brown-to-blonde color? Isn't it super cute?"
&
nbsp; The one called Lila says, "Yes!" with exaggerated importance. It's obvious by the way her Happy Birthday crown sits crooked atop her head that she is drunk enough not to care about her appearance. We chat for a few minutes. Everything I say elicits hysterical laughter from her. She slams a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and announces that, in honor of my birthday, she's buying us all another round of shots.
It's December. My birthday is in August. But when Lila plops the crown on my head, that crescent-shaped plastic with rhinestones on it sends a surge of excited energy flowing through me. This crown is freedom. This crown is attention.
It's my motherfucking birthday.
I allow my tipsiness to overtake me, giving in to the urge to repeat the phrase "It's my birthday" enough times to elicit congratulations from nearby strangers, who proceed to buy us drinks.
I swallow back another shot and slam the glass back on the counter. Almost immediately, my eyes are drawn to a man further down the bar, speaking to someone I assume to be the manager because, as I slip around intoxicated people, he disappears behind a doorway marked Employees Only.
The second man does a double take as I approach, taking in the sight of the blue dress I'm wearing.
I slap his arm. "Rowen!"
He remains unsmiling. "It's Owen."
I know that. I do. But for some reason, I find it amusing to pretend that I don't.
"Oh, that's right." I snap my fingers. "Owen. How are you, man? How's it hanging?"
"It's…hanging fine, thanks. I'm actually on my way out."
"But you just got here?" I squint. "Didn't you just get here?"
"I came to have a word with a friend."
I shake my head. "You should stay. It's my birthday."
"I did overhear that."
"You did?"
"Yeah. I spotted you across the room and I thought, here we are running into each other again. It's all starting to feel a bit too…coincidental…." he trails off on purpose, eyes glinting with meaning.
"You—what? You think I'm stalking you?" Even in my drunken state, my pride bubbles to the surface. "Really? So, you think I go home to a wall covered in pictures of you and touch myself?" I pause for a reaction but he merely stares back politely. "Oh, yeah. I bet you wish that were true. Bet you wish I spent hours just…masturbating to you and trying to figure out where you'll be next. All so I can stage a convenient way to run into you because, you know, you're so fucking friendly."
"Is that a confession?" He doesn't allow himself to smile, but there's no denying he's enjoying this.
"Just so you know, coming here wasn't my idea. And if I hump my pillow at night, it's most definitely not to thoughts of you." That's a lie, but he doesn't need to know that. "Anyway, let's not forget who was obsessed with who here."
"Was. Past tense. Let's not forget who crossed the bar to reach the other."
Damn him and his perfect comebacks. Why the hell do I keep going out on a limb, trying to get him to warm up to me? What did I expect when I walked across the room to reach him? Did I think he'd suddenly be easygoing and friendly? Or do I enjoy the sting of rejection?
You know what? Fuck this. He is killing my buzz.
Failing to come up with anything witty to say, I turn to walk away without another word.
"Wait," he calls out.
I turn to him again, and catch various expressions chasing each other across his face. He takes in my features in a way that makes my skin flush, before turning his head for a fraction of a second, only to bring his eyes back to mine, shoulders relaxing in surrender.
"Stay," he says, and the word floats through the air, brushing the skin at the nape of my neck in a way that feels so good.
I pull my chin up. "Why should I?"
"I'm trying not to be a jerk."
"Well, try harder."
When I attempt to turn away again, his hands close over each of mine. And with a soft tug, he draws me back to meet his eyes once more.
"Okay."
"Okay?" I ask, gloating in the way he's all but admitting he craves my undivided attention. I crave his, too.
"I'll try harder."
"Good—" I pat the part of his chest between his open jacket. My hands meet the hard muscle under his shirt. Jesus, he's solid. An involuntary smile tugs at my lips. "Let's start over. I'll buy you a drink."
I flag down the bartender and order us each my favorite beer without even thinking to ask him if it's what he wants. Owen takes the bottles from the bartender and slips him a wad of bills before I can whip out my wallet. I scoff in protest but he hands me the beer as consolation and sets his down behind him.
"Happy Birthday," he says.
"Thanks." My cheeks warm under a grin as I remove the stupid crown from my head and toss it onto the bar. "Do you not like beer?" I ask, eyeing the way his sits forgotten behind him.
"I'm not drinking."
"Oh. Why didn't you just say so?"
"I have a feeling there's no stopping you tonight."
