The Forbidden Muse (Inferno Falls #2)

by Aubrey Parker

  There’s a tiny flick in my direction, the smile still on his face. Nothing else.

  And when he finally separates from his gaggle of adoring female fans, he does so with the tallest, blondest, and most obvious among them. A girl who’s got to be barely eighteen, big tits, her underwear probably soaking like a sponge left underwater.

  My stupid fucking shift still has two hours left after Gavin vanishes with his whore.

  The way I feel now, I don’t think I’ll be earning many more tips.

  CHAPTER 8

  Gavin

  By the time I shake off my admirer — a girl whose name really does seem to be Barbie; she showed me her ID as we came off stage to prove she’s legal — it’s almost midnight. Barbie wasn’t easy to ditch. When I went backstage, she followed, oblivious to all my hints. And the minute we were behind the curtain, her booze breath was entirely too close, and her hands were all over me. I shoved her away for a while, not exactly wanting her but somehow disinterested for a change. She wasn’t easily dissuaded. Figuring there was strength and protection in numbers, I ran back to the front and sat with Danny near the stage. Barbie sat beside me, with three other girls. They formed a little harem. I guess because Danny kept joking, they kept doing it. I won’t pretend it didn’t turn me on. But I just didn’t want anything to do with girls like them tonight, and that made the whole experience annoying.

  Now it’s nearly twelve, and the place is winding down. I caught some of Chloe’s performance, at least what I could with all the boobs in my face. She was brilliant. I tried to get her attention like always, but she just slinked away. Chloe knows how it is; I get mobbed and don’t like to be rude enough to brush them off. But that doesn’t make her like it, or see me as noble.

  Only after I slip away do I feel comfortable looking for her. For the girl I saw as my set began. Abigail, waitress from the Nosh Pit. And, apparently, seeing as she eventually donned one of Terry’s aprons, waitress at the Overlook as well.

  Why have I never seen her here? Is it honestly possible that I haven’t noticed? I doubt it; I had a definite reaction to her today that I don’t think would escape me. I don’t even know how to place it, but there’s a lightness and innocence about her that reminds me of Grace. And yes, I know how that sounds, even to my own ears. But souls know souls, and I’ve always listened to my compass. It’s not just about attraction; it’s about chemistry and connection. Charlie and I had it too. When Firecracker Confession was at its height, I swear the three of us could talk to one another without ever using a word.

  I know it’s stupid. I get it. But as the club empties into the wee hours, I find myself hoping that Abigail’s shift hasn’t ended.

  I kind of doubt it has. It wouldn’t make sense to have a cocktail waitress on at the start of the show then let her go home at the busiest time. We’re only officially open until 1, and it’s quiet after midnight because the show ends and the places down the strip have Ladies’ Night prices. While it’s conceivable Danny might have scheduled her to leave early and skip wind-down and cleanup, he wouldn’t let her leave before midnight.

  I walk the club, looking into back rooms, even peeking out into the rear parking lot. I’m somehow lightheaded, feeling a pressing need to find her. I’m not sure why, but when I saw her a few hours ago, that sense of connection — maybe even of unfinished business — resurfaced. She looked right at me, and I felt the reflection in her eyes.

  Like with Grace and Charlie: speaking without words.

  But now she’s gone. I was sure she’d wait. I’ve been peeking at her all night, sometimes seeing her looking back at me, but her mood has definitely soured. She must have had a terrible night. Bad tippers. Rude customers. Maybe some drunk guy tried to feel her up; I don’t know. She was pleasant enough this afternoon, but now it’s a nighttime crowd. People here are usually well behaved, but there’s a rotten apple in every bunch.

  Finally, as I’m about ready to give up, I cross by the bar and see her sitting on a crate, stocking bottles under the counter.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” I say, trying on a smile.

  She looks back. I’m sure she’ll give me that big smile again. Instead, she returns to her work. “Oh. Hi.”

  “So you work here too?”

  She gives me another glance. It’s brief. Yes, she’s had a terrible shift.

  “Looks that way.”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know. Few months.”

  “I’ve never seen you before.”

  “I noticed.”

  I’m not sure what that means. I walk closer and hop up on the bar, so that she’s stocking almost below me.

  “Did you like my set?”

  “I didn’t catch most of it.” A flick of her eyes. “Working, you know.”

  “Oh.”

  “You sure got a standing ovation, though.”

  I think back. There was polite applause, but I’d hardly characterize it as an ovation. I shrug.

  “Can you not sit there?”

  I look down. She’s making a show of trying to stock a bottle below my legs. I’m not really in the way, so it’s as if she’s trying to exaggerate the difficulty, the way people in infomercials make ordinary tasks seem so hard.

  “Sorry.” I hop down but keep my back to the bar. “Is that better?”

  “You’re kind of still in the way.”

