by Holly Hall
“You played with the band today, right?” I nod, not looking up from my phone. “How was it?”
“Good. Everything coming together.”
I feel the bed shift as she moves. “For a show or an album?”
“Maybe both.” Maybe neither, I think cynically.
“That’s soon. But that’s great, wow.”
When she’s silent for a few moments, I glance at her. She’s looking off toward the windows, though from here all I can see is a patch of ink-black sky. “Do you ever wish you could fix things with your ex?” she asks softly. I almost think I’ve imagined it until I turn on my side and see she’s giving me that look. One filled with caution, sympathy, and maybe a little pity. I haven’t yet gotten that from her, and I don’t want it now. I’ve gotten used to her sharp tongue, her calling me out on my shit. But there’s curiosity there too. Wondering about the former life I had that there’s no sign of.
“No,” I say shortly.
She tilts her head. “That’s it? Just ‘no’?”
“That’s it. Don’t get me wrong, neither of us wanted it to end the way it did. But it did.”
“So . . . do you think she wants you back?”
I frown. This line of questioning is coming out of left field. “No. More like we never should’ve gotten married. We were in love, but sometimes that’s not enough. You have to think about other things when it comes to marriage.” She nods and looks down at her hands, tugging on the sleeves again. It’s possibly the first time I’ve ever sensed any insecurity in her, but it couldn’t be more misguided. “You’ve never been interested in my past relationships.”
“It was never my business.”
“And now?”
“I still don’t have a right to pry, but I’ve had deeper conversations with you than anyone else, and I didn’t even know where your head was. Where your heart belonged. It was unfair to assume nobody had it.”
She’s curious about my heart, and that means something. But I can’t linger on that tidbit of information right now. “We’re friends, we’ve slept together. You have a right to know about anything that might change that.”
She swallows. “Yeah. Okay.”
I roll fully onto my back. “Come up here,” I say, patting the slice of bed beside me. She slides closer, the T-shirt bunching around her thighs. Then she reaches out and grazes a thumb along my collarbone, wiping away the water I missed. I catch her hand before she can withdraw, turning it over and kissing the palm, then the soft skin of her forearm. I don’t know that this is what Carter meant when he said to go with it, but I don’t stop. I found a window into the inner workings of her mind and saw that it is filled with doubts, as many as anyone else’s. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s erasing worries. If only for a little while.
I tug her closer until she falls against my chest, using momentum to pull her over me and onto her back, beneath me. Her eyes are still hooded and heavy, but they spark with interest. Then she’s pulling me to her and I’m tasting her plump lips and the coffee she drank. I situate myself between her legs and run a hand up her thigh to the waistband of her leggings, sitting back on my heels as I drag them, along with her panties, down her legs and toss them to the floor.
Then I take an ankle in my hand, kissing my way from her calf to the inside of her thigh, grinning against her skin when she inhales sharply. Maybe I’ve only had a way with words and not much else in the past, but that doesn’t mean I have to be that man today. Now, when I draw even with Lindsey’s parted thighs and close my mouth over her, I focus only on showing her, slowly and tortuously, that my head and my heart don’t belong anywhere else.
Chapter 18
Jenson
This is Lindsey Farrar. I lost my phone and had to get a new number. I have your cash if you want to meet up.
It’s the message I sent to Craig Potinski after I fine-tuned the details of my plan. I used the lost phone excuse to prevent him from blowing up her other number, but if this works I won’t have to worry about that. I’ve never been a violent person, but I plan to crush this guy, even if it’s only metaphorically. He didn’t bother answering until now, a couple hours later.
How do I know you’re good for it?
Fuck. How am I supposed to prove to this guy that for one, I’m “Lindsey,” and two, I have his money. I spread what cash I do keep on me on the counter, sending him a photo. If he asks me to prove it’s really Lindsey he’s talking to, I might have to think up something else. As a last-ditch effort, I channel my most careful, girliest handwriting and write his name on a slip of paper I stage beside it.
