Desire (South Bay Soundtracks Book 1)

by Amelia Stone

  “Loving cats is a mandatory trait for my future wife. It’s on Mother’s list.”

  I choked on a sip of water, and Harry pounded on my back a little too forcefully. Another bruise in the making, no doubt. It was one of the many benefits of pale skin, bruising easily. I also went from zero to tomato in seconds flat.

  “There’s actually a fucking list?” I spluttered, when I could breathe again.

  Harry scowled. “Cursing is a vulgar habit in a woman. You’ll have to curb it.”

  I stared at him for a moment, repulsed. So goddamn repulsed.

  “Yeah, fuck that noise,” I muttered, but I don’t think he heard me. Taylor was leaning over the table, twisting her head to be able to read the list, and Harry’s attention was focused on her cleavage.

  “Oh, Lark, you’ve got quite a few of these qualities. You read a lot. And you care about the environment.”

  She scanned the list with great interest. (The List? Yeah, The List. If anything deserved pretentious capitalization, it was this horseshit.)

  “Oh! You know another language,” she continued.

  “Which language?” Graham asked, curious.

  “She speaks some French, and she’s fluent in American sign language,” Taylor said proudly, like she was my mom.

  I suppressed a sigh. Sometimes, I really did think Taylor thought of me as her kid. She certainly treated me like a three-year-old whenever she thought I was acting up – so, pretty much all the time.

  “Sign language is useless,” Harry said.

  My eyes narrowed. Was this fucking guy for real?

  “My six-year-old niece would disagree with you,” I shot back. “She was born deaf.”

  “And the roughly half a million other people in this country who use sign language probably would, too,” Graham added.

  I gave him a nod of thanks for the support, and he winked. And then I tried to ignore the shimmy I felt low in my belly at his gesture.

  “And Spanish would be better than French,” Harry continued bullishly. “It’s more practical. See, it says here on The List. ‘Must know another language, preferably Spanish.’”

  I peered at The List, moving my head back to be able to see it clearly. And damned if number twenty-seven didn’t say exactly that.

  “Well, it seems like Larkin has a lot of the qualities you’re looking for,” Taylor said, trying to redirect the conversation.

  I shot daggers at her with my eyes. It was bad enough she’d set me up with this yahoo. Encouraging him in this lunacy was a crime against everything good and decent in the world.

  “But she’s not blonde. Or tall.” Harry gazed at Taylor covetously.

  “I’m average height.” I couldn’t help but be a little indignant. Five-six wasn’t short – at least not for a woman, I thought as I eyed Harry dubiously. And why would he want someone taller than him, anyway?

  “But not blonde,” Harry insisted. “Could you dye your hair?”

  I glared at Taylor. I was definitely no longer friends with her.

  “No.” I growled in reply.

  Harry shrugged. “Well, at least you could wear heels. Or a wig. Maybe you could wear a wig when you meet my mother later.”

  I choked on my water again. “Meet your mother? Tonight?”

  “Well, of course. When you come back to my place for sex,” he replied. “As I understand it, sex on the first date is customary now. The younger generation are all supposed to be loose.” He leered at me.

  I stared at him for a long moment. He wiggled his eyebrows at me in what was probably supposed to be a seductive manner, and my stomach rolled. Then I looked across the table. Taylor finally looked embarrassed, at least.

  “I don’t have sex on the first date,” I declared, hoping the topic would now be closed.

  Not that I’d really know for sure. I hadn’t been on a first date since I was a teenager. In fact, until tonight, Daniel had been my one and only first date. And we hadn’t had sex until my seventeenth birthday, almost a full year after we’d started dating.

  But thinking about sex with Daniel – shit, thinking about sex with anyone who wasn’t Daniel – was not something I wanted to do right now. Or ever. So I pivoted in my seat, trying to spot our waitress. I needed her to come and take our orders, so she could rescue us from this horrific conversation. When I’d scanned the entire restaurant unsuccessfully, I turned back to the group. Harry was now turned toward me again, staring at my chest.