  My tongue slips into my cheek, unsure what’s wrong. The way her hair hangs as she’s concentrating reminds me of Grace for some reason. She doesn’t look like her or anything, but there’s a specific memory coming to me. Abigail is looking away, her hair forming a curtain. I have no idea what I’m remembering because it’s a slim similarity if there’s any at all. But I feel it just the same. Instead of making me feel comfortable and making Abigail feel familiar, it makes me uneasy. Maybe I am in the way. Maybe I shouldn’t be here.

  “How was your shift?”

  “Shitty.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Bad tippers?”

  “Among other things.”

  I’m getting nowhere. Which could be good, or bad. I’m drawn to her for a reason I can’t finger, but she’s also making something turn rotten inside me. I see that sheaf of hair.

  I think of Grace. I try to decide what I’m thinking. If she’d respond, I might soon find out a lot more about her. But unlike what usually happens when I’m doing this kind of thing, I’m not only uninterested in sex; I actively don’t want her to be interested, either. So why am I bothering? I should walk away. Call it a wash. She must not always be as bubbly and fun as she was this afternoon.

  Maybe this is who she really is, and she was just working her tip. That’s how people are with fame. I’m F-list even in Inferno Falls if I’m anything, but people assume you’re rich if a few people know your name.

  That must be it. She was working for a living. She’s not into me like I thought she was.

  That causes indignation to rise inside me. I don’t have to put up with this. I just shook off a gaggle of admirers. If I want company for the night, I can easily get it. I don’t have to work. I don’t want to convince anyone. If she’s not into me, then screw her.

  But I can tell that’s not quite right. For one, I do care. I do kind of want to put up with this, whatever it is. And as I’ve already decided, it’s not about sex. I pick up girls all the time, but that’s not what I’m trying to do now.

  “Will you be working at the Nosh Pit tomorrow?”

  She looks up at me again. I give her the same big smile I give girls onstage, but I swear Abigail actually rolls her eyes when she sees it.

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe I’ll stop by. You can pick another meal for me.”

  “That’s your call.”

  She’s finished her stocking, now sitting on the crate, facing away, shifting bottles below the bar for no reason at all.

  I move away from the bar and say, “See you later.”

  She doesn’t even reply.

&
nbsp; And I’m thinking, Fuck this.

  I’m thinking, I don’t need to take this kind of crap.

  I hear giggling across the bar. There are three hot girls watching me, but they snap their heads around the minute I glance in their direction.

  I take four beers from the cooler, making sure Abigail sees me do it. I don’t get another look at her face, but her wall of red hair moves just a little, indicating somewhere she wants to look but won’t let herself.

  Then I walk over to the group of girls, bottles clinking in my hand.

  CHAPTER 9

  Abigail

  I wake to the smell of bacon and weed.

  Before I try to make sense of the olfactory assault, I sit up in my bed, rub my face with one hand to push away the sleep, then wince when my hand comes away peach. Concealer. Because I didn’t wash my face last night after getting home, and now it’s all over my pillow.

  I sigh, pulling the pillowcase off and tossing it into my hamper. Then I stand, plod into the bathroom, and do the job I was too annoyed for last night. When the concealer is gone, my freckles are on full display rather than properly hidden. They’re light, in a spray that straddles my nose and runs onto each cheek. Redhead’s curse, I suppose. Just one more cross to bear. One more fault for Plain-Jane Abigail, with her straight hair and tiny nose.

  We can’t all be perfect little club girls.

  I consider holding onto the thought then think of my mother’s wisdom and decide to let it go. There’s really no question that Mom is a psychology genius; the only reason I’ve always resisted is because there’s also no question that she’s obnoxious about it. Her book Mesmerize hit the bestseller list, and that left her delighted. But for me and my siblings, it quantified the number of people who’d be reading stories about her offspring’s shortcomings.

  Mom always said we hold onto offense, anger, and disappointment as if holding onto them will change something. But the minute you realize that handsome men who come into your diner will eventually run off and sleep with predictable sluts regardless of your feelings, it becomes a truth-will-set-you-free scenario, where everyone manages to win.

  It’s a bit chilly in the apartment and plain in the bathroom mirror that my nipples are making tents against my sleep shirt. I don’t care. It’s only Lisa out there, and as far as I know, she has no interest in my boobs.

  As it turns out, there’s no need for my mind to be creative about what I smelled on waking. There’s nothing burning; there are no stoners here having come fresh from breakfast at Denny’s. It might have been fun to play how did that smell happen, but Lisa has made it entirely too easy.

  She’s smoking a joint while making bacon.

  “Hell, Lis,” I say. “Do you really have to do that?”

  “I thought you liked bacon?”

  “I meant the pot.”

  “I’m using a skillet.”

  I reach out, pluck the joint from her mouth, and stab it against the counter. I usually don’t like to do things like that, but Lisa does it all the time. Our pretty slate countertop looks like it’s been hit by many tiny asteroids.

  “Prude,” she says.

