by Megyn Ward
From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Tess, making her way down the bar to stand next to me, the top of her head not even level with my shoulder. She showed up around nine and climbed behind the bar. I’m not sure if Conner called her in or if she was walking by and saw me drowning and decided to jump in and lend a hand and I don’t care. Right now, she’s my favorite person.
“Hey, Sara,” she says giving my ex a quick smile while flipping the tap over a pitcher, filling it with some shitty IPA that tastes like lemon-scented floor cleaner. “Where the fuck is Con?” she says to me, obviously irritated.
“Who knows,” I say, giving Sara an apologetic smile. “It’s been a clusterfuck of a night,” I tell her, lining up a long row of rocks glasses so I can fill them with ice.
Tess rights the pitcher and flips the tap before passing it across the bar with a stack of frosted pints, exchanging it for cash. “Fuck this.” She drops the cash in the register, slamming it shut before turning toward me again. “Boost me up, Cap’n,” she says, tugging on my sleeve and I do what she says because it’s Tess and to be honest, she kinda scares me.
Closing my hands around her waist, I lift her up until her boots hit the bar. I keep a hand wrapped around her ankle because I’m afraid she’s going to launch herself into the crowd while I use the other to speed pour well whiskey over the ice I just shoveled.
Glancing in Sara’s direction, I find her where I left her, drink in hand, a weird look on her face, bouncing it between Tess and me. “What are you doing here?” I know I sound like an asshole but I don’t really have time to be nice about it. I add sweet and sour, running the gun down the row of glasses.
“I’m here with Alisha,” she practically shouts, stirring her drink before taking a drink. Alisha is the blonde Con has a near miss with the night I met Sara. “Your cousin called her. Asked her to come in.”
Sounds like Conner. Fucking dick has girls lining up and he calls in a pinch-hitter while we’re in the weeds. Before I even open my mouth, Tess reaches down to grab a handful of hair, giving it a yank.
“Fuck,” I shout, glaring up at her while she smiles down at me, all sweet and proper. There’s nothing sweet and proper about Tess.
“I thought you liked it rough,” she says, giving me another sweet smile that makes me want to shove her off the bar. Any hope Cari didn’t tell Tess that I’ve been acting like a sexual deviant for the past 24-hours has gone out the window. I can feel Sara’s stare burrow into the side of my face.
“Tess…” I’m shaking my head at her, warning her to keep her mouth shut, but the grip she has on my hair makes it painful.
She laughs at me and unlatches her hand from my head. “Let me go,” she says and again, I do as I’m told. A second later she’s scrambling off the bar, disappearing into the crowd. With her tiny tank top and grease-stained overalls that puts her tattoos and piercings on full display and her scuffed Doc Martin’s she looks like Punk rock Tinkerbell—if Tinkerbell could rebuild a transmission and kick your ass.
Probably at the same time.
Sara’s still staring at me. Both hands free, I start handing out the whisky sours, exchanging them for money until I’m out of drinks. “Look, it’s nice to see you but—”
“Are you guys hooking up?” Sara blurts out, casting a quick look over her shoulder.
“Seriously?” I say, starting on a round of Malibu and cranberries. “Me and Tess?” I shake my head. “No—she’s just an asshole. She says shit like that all the time.” I can’t look at her so I concentrate on counting out pours of coconut rum. “Hangs out with Conner too much.”
“She asked me about you.” Sara shrugs. Even though I’m only paying half attention to her I can see she’s jealous. A blind guy would be able to see it. “About how you are—sexually.”
What the shit?
“I’m not hooking up with Tess,” I say, shoving drinks into hands, dropping money into my apron. “She’s like family.”
Sara gives me a funny look. “That’s not what—”
“Fuck, woman.”
I look past Sara, watching the crowd of bros part like the Red Sea, eyes wide, mouths hanging open, somewhere between laughter and sheer terror. Here comes Tess, dragging Con through the middle of them by his ear. “I’m just about the only woman in this dump you haven’t fucked,” she shouts back, pulling him along behind her, taking the long way around the bar. “Matter of fact, your dick called. He’s tired and would like a break.”