  Ugh. One thing was for sure. I was not going to have sex on this first date.

  “So you actually live with your mother?” Graham asked, sort of changing the subject. I shot him a grateful look, and he smiled at me.

  I again tried to ignore the flutter in my belly at his smile. I was probably just hungry. Yeah, that had to be it.

  “Of course. Don’t you?” Harry replied. His little rodent face was scrunched in confusion.

  Graham cleared his throat. “Well, first of all, my mother passed away last year.”

  A sad little whimper escaped me as Taylor expressed her condolences. He thanked her, but his eyes were one mine the whole time.

  Harry was silent. No surprise there. Empathy is a human emotion, after all.

  “And besides, I’m thirty-one,” Graham scoffed. “That’s a little old to still be living with your parents.” He took a sip of his water. “I moved out on my own after I graduated from college.”

  Harry shook his head, shooting Graham a pitying look. “See, that’s what’s wrong with society these days. Everyone is so hasty to abandon the bosom of maternal love.”

  As one, we stared at him, probably all thinking the same thing. Namely, please let that be more innocent than it sounded.

  “I would never dream of leaving my mother,” he continued. “I love my mother. She’s the most important woman in my life. My future wife will always come second to her.” He gave me a stern look, as though to make sure I understood my place.

  In that moment, I wasn’t sure what was scarier: Harry’s devotion to his mother, or the idea that he believed I could be his future wife.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard the word ‘mother’ so often in one night,” I said, trying to lighten up the conversation. “Except for that one time we watched Psycho,” I added, giving Taylor a pointed look. She frowned at me, but I could have sworn I head Graham chuckle.

  “Aren’t you close with your mother?” Harry asked, looking horror-struck.

  I shrugged. “I’ve never met her. She died giving birth to me.”

  Harry tutted. “Well, then you did meet her. When you were a fetus.”

  I stared at him for a moment, but he appeared to be totally serious. Unable to deal with this nonsense for the present moment, I instead craned my neck, looking around the crowded restaurant again. Where the fuck was the waitress?

  Under the table, Taylor pressed the toe of her shoe to my shin, signaling me to pay attention. I turned back around to see Harry looking at me expectantly, like he was waiting for me to answer.

  “Well, since I have no placental memories,” I replied, “we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

  This time, I definitely heard Graham laugh.

  “That’s okay.” Harry patted my hand with one of his own soggy ones. “You’ll love my mother just as much as I do.”

  Before I could answer that, the waitress finally came to take our order. I made sure to get a bottle of wine to go with my shellfish stew. Because there was no way I’d be able to get through the rest of this evening without massive quantities of alcohol.

  I also asked for extra wet naps. If the sweaty little ferret next to me insisted on touching me, I was going to need them.

  It was either that or punch him in his twitchy rodent nose.

  When the waitress returned a few minutes later with the wine, I shooed away the extra glasses she’d provided for the table. Then I poured myself a generous amount of the pinot grigio.

  “Do you always drink so much?” Harry asked, his
lips pursed in disapproval.

  “Not usually,” I replied, shooting Taylor a dirty look. It was hard to tell under the makeup, but I think she blushed.

  “I’m a teetotaler,” Harry said sanctimoniously.

  “Congratulations,” I drawled, lifting my glass in salute.

  “How old are you?” he asked, narrowing his beady little eyes at me again.

  “Twenty-five,” I replied. “Is that old enough to make it onto your List?” I was feeling sassier now that the wine had hit my bloodstream. I quickly downed the first glass, then immediately poured a second.

  “Larkin, this bread is really good,” Taylor said, pushing the basket to me. “You should try some.”

  If I didn’t know her so well, I wouldn’t have caught the faint hint of warning beneath the saccharine. I’d had a lot of wine on an empty stomach, which she knew would put me well on my way to Drunkytown.

  I shook my head churlishly. “I won’t have any room for my dinner.”

  To my surprise, Harry backed me up. “That’s good. Mother doesn’t like women who overeat. Carbohydrates make you fat.” He eyed my waist, no doubt looking for love handles.

