by Rachael Wade
Last night at Pete’s it all blew up in his face. Emma had an epic meltdown out in the parking lot, while Jackson pined away at her feet to no avail. I’d offered to drive her home, because there was no way in hell she should’ve been driving when she was that upset, and in the process, I’d royally pissed Jackson off for stepping into something that wasn’t my business. Now the drama between the two of them had gone from bad to worse, and I’d dragged myself right into the middle of it, offering to help Emma with anything she needed while she licked her wounds. After I’d walked her to her apartment door last night, the look on her face haunted me the whole way home.
It reminded me of the look on Kate’s face the night Ryan had confessed to nearly sleeping with Amy. The night I kissed Kate, when our friendship went straight to hell on the express train.
Somewhere, between dropping her off last night and waking up this morning, I’d developed a soft spot for both Emma and Jackson, even though Jackson asked for it. The poor bastard just couldn’t win. He’d wanted Emma for years, and she’d wanted none of it. Then, when she finally did decide she wanted it, she freaked when he dropped the ‘L word’, and Jackson jumped straight into bed with the first girl to look his way in a self-pity-infused tantrum.
You couldn’t make this shit up on the best afternoon soap opera.
I wasn’t sure what made me feel for Jackson and Emma. Maybe it was the whole ill-fated lover thing. Maybe it was because they were so close to being together—closer than I’d ever been with Kate. Maybe I admired their effort and their love for one another, or maybe I just wanted their story all as my own. Whether or not Jackson and Emma figured everything out, there was real desire there.
At least they had that.
A secluded spot had called my name on the far edge of the dock, so I’d answered the call and plopped my ass down to try and clear my head. The sun was shining, of course, and a light breeze whipped off of the Gulf. Nowadays, clearing my head consisted of thinking of Kate, so I guessed it was more like wallowing and reflecting, but something about sitting outside, being near the water, and holding my girl—the girl who'd never break my heart—made it feel like a cleansing. My guitar's name was Liz. As in, short for Elizabeth, Queen of England. She was a lady.
Don't judge.
There was something reliable, something regal about Liz. She'd never cheat on me, she'd never lie, and when I played her, she always yielded in perfect contentment. No disappointments, no surprises. Just a steady, trustworthy partnership.
What'd I say? No judging.
Just as I began to get lost in the sullen, distant lull of the song and belt the words, the shuffle of footsteps brought my playing to a stop.
“Please, keep playing,” a soft voice said from behind me.
I glanced back, lifting my sunglasses to get a peek at the intruder. The sunlight hit my eyes but I squinted to focus on the person’s face, recognizing her immediately. “Uh...Whitney, right? Hey.”
“I don't mean to interrupt, but this is my lunch spot. Mind if I sit and eat?”
“This is your spot? Sure. Sorry, I'll go find another place to play.” I started to rise, but a gentle hand landed on my shoulder, telling me to stay put.
“No, you're fine. I don't own this dock. You just keep doing your thing.” Emma’s friend lowered herself next to me and crossed her legs, cradling her paper bagged lunch in her lap. She extended a hand with a curious smile. “We haven’t officially met. I’ve seen you around Pete’s with Jackson. Heard what you did for Emma last night. That was really decent of you. I left Pete’s and went to visit her not long after you dropped her off at her place.”
My gaze made its way up from her lips to her eyes, and I was rooted to the dock, finding myself staring like an idiot. I’d seen this girl from across a room, while playing pool at Pete’s, but seeing her up close like this was something else. There were these caramel flecks in her green eyes that just screamed “I'm alive and I love it.” Her dark black hair seemed even shinier, tossed up carelessly in this messy bun thing, sitting on top of her head. Like a wild ballerina. The free-spirited hairstyle showcased her sleek, elegant neck, and as my eyes continued to travel down the slope of that neck, they landed on her uniform; a pink and white ruffled maid's uniform, to be exact.
Naughty.
I cleared my throat and averted my gaze before accepting her handshake. “Carter. Nice to meet you.”