“Tessie, are you jealous?” he tosses back, his quip followed by a howl. “OWW! It’s not detachable—shit!”
She huffs a lank of dark hair out of her eyes and keeps walking. “Wanna bet?”
“If you want a ride, all you have to do is say so. I’ll let you jump the line.” He’s laughing because he’s a total dick and just fucked-up enough to find this situation amusing, despite the fact that he’s in serious danger of losing an ear.
As soon as they’re back behind the bar, Tess lets go to drill her finger into his chest. “I’d rather lick the sludge off these bar mats than get Gilroyed—thanks anyway.”
Con grins at her, rubbing his ear. It’s bright red and looks about two inches lower on his head than it did before Tess got her hands on him. “One of these days you’re gonna have to admit that you want me, Tessie,” he says, reaching for her to press a wet, noisy kiss to the side of her face. If there’s anything Conner loves more than pussy, it’s getting Tess riled up. The fact that he’s managed to obtain both in one night has him practically giddy.
“Gross,” she says, pushing him away while wiping at her face, trying to fight the smile that’s threatening to break loose. “Who knows where your mouth has been.”
“I can show you if you want,” he says, reaching for her again and the whole bar laughs at the show the two of them are putting on.
“One Gilroy under my belt is quite enough, thanks,” she says loudly before motioning for me to lift her onto the bar again. Fitting her fingers into her mouth, she lets out an ear-splitting whistle. Like Pavlov’s dogs, every single drunk in the place stops and looks up at her. “College girl specials.” She points at a spot down the bar. “Beer,” she says pointing at the area in front of the taps. “Everything else.” She jerks her thumb in the opposite direction before stopping cold, her gaze zeroing in on someone standing by the door. “And you—” she says, pointing at a stunned and angry-looking Declan. “If you’re finished with your cake tasting, I’d appreciate it if you’d get your ass back behind the bar and start washing glasses.”
Thirty-two
Cari
As far as dates go, this one has been as close to perfect as I’ve ever had. When Chase’s driver stopped the car in the middle of the warehouse district, I thought maybe he was lost. Or maybe he wasn’t Chase’s driver at all. Every episode of The First 48 I’ve ever seen flashed in front of my eyes. Just when I was getting ready to dig my phone out of my purse, my door opened and there was Chase. Behind him, parked on a dimly lit side street was a food truck.
“I hope you like tacos,” he said, reaching out to help me from the car, still holding my hand when he took a step back to give me a head to toe look, coupled with a low whistle. “God, please tell me you like tacos.”
Laughing, I nod, pulling my hand free under the pretense of shutting the car door. “I do indeed.”
“In that case, we’ll name our first-born Everett.” Chase grins at me, offering me his arm.
“Everett?” I say, playing along because Everett fucking Chase is flirting with me and I’m going to like it whether I like it or not. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who longs for a junior.”
“It’s a have to, not a want to,” he says, rolling his eyes for effect. “Family name.”
Giving in, I take his arm, letting him guide me toward the back of the food truck’s lengthy line. “But what if it’s a girl?” I say, arching a brow at him.
“We’re young and hip enough to pull off naming our daughter
Everett,” he assures me grinning like he’s got it all figured out. “It’s our son who’s going to have a hard time.”
I feel my phone vibrate inside my purse and I clutch it tighter, holding it against my thigh. “Don’t tell me Harold is a family name too,” I say, forcing myself not to think about who’s texting me. Or hoping that it’s Patrick.
“I wish,” Chase says, shaking his head gravely. “Gertrude—after my grandfather.”
I laugh, wishing I felt a flutter in my stomach when he presses his hand against the small of my back. “We’ll call him Gertie for short.”
In my purse, my phone vibrates again. And again. Loudly.