  But the joke was on him. My sweater dress was loose (I told myself it was in a fashionable way), and you couldn’t see much of my shape at all. Not that I had much of a shape anymore.

  “Is that on The List?” Graham grinned. God, he had pretty lips. And teeth. It was a pretty smile. He was a pretty man. But like, in a rugged way. Pretty rugged. Manly man.

  Hunh. Maybe some alcohol-absorbing bread wasn’t such a bad idea. But when I reached for the basket, it was empty. I looked around the table. Harry had some suspicious-looking crumbs in his mustache, the dirty hypocrite.

  I frowned at him for a moment, then decided to peruse The List instead. You know, for shits and giggles.

  Sure enough, there was number one-seventeen, ‘Must not have an eating disorder, including overeating,’ followed by number one-eighteen, ‘Must not weigh more than one hundred and thirty-five pounds if five-foot-seven or under, or one hundred and fifty pounds if five-foot-eight or taller.’

  Bringing my grand total of items ticked off to five.

  Well, four. Arguably. It wasn’t as if I purposely starved myself. I just hadn’t had much of an appetite. Not for the last sixteen months, twenty-three days, and – I checked my watch – eight hours and fourteen minutes.

  “Your eyes are a very unusual color,” Harry said, interrupting my examination of The List. “Are they contacts?”

  “No, they’re natural,” Taylor replied for me. “She inherited them from her grandmother.” She made it sound like the most fascinating thing ever, having eyes.

  “They’re creepy. You look like a witch,” Harry sniffed. “You should wear contacts.”

  I stared at him for a moment, then shot Taylor another “no really, I hate you now” look.

  “Well, she wears reading glasses,” she said, like that was an adequate substitution.

  “Besides, I’m only a witch on the full moon and solstices,” I quipped, stumbling slightly on that last word. The letter S was a tough one on two – no, three – glasses of wine.

  Graham laughed again, but Harry seemed horrified.

  Taylor quickly assured him I was joking. “Larkin has a quirky sense of humor,” she said, laughing nervously.

  “I think her eyes are beautiful,” Graham said. My gaze locked with his, and I blushed at the warmth in his green eyes.

  Harry apparently saw something in Graham’s expression that he didn’t like, because he put his arm around me in a possessive manner. I squirmed, ducking out from under him and reaching for my wine glass to cover the awkward motion.

  And vowing to take a long, hot, germ-killing shower when I got home.

  “Women should not have a sense of humor,” Harry said, sniffing again. “They should be demure and submissive and agree with their husbands at all times.”

  We all stared at him in disbelief for a moment, probably wondering the same thing: was this fucking guy for fucking real?

  Thankfully, the waitress brought our food at that moment, and we all busied ourselves with eating and polite inquiries as to the tastiness of each other’s meals. But of course the silence didn’t last for long.

  “So, I thought you said she was a widow,” Harry said to Taylor, pointing his fork at me.

  Taylor cleared her throat uncomfortably. I could feel Graham’s eyes on me, but I dipped my head instead, closing my eyes and breathing deeply. In through my nose, out through my mouth. At least I’d managed to eat about half my hearty stew before the bottom dropped out of my stomach.

  “She is,” Taylor quietly replied after a long minute. “Her husband died a little over a year ago.”

  Sixteen months, twenty-three days, eight hours, and – I checked my watch – twenty-nine minutes ago, to be precise.

  “But she said she’s only twenty-five,” Harry insisted. “That’s too young to be a widow.”

  My head whipped around to look at him, my brows drawing together in anger. I thought briefly about upending my wine glass over his head, but decided I would need the wine more than the entertainment factor of watching it trickle down his oddly-shaped head.

  Besides, it was white wine. Considering he was wearing a shirt that was white… ish, it wouldn’t have the same wow factor as, say, dousing him with a nice merlot.

  Someone cleared their throat, and I realized everyone was staring at me.