Your apartment. Tonight. Under the street light.
I chuckle. Under the street light. Maybe he doesn’t trust she’s not going to send her six-foot-five boyfriend to beat his ass. I may not be quite that tall, but I wouldn’t mind getting my hands dirty if it came down to it. That’s not the purpose of this meeting, though. He needs to go away without retaliation. And guys don’t usually take kindly to being punched in the face.
Let’s make it public. Tripp’s Bar & Eatery, 9pm
I pace my apartment, mentally crossing my fingers.
You want to do this in public? Bold. I’ll be there.
One advantage of performing a covert operation such is this one is I don’t have to hide my face. I stand to the side of the bar, bullshitting with Tripp while I wait for this guy to show up. A Google search led me to his photography website, and a little more digging brought me his social media pages and profile picture. I know what to expect, but he has no clue.
In usual fashion, Tripp was unsurprised when I told him what was going on. After a decade in this business, it seems even a catfishing/intimidation scheme can’t catch him off guard. Then someone walks through the door who can only be Craig. I recognize the smattering of facial hair he’s trying to coax into a beard and the small eyes that search the bar as he wanders over to a stool. Because he’s looking for someone who looks nothing like me, his gaze skates right over the face he’d probably recognize otherwise.
I give Tripp the nod, then head around the bar and claim a stool. Craig gives me a sidelong glance, probably wondering why I chose the one immediately beside him when there are plenty others available, but he doesn’t say anything. The way he keeps his suspicious little pig eyes trained on the door, looking for Lindsey, makes my blood boil.
“You Craig?” I ask after sizing him up. He might be around six feet tall, but he doesn’t look like a fighter. He looks like a scammer, if that’s possible.
Craig shoots me a glance. “Yeah,” he finally answers. He’s still expecting Lindsey. In that case, I’m going to be quite the disappointment.
“You lookin’ for Lindsey?”
At the mention of her name, his eyes narrow for the span of a few seconds before widening again. The look of cold realization he’s been set up. He glances over his shoulder at Tripp, who’s polishing a glass that could knock out a grown man, no problem.
“Uh, yeah, what do you know about her?”
I spin my stool toward him. “What I know is your phone calls and text messages end now.” He opens his mouth, but I hold up a finger. “Can we get Craig here a beer? This might be tough to swallow.”
Tripp smirks and pops the top on one, sliding it across the bar to where it stops in front of my companion. Craig looks toward the door again, searching for an escape. I tsk. “You don’t want to do that, do you? I’m not sure how much damage your reputation can take. Especially if I find out you’ve been threatening anyone else.” He looks back at me, his snide expression returning. Perhaps he hasn’t yet realized how dire his situation is. “The phone stuff alone is grounds for harassment. Imagine if I reported your stalking tendencies too.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” he says once he’s found his voice. “Are you her boyfriend or something?”
I purse my lips and nod. How much harm can a white lie cause at this point? “I think you’re well aware of who I am
, and what I can do to make sure the career you’ve built is dismantled piece-by-piece. Back to the stalking. . . What is it you’re hoping to get from Lindsey? You think you’re going to shame her into paying you, into sleeping with you, is that it? Dry spell bad enough you had to resort to intimidation to get some?” I can’t help but throw a few jabs in, and his face has drained of color, confirming my theory. You’d think the entertainment industry would’ve crawled out of the gutters by now, what with all the laws and heightened awareness of guys like this one, but it’s just as tainted. You just have to dig a little deeper to unearth the skeletons.
“How many others have you done this to? Trapped them into thinking you’ve got something on them and that the only way out is through you?” The cowardly little shit’s throat bobs as he swallows, and I incline my head toward the bottle, the only thing in the room sweating more than he is. “Go ahead, it’s on me.”
Craig licks his lips, but he doesn’t drink.
“This, whatever the fuck kind of operation you’re running, ends now. Lose her number, forget where she lives, where she works. Don’t even think of breathing in her direction.”