Before I can consider his words, a new song cuts on and its beat seems to infect my bloodstream. Somehow, though I barely recognize the song, I'm convinced it's my song. Excitement floods me, I resist the urge to cheer loudly and announce to the room that this song, this amazing piece of sound, is my song.
I need to dance.
My body is grooving before I decide to let it. Owen sits there at the edge of the stool, legs parted wide, watching me with undeniable amusement.
Of course, I don't understand why he isn't responding to the music in the least. Can't he feel it inside?
"Why are you so uptight?" I ask. "I'm sure you get laid a lot."
"I'm not uptight."
"Oh, yeah? Prove it. Dance with me."
He takes in the details of my face in a gradual, controlled way. The way a person does when they're allowing themselves to really look at something for the first time.
"Dance with me," I say, again.
His lips part and I'm sure he'll say yes. Instead, he says, "I don't dance."
"Well, I bet I can get you to move."
I start dancing in front of him, winding slowly as though I'm gearing up for a sensual move, raising my hands over my head to trail my fingers over the opposite arm—but then my arms wrench into sharp, mechanical movements as I start doing the robot.
He laughs. Actually laughs. His face lights up like a bolt of lightning shooting across the room, his features losing their edge in the momentary glow.
I realize I'm staring at him. Hard.
The alcohol is a warm blanket over my brain and I'm so distracted by the sight of his smile that I lose my footing, nearly toppling over. His hands fly to my waist to steady me, and in the process, I'm pulled between his parted legs.
I go very still, despite the erratic beating of my heart. Our proximity pumps my body full of whatever it is that makes you crave someone. He feels it too. I can tell by the way his lips part slightly but words forget to come out.
"Told you I could get you to move," I whisper, peering down at the crotch of his pants. Insinuating I'm referring to something else. Because I am.
"You've got me there," he says, hands still gripping my waist. The longer they lay there, the further the warmth of his touch spreads over me and the thicker the haziness that floats across his face.
All I can hear is the sound of my pulse. I'm unaware of our surroundings. It's just us. Just this.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't have to. Whatever is on his mind, he says it with his hands, one of which slides downward until his fingertips begin to trace the hem of my dress, drawing a line on the bare skin of my thighs where the fabric ends. Leaving a trail of sensations that spread across my body and crank up my internal thermostat.
The seconds lurch slower than my hazy thoughts. My senses sharpen beyond the alcohol's reach. I rest my forearms on his shoulders, aware of every inch of his body and the air that separates it from mine.
As he moves his face to meet mine, a small hand closes over my sho
ulder from behind and pulls me away. I stumble backward and see Amelia standing there. She wraps an arm around my shoulder and smiles at Owen. "Hi there. Sorry. I need to speak to my friend for a second."
I'm stunned and disoriented as she leads me a few feet away. My mouth takes a few seconds to catch up with my brain. "Why'd you do that?"
"The cab's here. Remember? You said two hours. Didn't think you wanted me to leave you here."
I throw my head back. "You totally cock blocked me."
"Nope. I saw you dancing the robot in front of him. You cock blocked yourself."
"Whatever, just go. I got this."
She shakes her head. "Emily, I can't leave you behind. Drunk. With some random guy who…." She turns to Owen. I do the same and we see him sitting there in his leather jacket, looking right back at us. Amelia lowers her voice. "Who looks like he's either in the mob or part of some undercover FBI stint investigating the mob."
"He's not some random mob guy." I snort, aware of how heavy my tongue feels as I speak. "He's Owen…he serves me breakfast every morning. Well, twice. But he's beautiful. We like the same beer. And he's going to have my babies." I nod vigorously even as Amelia gives me a slow, but steady shake of her head.
She pats the side of my face. "Okay, sweetie, stop talking. You're drunk."
"Seriously," I say, mustering every morsel of sobriety I can manage. "It's okay. I know him. We went to high school together. He's not homicidal in the least."
Amelia fixes me with a serious expression as though trying to decide if she should really leave me. She's insanely overprotective of the people in her life and a bit on the paranoid side. I grab her phone from her hand and take a picture of Owen. The flash lights up the spot where he stands. His eyebrows pull together in a 'what the hell?' expression.
"Here," I say, handing Amelia back her phone. "Now you've got his picture as collateral."
"Fine. Text me when you get home—or…wherever," she finally says.
I nod a little too enthusiastically and watch her walk off. When I turn back to Owen, he's getting up and straightening his jacket as though he's gearing to leave.
Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) Page 7