Desire (South Bay Soundtracks Book 1)

by Amelia Stone

  Damn it. This was shaping up to be a long, frustrating night.

  “Cause if my eyes don’t deceive me,

  There’s something going wrong around here.”

  - Joe Jackson, “Is She Really Going Out With Him?”

  “At least put on some lip gloss, Lark.” Taylor pouted at me, adorably. Taylor did everything adorably. Taylor was the most lovable, adorable person you’d ever meet.

  So of course, I scowled at her. “No. Absolutely no makeup.”

  She sighed. “I just don’t see why you’re so opposed to enhancing your natural beauty.”

  “Because you don’t want to ‘enhance my natural beauty.’” And yes, I made sure to give her the air quotes. “You want to make me look like a Kardashian.” I shook my head firmly. “Makeup is evil.”

  I wasn’t exaggerating, either. Well, not much, anyway. I hated makeup. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d worn it. Hell, I could count them on two fingers: prom and my wedding day.

  And since I was never going to prom – or getting married – ever again, I had no need for the stuff.

  “Makeup is not evil, Larkin. It’s fun! It lets you play with different looks and slip into different personas. And it can make you feel really good about yourself.” She beamed at me from her perch on my bathroom vanity. “Plus, it completes an outfit.”

  “That’s what you said about the earrings,” I replied, trying to catch her in her own web of lies.

  But as usual, she plowed through my opposition with her trademark sunny outlook. “Well, these earrings are perfect,” she said with a bright smile, holding up the dangly, black, beaded confections I was supposed to stick in my ears. They matched the sweater dress we’d compromised on after five minutes of quick-and-dirty feuding. I was in favor of the knee-length sweater, arguing that unlike Daniel’s, this one was at least made for a woman. And it fit me fairly well, flaring out from the waist and making it look like I still had hips.

  It was also warm. A windy October night on the Great South Bay was no joke. If I couldn’t get out of this farce of a date – and the odds were looking worse by the minute – then I at least wanted to be comfortable.

  Taylor, of course, tried to cajole me into something not unlike what she herself was wearing: short, tight, and leaving very little to the imagination. While it looked good on her, it was simply not my style. My argument had eventually carried the day, thankfully. She did manage to convince me to exchange the past-their-prime leggings for newer, tighter ones, however. She’d also made me lose the sneakers in favor of knee-high boots. Together with my hastily combed and fluffed hair, the earrings I reluctantly took from her and stuck in my lobes, and a smear of moisturizing lip balm, I looked almost presentable for this date. After all, I wasn’t totally averse to the idea of impressing Graham.

  Er, Harry. My date, Harry.

  I mentally shook myself. Continuing to think about Taylor’s man would be pointless and frustrating. If it came down to a choice between Taylor and me, there would be no choice. The way he’d looked at her earlier told me he’d pick her in a heartbeat. And even if, by some small miracle, he didn’t want her as much as he seemed to, he’d still be off limits. Because one simply does not date one’s best friend’s exes.

  It was kind of a miracle that I was thinking about him, though. Or any man, really. I’d been frozen in this wasteland of grief, and the myriad of emotions that came with it, for so long. Even if my interest in him came with a massive amount of guilt, it was kind of nice to just feel again.

  Not that it did me any good. I sighed. I really needed to get over this weird, sudden obsession. Graham ‘Not For Me’ Morris was simply not going to happen.

  Besides, the guy Taylor had set me up with could be a lot like Graham, for all I knew. He could be ridiculously handsome, with a body like an Instagram model and the face of a movie star, with the greenest eyes I’d ever seen and an ass that made even desk jockey trousers look good.

  Hell, I’d settle for someone half as good-looking. I hummed, feeling my interest for this date building anew as I wondered who she’d tapped for the opening leg of my comeback tour. She’d been pretty quiet on the subject since she’d pestered me into this date this morning, but I was sure she wouldn’t fix me up with a total loser.

  “What’s this guy like, again?” I asked as I checked my small cross-body purse to make sure I had everything I needed. ID, cash, emergency tampon, lip balm. No phone. Yup. Good to go.