He spreads his palms innocently, as if he can ploy me to understand. “She owes me money, dude. She tell you that? Almost a grand. We all bust our asses out there, and it’s not like we can buy back the time we put into helping amateurs like her. People will do anything to get to the top, stepping on the hands of the ones who helped them get there. You know how it is.”
I still haven’t entirely pieced together this situation, but I’m beginning to see the blurry picture. He helped her out, perhaps with the photography workshop, and she didn’t pay up like expected. I’ve only known Lindsey to be a woman of her word. There’s something else at play here.
“We’re nothing alike, you and I, so don’t bother pretending. I’d never stoop so low as to corrupt an amateur before she’s even had a chance to get her feet wet. Is that what this is about? Weeding out the competition because you’re threatened by talent? You better find another schtick because I guarantee there’s someone out there who’s willing to play dirtier than you, and karma is the biggest bitch there is.”
The color has yet to return to Craig’s face. He scratches the hair on his cheeks and shrugs. “I don’t want any trouble, man. All I want is the money she owes and I’ll leave her alone. That’s all.”
I shake my head at him. If it’d been Lindsey, all the money in the world might not have been enough—money’s too temporary—but I have him cornered. “Do I have to remind you I can make sure you don’t make another dime in this city?” He swallows again, and to hit the point home, I pull up the photos I had Lindsey’s roommate Sebastian send me. The subject: one navy BMW parked outside their apartment building, Craig Potinski in focus through the window. I angle my phone toward him, zooming in on his face and then flipping through pages of screenshots of the texts and missed calls from him to Lindsey.
“I think it all makes a pretty convincing argument, don’t you?” I ask, pocketing my phone. Craig grips the bar top, knuckles white.
“You want to settle her debt? Fine. I was willing to make her a deal before she skipped out on me, so I’ll settle on five hundred.” It’s his last attempt at solidarity, but it’s a weak one.
I don’t want to reward anyone for pathetic behavior, but I also want to remove anything he could possibly hold over Lindsey’s head. I thumb through my wallet and slap five Benjamins on the bar.
“You will leave her the fuck alone, or else get slapped with harassment charges on top of unemployment. That deal sound fair?”
He clutches the money in white fingers, his head hung and face colorless. My work here is done.
“Do we have an agreement?” I press.
At last, he nods, despondent.
“Is that a yes?”
“Fine, yeah.” He stands and pushes away from the bar, heading for the door. I watch him and hope it hits him on the way out.
Beside me, Tripp grabs the untouched beer bottle and takes a swig. “You done?”
My answer is a self-satisfied smirk.
“Good. Now get the hell out of my bar before that guy comes back with a shiv,” he teases.
“Ahh, Tripp, you’re no fun anymore.”
Chapter 19
Lindsey
It is a strange feeling, realizing you’ve been going about your days looking over your shoulder. Even stranger when looking over your shoulder becomes your new normal. I feel the absence of Craig almost as soon as I notice I haven’t seen his car idling in front of my building for a straight week.
Maybe he got flighty and decided not to risk his presence being noted, but I haven’t received any more threatening messages, either. He was there all the time, and then he just wasn’t. I almost don’t believe it. Maybe he’s out of town on a job.
Either way, I feel lighter with each day that passes Craig-free. Jenson and the band came to a tentative decision to move forward on recording an album. Tentative on Jenson’s part, not the band’s. They’ve been holed up in the studio for most of the week, writing and recording. I wonder if I’m the only one who can see the lack of passion, the lack of fire, in Jenson’s eyes. I doubt it. Carter knows him better than I do, so I know he sees it. He’s all heart and no flame.
Taking my suggestions to heart, Jenson comes by the café anytime he has a break. He orders two black coffees and occupies the table in the window, cracking open his leather-bound journal and scratching lyrics on the lined pages. I join him when the café is slow and I have a spare moment. Sometimes I just sit while he writes, enjoying Nashville’s descent into fall as people pass by the café wrapped in scarves and coats, and sometimes I edit, or scour my inbox for emails from the event venues I’ve reached out to.