“Huh. Mr. New Guy has a name. I like it.” She dropped her head to the side, chewing my name over, and her black ballerina bun bounced on top of her head.
“Um…thanks, I guess? So, how’s Emma making out? I didn’t mean to get in the middle of everything last night, but she was pretty upset.”
“She’s a mess right now, but I think she’ll be okay. I’m glad you got involved. I was looking all over for her at Pete’s. I had no idea what was going on. When our friend Casey told me she ran out the front door and that Jackson was racing after her, I knew something must’ve been going down. I missed you guys right as you were driving away.”
“I’m glad she’s holding up okay.” Not wanting to pry further, I changed the subject. “So, this is your lunch spot?”
“Yup.” She sighed and began to unfold her sandwich foil, gesturing over her shoulder as she did. “I work at that resort on the shore behind us. See the swanky high-rise one?”
I turned to look. “Oh, yeah, I see it.”
“That would be my job. Well, one of them, anyway. I also wait tables.” She bit into her sandwich and eyed my guitar, pulling open a bag of chips. She shot me a sly look. “Anyway, let me guess. Jackson’s told you all about what a raving bitch I am, huh?”
“No,” I chuckled, “not exactly.”
Her eyes narrowed and her mouth twisted up on one end.
“Okay, maybe a little,” I admitted, “but only because you aren’t Jackson’s biggest fan, apparently.”
“Ha! Is that what that little shit told you?”
“Um…kinda, yeah.”
“Well, there are two sides to every story, sir. I’m actually Jackson’s biggest fan—when it comes to Emma, anyway—only I’d never, ever tell him that because his ego’s already out of control as it is, as you’ve probably seen firsthand.” She pointed a stern finger at me. “If you ever repeat that, I’ll have to kill you and dump your body off this dock, so I’d watch it if I were you.”
“Dually noted.”
“Kidding aside, Jackson’s perfect for Emma, despite his superstar move with Casey. I swear, that boy sabotages every good thing that comes his way!” She shook her head in frustration. “I would actually be encouraging his tireless pursuit of her, only he’s obviously a certified man whore who somehow fails to see that is no way to win someone over, let alone Emma, who is a sister to me. Plus, there’s this other thing that makes him…not good for her. He is good, but he isn’t…I mean, it’s complicated.” She turned her gaze to the ocean.
I didn’t need for her to tell me what she meant by complicated. I was sure it was the same kind of complicated Jackson had filled me in on over the past few weeks, and that it was about a lot more than Jackson’s bed hopping.
“So,” she changed her tune, gesturing toward my guitar, “is music your job? Or do you just play for fun?”
I happily let her change the subject, not at all comfortable getting more involved with her friends’ drama. I’d already stirred the pot enough by stepping in last night.
“Kinda both.” I shrugged. “I used to play gigs and actually get paid for them. Back in Seattle, where I’m from, I mean. Jackson helped me find a job when I came to town, so I’m working with him down at the marina. Still looking for another side job, but I’m getting by for now.”
Whitney nodded as she worked to swallow the mouthful of sandwich she'd packed into her cheeks. It was amusing, seeing this petite little thing stuff her face. “I'm starved,” she moaned, swallowing the last of her sandwich.
I laughed. “I can see that.”
�
��Hey, don't give me that look. I'm one of the few lucky girls who can eat whatever she wants and not gain an ounce. I intend to make the most of that blessing. So sue me.” She smiled again, chomping on her chips and moving for a pastry next. It was smashed into a Ziplock bag and a glob of red fruit filling glistened against the plastic. She moved from food to food on her lap like a pro. Since the sandwich was gone, she rolled up the foil and placed it next to the chip bag. Once the chips were gone, she dove into the pastry like her life depended on it, disposing of each wrapper by stuffing one inside the other as she made her rounds to finish off any leftovers. Restraining my amusement, I lazily plucked my guitar strings while she worked on her meal. Her lap was free and clear in a matter of minutes. “Well, what are your plans now that you’re living in Sanibel?”