  “Oh, he’s a really great guy. He’s on the accounting team at work,” she replied. That had been her main selling point all day, since I had a degree in accounting. “And he’s super smart. I know that’s important to you.”

  I nodded absently. I did like smart guys. Daniel had been valedictorian of our high school class, and he’d graduated Summa Cum Laude from Columbia business school – a year early.

  And when we decided to open a retail store, Daniel had been the ideas man. It would be like all the great old record shops, he’d said, only more. We’d take our mutual love of all things 80s and bring it into the twenty-first century.

  He’d come up with all the plans: the business name, the products we’d sell, the marketing, the website, even the decor inside the shop. I was just the one who paid the bills. Daniel was the one who’d made sure we were able to keep the lights on, that we turned a profit. His vision had made Soundtrax a success.

  I swallowed a wave of panic, something that happened every time I thought about the shop. I had no idea what I was doing without him. I could keep up with the expenses, keep paying the employees and the power company and the mortgage on the building. But running the day-to-day operations? Growing the business? Forget it. I was lost, utterly incapable of doing any of the things that had always come so easily to him. So rather than face the seemingly insurmountable workload, I let our store manager, Kristi, take care of it all. She ran the shop while I lay in bed, hiding from my responsibilities.

  Hiding from my whole damn life, really.

  “And he’s funny. He’s great,” Taylor repeated, bringing me back to the present. “Really great.”

  I hummed again. She seemed nervous, but I was too distracted by the glimmer of her eyeshadow – not to mention memories of my husband – to wonder why.

  “I like funny,” I said cautiously. I used to laugh a lot. Daniel was the funniest person I’d ever known. He was always the life of the party. We laughed a lot in the much-too-short time we’d had together.

  “Great!” she said again. Her favorite word tonight. “You’ll love him.”

  I glanced over at her to see a hopeful smile, and I released a breath. I needed to stop thinking about Daniel and try to perk up. There might be a teeny, tiny glimmer of hope for this date. Taylor seemed extra enthusiastic, at least.

  The doorbell rang, and I once again fantasized about disconnecting it, forming a plan of attack. I’d have to dig around in the garage for a screwdriver, but I’d figure it out.

  After asking Graham to answer it, Taylor again attempted to persuade me into a swipe or three of lip gloss.

  “I hate lip gloss, Tay. It’s sticky and gross and it gets on my teeth.”

  She sighed. “Then maybe just a little concealer for under your eyes? You’ll want to look your best tonight, Lark.” She smiled the big, bright smile that usually got her everything she wanted in life.

  Not tonight.

  “No makeup.” I crossed my arms, giving her a firm shake of my head. “I’m not budging on that.”

  “Pretty please with chocolate sprinkles on top?” she pouted, holding her hands up in a pleading gesture. “For me?”

  “Not for you, and definitely not for him.” I frowned. “If I’m not pretty enough as I am, then he’s not the right guy for me.”

  She shook her head sadly. “Okay, fine. But just remember when you don’t get a kiss goodnight that it was your choice to leave the house looking like a zombie.”

  I scowled at her uncharacteristic mockery. And
the idea of getting a kiss goodnight, to be honest. My date was a total stranger. I was most definitely not going to kiss him.

  Now, if it were Graham kissing me, that might be another story. But it wouldn’t be. Because he was not my fucking date.

  “I do not look like a zombie,” I protested as we headed back to the living room.

  “You look like you haven’t slept since Daniel died,” she said quietly.

  I stopped short. I hadn’t slept since Daniel died, not really. I couldn’t. I would lay in that bed, the one we’d bought the day we closed on this house – the queen-sized bed that felt so empty without him – and I just couldn’t fall asleep.

  Taylor tugged my hand, pulling me forward, and I breathed deeply to keep my temper in check. My normally sweet best friend was decidedly salty tonight, and I was having an increasingly tough time putting up with it.

  “You-” I began in a furious whisper, but my diatribe got strangled in my throat as we reached the front of the house and I got a good look at the man waiting in my living room. My mouth popped open in – surprise? Horror? I wasn’t entirely sure.