“Do you need to get that?” Chase says, genuine concern etched into his face. And what a face. Is it possible he’s gotten more good-looking since yesterday morning? His reddish-brown hair is tousled around his spectacular face. Brilliant blue eyes, framed with thick lashes, that crinkle at their corners when he smiles. Large, callused hands with paint-stained cuticles. He’s smart and funny. He talks to me like I’m an actual person. He’s the darling of Boston’s art scene for fuck’s sake. If I had a checklist titled PERFECT BOYFRIEND, he’d tick every damn box.
And it’s all completely wasted on me. Because Conner is right. The only reason I said yes to Chase was to get under Patrick’s skin.
“No,” I shake my head, strangling my purse in my grip. “It’s probably just my roommate.” As soon as I say it, my chest flushes so fast and hot, color creeps up my neck.
“The architect,” Chase says, reminding me that they met. “I wasn’t kidding yesterday—he’s making quite the name for himself. You guys known each other long?”
Something that feels like pride swells in my chest. “Going on four years,” I say with a shrug, trying to pretend that none of it mattered to me—the fact that Everett Chase was impressed by Patrick. My Patrick. “We’ve only been roommates for the past six-months though.”
New Roommate Rule: you don’t come unless I say so.
Like it was on a timer, my phone buzzes in my purse.
“Trust me?” Chase says, splitting a look between me and the food truck looming in front of us. Somehow, we’d made it to the front of the line without me noticing.
“With my life?” I say, smiling.
“Let’s save something for date #2,” he says, laughing. “With your food choice.”
I look at the menu painted on the side of the truck. It all looks good to me. “Yes.”
He nods, pressing his hand into to the small of my back again. “So, go grab us a table and check your phone.”
Leaving him to order, I hurry toward a rickety-looking card table flanked with a couple of folding chairs, digging my phone from my purse while I walk. Sitting down, I swipe at the screen. I have nearly a dozen unanswered texts.
None of them are from Patrick.
Tess: Declan is here.
Here can only be Gilroy’s. It’s the only place the two of them ever cross paths. Declan doesn’t even show his face at Con’s garage unless he knows Tess isn’t there.
Tess: Holy shit. I’m freaking out.
Tess: Did I die? Am I in hell?
Tess: I am trapped behind the bar
with him. I can’t deal.
But Declan left early, didn’t he? He had some kind of wedding appointment to take care of with Jessica. Why would he go back?
Tess: Do you think I’m small enough to
drown myself in the bar sink?
Tess: I hate you. While you’re off fancying
it up with some art douche, I’m dying.
Tess: I. AM. DYING.
Tess: Help me.
I give up trying to make sense of what I’m reading and call her. While I’m listening to the phone ring another text comes through but Tess answers before I can check it.
“Hey,” she says, all breezy and calm. “I was hoping you’d call.” In the background, I can hear the three-ring circus that is Saturday night at Gilroy’s.
“Is he still there?” I say, giving Chase a thumbs-up when he holds up a couple of ice-cold beers.
“Of course,” she says, laughing while I listen to her scoop ice.
“Are you okay,” I ask, even though I know the answer to the question. To anyone else, she’d sound perfectly normal. Flirty, even, but I can hear how strung-out she is. She’s two breathes away from a full-fledged panic attack.
“Not really,” she laughs again. “Did you get the picture I sent you?” Almost immediately I hear the rumble of a deep voice.
Who are you talking to?
My mouth drops open. Declan. Talking directly to Tess. Why does all the good stuff happen when I’m not around?
“None of your fucking business,” Tess snaps back, her tone muffled by the hand I know she’s put over the phone.
I’m picking up your slack while you’re sexting dirty pictures to your fucking boyfriend. That makes it my business, Tesla.
Holy. Shitballs. He just called her Tesla. No one called her Tesla. Not even her dad. Not even Conner.
“Don’t hit him,” I screech, hoping like hell she’s still listening, even if she’s not talking to me anymore.
“Just go back to washing glasses and mopping up beer,” she snipes back. “Nobody asked you for your opinion.”
Why are you being so difficult?
“Why are you being such a nosy bitch?” The phone jostling in her hand. “Are you still there?” She’s talking to me, her voice silky smooth.
“You called him a bitch,” I squeak out, trying like hell not to laugh.