My momentary fixation on her eating habits fizzled out as she asked me about my plans, and suddenly, my focus was now on the question. Every conversation I'd had since arriving on this island went something like, “All the way from Seattle? Wow! What brings you to this neck of the woods?” Not that there was anything wrong with that. It was an obvious question, probably the first one that came to most people’s minds when they met me. Hell, I'd probably ask the same thing. It was a conversation starter. An ice breaker and a natural, common question for someone to ask a town newbie. But this girl didn't seem the slightest bit interested in that. She wasn't asking what I was running from or leaving behind, like everyone else seemed to be curious about.
She was asking where I was headed.
“What are my plans? I don't know, I haven't really figured that out yet. That's kind of why I came here in the first place.”
“Well,” she spread her arms out, surveying our surroundings, “what do you like to do? Obviously you like music, but what else?”
“Yeah I like music, but it doesn't look like it's going to pay my bills here.”
“I'm not talking about bills, I'm talking about living. What are you into?”
“Besides putting a roof over my head?”
“Yeah,” she laughed, “everyone has to do that. You must have had something in mind, coming all this way. This island isn't exactly a happenin' place, unless you count golfing and getting a suntan exciting. But it's still a nice place. You find things to do.”
I contemplated bringing up my obsession with BBC and my favorite British films, or how I couldn't wait to visit London someday or see the English countryside, but I figured it was best to ease this girl into my crazy. You know, start small.
“Well...I'm into culture, I guess. Art, film, traveling...those sorts of things.”
She squished her mouth to the side, thoughtful. “Hhhmmm. Well, in that case, I guess you are kinda screwed.”
“Thanks.”
Her head fell back and she let out a full laugh. She stuffed her food wrappers into her paper bag and unfolded her legs, letting them fall over the side of the dock, then leaned back to rest on the heels of her hands. “I'm just messin' with you. So...can you pick up where you left off, playing that song? I really liked it. It's not every day I get live entertainment on my lunch break. I could use a break from worrying about Emma. I keep checking my texts like every 10 minutes to see if she needs anything.”
“Sure, as long as you leave a tip. I can't bestow my brilliance upon you for free. It just wouldn't be right.” I chanced peeking at her, sending her a cheeky grin. She grinned back and I noticed a dimple on her left side—another trait I definitely hadn’t noticed from a distance at Pete’s. It was fucking adorable. Her body, on the other hand, was impossible not to notice, even from a distance. Petite with small curves to match, her form was natural and feminine. Beautiful.
“Hey now,” she waved her finger in the air, “if you want me to pay up, you need to earn it fair and square. Go on, show me what you got, Carter from Seattle.”
I accepted her challenge, resuming the song, doing my best to give her a good show. Normally, playing for a stranger like this, so intimately, would have made me squirm. If there is one thing that is true about me, it’s that I don’t ever do the spotlight.
Unless I have a guitar in my hands.
And I definitely couldn't resist a request from a friendly, hot chick in a French maid uniform.
Every few seconds, I'd glance over to find her with her eyes closed, looking completely relaxed and lost in the warm, sunny afternoon. It didn't take me long to get lost, either. There was something completely enrapturing about this song. Whether it was the lyrics, the way it was sung, the longing, or a combination of all three, it never failed to carry me away.
“Wow,” Whitney whispered when I was done. “I need to buy that album, like stat.”
“Yes, yes you do. Not owning it should be a crime.”
“Mmmm.” She licked her lips and tilted her head to soak up more of the sun before jumping with a gasp. “Shit!” She scrambled to her feet and smoothed out her uniform, glancing at her watch. “I still have 20 minutes, but I need to make a call before I clock back in. Gotta check on Emma and make sure she hasn’t buried herself in ice cream. So um...I better get going. Thanks for the performance, though. See you around?” She took off down the dock, jogging backward. “Oh, and I owe you that tip!”