  I gulped down a sudden, fierce wave of nausea as I watched him. He was alone in the room, and he seemed nervous, pacing back and forth and rolling his shoulders occasionally. He stopped short when Taylor and I entered the room, and his gaze zeroed in on me. He blinked several times, looking me up and down.

  “Harry Jones,” he said, sticking out a hand to shake.

  I didn’t want to take it, but I couldn’t really see a way out of it. His palm was damp with sweat, and I surreptitiously wiped my hand on my dress when he finally released it.

  No weird zaps of electricity this time, I noted. But for some reason, I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

  He pulled a filthy handkerchief from his pocket, mopping his brow, and I shuddered. Every underwhelming inch of him looked damp with sweat, in fact. It was definitely a goof thing, then, that there hadn’t been any spark when I’d shaken his hand. I’d probably have been electrocuted.

  I turned to Taylor, trying like hell to silently convey how much I now hated her. It was all in the eyebrows, really.

  She had the decency to look mildly uncomfortable, at least. But it was short lived, as she turned to the man she’d foisted upon me for this date.

  “Harry, it’s so great to see you. You look so different outside of work!” She plastered on a smile, and Harry’s ears turned beet red in response. Taylor had that effect on men. The poor sap never stood a chance.

  “Does he look like Idris Elba at work?” I muttered, just loud enough for Taylor alone to hear. She elbowed me sharply, and I winced, rubbing my arm. That would leave a bruise, I was sure.

  Behind me, I heard a cough, and again I suspected it was covering a laugh. I looked over my shoulder to see that Graham had returned to the room, a bottle of water in each hand. He was standing close enough to hear my every word, and he definitely looked like he was trying to hide a smile. The corners of his sexy mouth were twitching.

  I mentally slapped myself. Thoughts of Graham’s sexy mouth – his sexy anything – would lead to nothing good.

  In lieu of thinking inappropriate thoughts about Taylor’s date, I looked over at Harry. He didn’t seem to notice our exchange, thank God. In fact, he was busy looking back and forth from Taylor to me, and as usually happens when someone does that, a frown appeared on his face.

  “I thought you said she was blonde,” he whined, his gaze flicking back to Taylor.

  She cleared her throat. “Not quite. I said she was a lot like me.” She smiled, trying to smooth everything over.

  I gave her a dirty look, silently telling her I did not appreciate her lies. Taylor and I were almost nothing alike, physically or otherwise.

  “And you’re a blonde,” Harry insisted, sounding downright petulant. “Blondes are preferable. My mother likes blondes.”

  Oh, yay. He mentioned his mother on the first date. That was always a good sign.

  “Oh, I’m sure your mother would love Larkin,” Taylor said, her trademark enthusiasm bubbling to the surface. “She’s a real sweetheart.”

  I snorted. I was many things, but sweet was not one of them. I hadn’t been sweet even as a five-year-old. In fact, I distinctly remembered the day I’d met Taylor. I’d told her I hated her ugly pink dress, and threatened to walk out when the teacher sat her next to me during story circle.

  Weirdly, by the end of the day, Taylor considered me her best friend. She’d even given me a hug.

  And I hadn’t been able to shake her since.

  “Blondes have more fun,” Harry said peevishly.

  “But brunettes are hotter,” I retorted, getting more than a little annoyed. What was wrong with dark hair, anyway?

  “Your hair isn’t brown. It’s black,” Harry pointed out.

  Great. He was pedantic, too.

  “Do you dye it black? Are you one of those Goth chicks?” His beady little eyes took in my all-black ensemble, then raked my hairline, looking for roots, I presumed.

  “No, I don’t dye it,” I bit out. My hair was natural, thank you very much. It was a family trait, and the Michaels genes were strong. My older brother and I both looked almost exactly like our father.

  Harry let out a wheezy breath. “That’s good. Goth chicks are on Mother’s list of don’ts.”

  I stared at Taylor, not even bothering to disguise how very much I now hated her. Behind me, Graham barely contained a snicker.

  “Well, we’d better get going,” Taylor said, in a hearty, jovial tone, like we were all having the time of our lives. “We don’t want to miss our reservation.”