  “I hadn’t realized there was a minimum age requirement,” I finally replied, batting back tears.

  I was so fucking sick of crying.

  “Can I ask what happened?” Graham asked gently.

  I tried desperately to swallow the lump in my throat, but I couldn’t manage it. Sure, he could ask. But I couldn’t answer.

  Thankfully, Taylor stepped in. “He was hit by a car while he was out riding his bike.”

  I closed my eyes. Sixteen months, twenty-three days, eight hours, and – I checked my watch – thirty-one minutes, and it hadn’t gotten any easier to hear those words.

  Harry tutted. “Well, that’s what happens when you get on one of those death traps.”

  A shudder ran through me, and I gaped at him, astounded that anyone could really be this much of an insensitive asshole.

  “If you ask me, motorcycles should be banned,” he continued, either completely oblivious to the fact that I was now shaking with anger, or just not caring. “Nothing good ever comes of them.”

  “Dude, show some respect,” Graham said, his eyes narrowing. He’d been a total nice guy up until now, but even he was starting to lose his cool.

  “No, no, it was a bicycle,” Taylor clarified, looking mortified. “He was riding a bicycle.”

  But no one was paying her any attention, for once.

  “I’m entitled to my opinions.” Harry was digging in his heels, his own face turning splotchy. “I have the right to free speech.”

  “Free speech protects you from governmental censorship or retaliation. It does not mean you should let fly every tactless thought in your head, asshole.” Graham shook his head angrily.

  “I’m sure Harry is very sorry for your loss,” Taylor said, and I could tell she was trying to salvage the conversation. “Um. Deep down.”

  Everyone was staring at me, waiting for me to reply. But I didn’t want to have this conversation. I didn’t want to take any more condolences, didn’t want to hear about what a wonderful guy Daniel was. I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to do anything.

  If this fucking circus tonight had an upside – and that was highly debatable – it was that I now knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, there was no point in making any effort at all.

  “I’m not holding my breath,” I muttered, refilling my wine glass.

  “Larkin,” Taylor hissed, and there was no disguising the warning in her tone this time. She tried to pull the wine bottle away from me, but it was empty anyway.

  Shit. When had
that happened?

  Mercifully, Harry’s cell phone rang at that moment, pausing this whole shit show. From what I could tell from his side of the conversation, it was his mother, calling with a cat emergency.

  “Well, I need to leave.” He stood, shucking on his Members Only jacket. The he turned to me. “Ready to go?”

  Un-fucking-believable. “For fuck’s sake! I’m not gonna have sex with you, dude!” I practically shouted, earning myself some stares from the surrounding tables.

  He huffed, and his mustache twitched like he was mulling something over. “Well, can I have your number, then?” he asked, looking at me expectantly.

  I stared at him, assessing. It appeared he was not joking.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I reached for my wine glass. “We’re not gonna work.”

  He frowned at me for a moment. “You’re right. I don’t think my mother would approve of you at all.”

  I made an ‘aw, shucks’ kind of gesture, then slurped the last of my wine.

  “And to think I drove all the way out to this godforsaken island, and I won’t even get any ass,” he said as he gave me one final dirty look.

  And on that super disgusting note, Harry said goodbye to Taylor, ignored Graham altogether, then took off without leaving any money for the bill.

  We sat for a few minutes, none of us speaking or even looking at each other. The waitress came by and took Harry’s plate. I ate two rolls from the now-refilled basket.

  Taylor was right about one thing, at least. The bread was really good.

  “Dine and dash,” Graham finally said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Classy.”

  “I’ve got it,” I said automatically. I was used to paying the bill, with Taylor as my roommate. She made peanuts at her job, and I had more money than God.

  Not that I wanted it. Inheriting your dead husband’s ill-gotten trust fund was not really the windfall you might expect.

  “No, it’s my treat,” Graham insisted. “You shouldn’t have to pay for such a cruddy night.”

  I opened my mouth to make a rebuttal, but Taylor cut me off.

  “I’m really disappointed in you, Larkin.”