“I'm holding you to it,” I yelled back over my shoulder, watching as she disappeared down the sandy dune to sprint across the beach toward the resort. She left me with the quiet lapping of the gulf waves and my fingers began to absently strum Liz again, settling on a song I'd written with The Hellions. I let the music pick me up and lift me to the sky, visions of flirty French maid uniforms and one sexy dimple dancing in my head.
***
Later that afternoon, I figured it might be time to pay Jackson a visit and apologize for the night before. I didn’t regret driving Emma home, but I really didn’t want to burn any bridges with Jackson. He’d helped me get on my feet since I moved to the island, but there was more to my need to make amends with him. I actually felt sorry for the guy, and I wanted to see how he was holding up, too.
I jogged up to his apartment door to find it wide open, a voice coming from inside. “Hey, Jackson?” I called out, peeking inside. “You home?”
He came around the corner with a box full of cleaning supplies, ending a call on his cell, a deep frown forming on his face when he saw me. “What are you doing here?”
I ran a thumb over my lip and stepped inside. “Look, man, don’t be pissed at me, okay? I really didn’t mean to step in between you and your girl. I just wanted to make sure she got home safely, and things were escalating pretty quickly there—”
“She’s not my girl. Won’t ever be.” He dropped the box of cleaning supplies and walked to the fridge to crack open a beer. He handed me one.
“Thanks.” I took and swig and leaned on the kitchen counter. “You don’t know that, man.”
“Nah, it’s official. I’m a first class loser going nowhere, and she’s finally figured it out.”
“You can’t give up. Not after you were so close to finally having her.”
“You overheard everything in that parking lot, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I was outside having a smoke. Sorry, man.”
“Maybe you’re right, but something’s gotta change regardless. I need to get my shit together. This is a start.” He gestured to the living room, which I now noticed was empty.
“Where’s all your stuff? And what’s up with all the cleaning?” My eyes fell to the box of cleaning supplies. Jackson wasn’t exactly the cleanest person I’d ever met. If he was cleaning, he probably meant business.
“Uh…I’ve been evicted.” He scuffed his foot on the floor, looking down. He didn’t want to elaborate. I wasn’t about to ask him to if he was clearly embarrassed, but damn. Evicted? “I moved out. I’m just here for the day to finish cleaning up before I turn over the key. I told my landlord I’d give the place a good scrub before he moves the new tenant in. Figured it was the least I could do for sticking him on rent.”
&n
bsp; “You moved out? Where are you living?”
“Gonna live on my dad’s old sailboat for a while. It’s down at the marina. It’s all I need for now. I can’t afford the rent here anymore, so…”
“Your dad doesn’t use the boat?”
“Nah, he’s locked up.” He cleared his throat and set his beer down. Walking back to the box of cleaning stuff, he pulled out a rag and a bottle of spray bleach. “Anyway, no need to apologize, dude. I was just pissed at you because I wanted more time with Emma last night. I wanted her to calm down, wanted her to listen to me. But I crossed the line this time. I’ll be lucky if she ever speaks to me again.”
“Just give her some time.”
“Yeah.” Jackson’s frown shifted into something sadder. The guy wasn’t looking too good. Damn, had I been there.
“Well, as long as we’re cool, I’m gonna get going. I have to return this rental car. I’ve had it since I moved to town and it’s dried up my bank account. Time to start relying on good old-fashioned public transportation again.”
“What?” Jackson dropped the rag into a bucket and turned to face me. “No need for that. I’ll give you a lift home from the rental car place. I can start asking around to see if anyone has a car they’re looking to sell.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Look at me,” Jackson waved his hands, glancing down at his torn jeans and ratty white t-shirt. “Do I look like I have anything better to do today?”
I laughed. “Thanks, man. I can get by for a while. I live and work at the marina, so it’s not like I have to commute often.”
“You’re still gonna need some wheels.” He clapped my back and started for the door and I followed, thankful for the fresh air. His place reeked of bleach.
My phone started vibrating the second Jackson and I rolled back up to my place after dropping the rental car off. “See you at work tomorrow?” I asked, hopping out of his truck.