Each time I search my inbox, I tell myself I won’t be disappointed—that every moment I wait will be another one I celebrate when I finally succeed. I just never guessed it would be this hard. Not to mention, Thanksgiving is swiftly approaching, and I’ll have to answer to each of my failures over family dinner.
When Jenson asks me to come over for dinner during one of our writing sessions in the café one day, I accept without blinking an eye. Then I wonder who this person is I’ve become. Where Craig’s slithered out of my life, Jenson’s slipped in. And, up until now, I haven’t worried much about it. But the thought that I haven’t bothered to worry before today is totally making me worry more. Is this a date? Should I be concerned about him thinking it is? I ponder that as I’m walking home after my shift to shower and change. I’ve even been subconsciously considering which outfit I’ll be stealing from Anika’s closet.
Why am I like this? I’ve been busting my ass trying to get consistent work, on top of blowing off Craig and somehow maintaining this offbeat friendship with Jenson. Why shouldn’t I enjoy one leisurely dinner? Deep down, I know the answer to that. Each moment with Jenson is turning into a little point of light in my life, and I know better than anyone the darkness they’ll leave when they go out.
Upon entering my apartment, I’m immediately immersed in my roommates’ debate of Swiffering versus mopping. I’m not surprised to discover Isaac in the center of the argument, but I never expected Sebastian to be pro-mop. I’ve never seen the guy pick up a dirty sock, much less the Swiffer we don’t even own.
“Lindsey, mop or Swiffer? I know you’re team mop, don’t even try to lie,” Sebastian says, one hand shamelessly down the front of his sweatpants while he swigs a beer with the other. I’ve seen my roommates scratch their balls more times than I’d consider normal.
“I didn’t think you knew what either of those were,” I shoot back, tossing my keys into the bowl.
“Hey, I watch enough TV, okay? I know the commercials. Now, quit dodging the question.”
I try to step around them, but Isaac intercepts me with an arm around my shoulders. “You’re the deciding factor. We’ve got a lot riding on this,” he says, kissing me on the head. If he thinks that’ll
win me over to his cause, he’s dead wrong. Why do guys waste their time fighting about this stuff anyway?
I wiggle out of his grasp. “I couldn’t give two shits about your stupid debate, I have to get ready.”
“Ohh, come on. You have to feel more passionately about one,” Sebastian whines.
“I feel more passionately about you throwing all those bottles away,” I point out the cluster of empty bottles on the kitchen counter, fighting the urge to smack him upside the head.
“Beside the point. Swiffer or mop?”
“Swiffer. Now leave me alone, I’m going to meet Jenson.” I’m past them, halfway down the hallway to my bedroom, when Sebastian calls out to me.
“What did Jenson say about those photos, anyway?”
I set my bag on my dresser, wondering what photos he could be referring to. My conversations with Sebastian usually involve pizza toppings or whether Hooters is better than Wing Stop, not anything remotely involving my romantic interests.
“Which photos?” I ask, tearing my work shirt off and tossing it into the hamper. Sebastian appears in the hallway, bracing against the doorframe. Maybe it’s not quite normal to be comfortable in a bra around your male roommates, but privacy is a hot commodity Anika and I have adjusted to living without.
“The ones of the BMW, outside. I smoked a whole carton just waiting on that dude, and then he almost saw me taking the pics. Felt like a total creeper.”
My heartbeat slows to a crawl at the mention of the car. It’s clear he’s referring to Craig, but why the hell would he be taking photos of him, and what does that have to do with Jenson?
“Why would Jenson want you taking photos of a car?” I question, but realization has dawned on him almost as quickly as it’s dawned on me.
Sebastian’s face tightens with guilt, then he turns away as if he doesn’t want me to see. “Forget about it.” He disappears from the doorway and I set off after him, blocking the door to his room when he tries to shut it in my face.