  “Since when does Baxter’s take reservations?” I asked, picturing the glorified sea shanty that, admittedly, served the best clam chowder south of Maine. The food at Baxter’s was excellent, but fancy it was not.

  “I hope we’re not having any ethnic food,” Harry hissed, as though ‘ethnic’ were a four-letter word.

  “It’s a seafood place. Good old fashioned coastal fare,” Taylor assured him as we stepped out onto the porch. “I remembered your love for fish when I was making our plans tonight. Our co-workers are always talking about the salmon you bring for lunch and how the aroma just wafts through the break room.”

  I snorted at Taylor’s tactful way of putting it. I imagined his fish lunches must really stink up the place. Probably almost as much as he himself must stink up the place, I realized as he passed in front of me and I got a whiff of some vile cologne. I was glad I wasn’t his co-worker, because now I’d have no excuse to ever see him after tonight.

  When I turned around, Harry was waiting for me, like a creeper in a horror movie, and I barely stopped myself from shrieking like I was his next victim. He was just standing there, staring at me. But after a moment, his gaze dropped to my chest, and I frowned as I watched his whole demeanor change. He straightened his shoulders, blinked his watery eyes, and affected a smile. At least I think it was a smile. The ends of his moustache twitched, anyway.

  I tried to ignore him as I turned to the rest of the group. We could have walked to the restaurant, but it really was as cold as Santa’s balls tonight, so we all quickly agreed to drive. As we reached the curb, Graham suggested we all take his Jeep, which would easily seat four. Harry insisted we take separate cars, however, muttering something about a cat and his mother, and somehow we all agreed.

  Because it just didn’t seem like a good idea to argue with a crazy person.

  The ride to the restaurant was the longest three minutes of my life. I could feel Harry’s slimy gaze on me the whole time, even though he was driving, and when we finally pulled into the parking lot behind Baxter’s, I couldn’t get out of the car fast enough. Which was just as well, since he didn’t bother to hold my door open for me.

  Once inside the restaurant, we were seated immediately. Much to my dismay, I was forced to sit next to Harry instead of Taylor. At least the booth was big enough that I could scoot away fro
m him a bit. Nervous sweat and cheap cologne do not make for a pleasant-smelling human, and I didn’t want to ruin my meal. I had a hard enough time trying to coax my appetite out of hiding even on good days.

  “Well, I’m glad we took separate cars. I need to have my own wheels in case I need to leave early,” Harry reiterated after the waitress dropped off glasses of water for everyone. “Mr. Whiskers has been ill lately, and I might be needed to perform CPR.”

  Graham cleared his throat. “Mr. Whiskers?”

  Harry rolled his eyes like it was a stupid question. “Her cat.”

  Wow.

  I turned to look at him, wondering if he was serious. Since it appeared he was, I turned back to face Taylor, again raising my eyebrows in such a way as to communicate my loathing. For her, for him. For the concept of dating in general.

  “Oh, that’s sweet,” Taylor said, ignoring me. “I mean, not that Mr. Whiskers is ill, but that you would go to such lengths to care for him. You must really love animals.” She sounded genuine, as always. Undoubtedly, she thought Harry really was sweet for coming to his mother’s cat’s rescue.

  Harry nodded sanctimoniously. “I do. I believe everyone should.” He narrowed his eyes at me, as though daring me to admit that I drowned kittens for fun. From the corner of my eye, I could see Graham shaking with silent laughter.

  But I had a more pressing topic to discuss than my alleged hatred of animals.

  “You can perform CPR on a cat?” I asked, feeling morbidly curious. I’d never heard of such a thing.

  Harry looked at me like I’d just insisted we leave the little feline for dead. I’d probably confirmed all his worst fears.

  “Of course!” he said, like that was the craziest question he’d ever been asked. “Don’t you know how?”

  “I’m a dog person,” I replied.

  Cats were actually cool, too, but I was eager to find something to discourage him. If he was a cat lover, then I wasn’t.

  He frowned as he pulled a laminated sheet of paper about the size of a spiral-bound notebook from his pocket. It was filled front and back with tiny, neatly-printed handwriting.