“I sure the fuck did, sweetheart,” she says, sounding smug. And better. More like Tess. “Will I see you tonight?”
She’s asking if I’m going to make it an early night or if I’m going to draw this sham of a date out just to screw with Patrick. “I’m not sure.”
“Check your phone before you say no.”
My stomach rolls over. I can imagine what kind of photo Tess managed to snap. Patrick, sucking tequila out of a college girl’s bellybutton. Licking salt off her tits. Using his tongue to dig a lime wedge out of her— “Okay,” I say, giving myself a mental slap in the face. “Do you want me to come home?”
“Yes,” she says, following it with a long, heavy sigh. “No.”
“I’ll be home in a few hours,” I tell her, looking at clock on my phone. “No committing murder until I’m there to help you move the body.”
In the background, I can hear the low rumble of Declan’s voice. Apparently, being called a nosy bitch only keeps him silent for so long.
“No promises,” she grumbles.
I laugh. “I love you.”
She sighs, her voice shaky for a just a moment. “I love you too.”
I hit end and stare at the screen for a few moments before I swipe at the screen, searching my unread texts.
Tess: Oh, and BTW—this is happening.
The text is accompanied by a picture like Tess promised and it’s a thousand times worse than Patrick licking salt off some bimbo’s tits. It’s of Patrick, smiling, looking sexy as fuck, leaning against the bar, talking to a girl. Not just a girl. His ex, Sara.
“Give me a hand?”
I look up to see Chase standing a few feet away juggling take-out boxes and beers.
“Sure,” I say, closing the picture on my phone before tossing it onto the table. Standing, I take the beers and one of the boxes. I sit back down while he rounds the table to take the chair across from me.
Whatever’s in this box smells delicious. I open it and instantly feel my stomach bulge. “Geez, did you enter us into an eating contest of some sort?”
“I suppose I should tell you before we set the wedding date,” Chase says, opening his own container to stare lovingly at the food in front of him. “I’m a food truck junkie.” He gives me a sad shrug while pulling his fork from its plastic sleeve. “Don’t ask me to choose.”
I laugh around the beer bottle I have pressed to my mouth. “I knew you were
too good to be true,” I tease back but my heart’s not in it.
“Everything okay with your roommate?” he says, lifting a taco from the heap of food in front of him and biting it nearly in half.
“What?” I say, sinking my fork into what looks like a tamale. “Oh—yeah. It wasn’t Patrick. It was my friend, Tess.” I swear to God I sound disappointed. “Guy trouble.”
He shakes his head at me, his face scrunched up in disgust. “Fucking guys.”
Why does he have to be perfect?
Because God hates me, that’s why.
“I know, right?” I take a bite, because I don’t want to talk about it anymore. As soon as the tamale hits my tongue, I swear my eyes roll back in my head. “Is this heaven?”
Chase grins at me over the taco he’s inhaling. “Welcome to paradise, Ms. Faraday.”
Thirty-three
Cari
After eating our weight in tacos and tamales, Chase and I walk—making me wish I opted for a pair of low wedge sandals instead of heels—and while we walk, we talk.
“What’s your plan, Faraday?” he asks, taking me by the elbow to pull me away from a questionable pile of something on the sidewalk in front of us. “You can’t want to work for Miranda for the rest of your life.”
“I like Miranda,” I tell him, shrugging because the subject makes me uncomfortable. “She’s a great boss.”
“I like Mandy too,” he says, leading me around a corner, down what looks like an alley. For the first time since we started walking, it occurs to me that we aren’t just wandering aimlessly. He’s taking me somewhere. “But you’re not a secretary.” He shrugs and smiles like he’s figured everything out. “So, what’s your plan?”
“I’ve never heard anyone call her Mandy before.” I laugh. “It sounds weird.”
“Mandy and I’ve known each other since we were kids.” Chase shrugs, but I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “And you’re avoiding the question.”
He’s right, I am. Why? It’s not like what I want to do with my life is some sort of secret. “I want to own my own gallery someday,” I tell him, my tone firm and sure. “I want to help artists get discovered.”