  “I’m going to get a contact high. I told you not to smoke in the apartment.”

  “No you didn’t.”

  I told her yesterday. And every day before that.

  “I’m so hungry,” I say.

  “Must be all the weed. Some bitch gave you a contact high.” She picks up the joint, now extinguished, and puts it back between her lips as a prop. “Might as well get the real thing. You want me to blaze this back up and we’ll share?”

  “I think my answer is in that little stain on the countertop.”

  “This is Push,” she says. “Good shit.”

  Push is Lisa’s favorite strain of weed. It’s also the reason she moved to Inferno Falls. Push was born here, just as Lisa’s very hungry baby will be some day, once she meets the perfect stoner to share her life with. I’ve stopped trying to figure this out. Lisa has tried many times to explain to me why Push is her favorite strain, and doesn’t seem to understand that my real question is one level up. Who even has a favorite strain of weed?

  “I’d rather have bacon.”

  “Good.” Lisa steps aside and opens the oven. I see four cookie sheets full of sizzling bacon. It has to be five or six pounds total. Like half a pig.

  “Hell.”

  “I was hungry, too,” she explains.

  I see this situation is as in hand as it’s going to be, which is to say that there’s nothing I can do to make it less ridiculous. So I sit at our kitchen table, figuring that a 100 percent bacon breakfast is better than no breakfast at all. It has fat, salt, and nitrates. Everything a growing girl needs.

  “You have work today?” Lisa is moving bacon to paper towels. The only container big enough for this wealth of pork, apparently, is an enormous wicker thing my grandmother gave me after one of her yard sales, so Lisa has lined it with paper and is shoveling fatty meat into it as I sit. It’s as if she’s preparing a greasy gift basket for someone, and I just know that the next time I want to use that basket, it’s going to smell like hog.

  “Twice,” I answer. “I was already on at the Pit for lunch, but last night Danny asked me to work another evening shift at the Overlook.”

  “Two weekend shifts back to back?” Her eyebrows go up. The beads she threads through her straight blonde hair swing as she looks over. “You hit the jackpot.”

  “What can I say? I must have done such a fantastic job last night that he couldn’t resist.”

  “Good job. You’ve been digging for weekend shifts forever.”

  “Or, more likely, Cokehead Meg was scheduled tonight, so I need to cover that one now that she’s fired, too.”

  “You didn’t give me the full story there. Meg was stealing from Danny?”

  “That’s the full story, as far as I know.”

  Lisa shakes her head. “Drugs make people do such stupid things.”

  I watch Lisa empty the first of the four cookie sheets into the paper-towel-lined wicker basket and decide not to comment.

  “So how was it? Last night?”

  I sigh. There’s no reason to give anything less than a positive answer. But I guess I can’t help it.

  “It was okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “It was a shift waitressing. How great is it going to be? Do you expect me to be jumping off the walls?”

  “Abs, you’ve been bitching about being stuck on Tuesdays and Thursdays forever. You got to listen to music and make tips.”

  “Yeah, but … ”

  “Are you feeling unfulfilled or something?” She chews on a bit of bacon, nodding, though whether it’s in agreement with herself or because of the bacon’s flavor, I don’t know. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re unfulfilled.”

  “I’m not unfulfilled.” I make it sound like an absurd idea.

  “Yes, you are. You keep telling me how unfulfilled you are. Remember last time, when you pulled out your mom’s personality matrix and — ”

  “I knew I never should have shown you that.”

  “Well, you’re unfulfilled. You’ve said it; I’ve heard it; it’s out there in the universe. Look, if you want to write, just write. I don’t think you’ll get fulfillment in a club no matter which shifts you work. Not if you’re an Instigator.”

  Lisa is remembering my mother’s personality matrix wrong. I’m a Shameless Creative. She’s the Instigator. As if there should be any doubt, as she instigates over bacon.

  “You’re right,” I say. Finally, the bacon makes its way to the table. She’s even arranged it artfully in the basket. It’s flopping out over the sides as if on display. It looks like a disgusting flower just bloomed in the middle, and the strips are its petals. I take a piece. The weed scent in the air seems to flavor it, and I wonder if my intense hunger means I’ve caught a contact high.

  She sits across from me. The baconquet is shoved aside from its center
piece position.

  “Maybe that hot guy will come to the Pit again today,” Lisa says.

  I roll my eyes. Not because I think she’s wrong and grasping at fairy tale straws, which is what I’d have thought yesterday afternoon, but because I’m afraid she’s right.

  “Hey, it could happen,” Lisa adds.

  “Do you know who he turned out to be? The guy I told you about yesterday between jobs?”

  “He was somebody?”

  “Gavin Adams. Have you heard of him?”

  She thinks for a second, but it’s only a second. “Oh, yeah. I know him. Musician. I saw him at the Overlook a time or two and … ” Lisa trails off then begins again with a dumb smile on her face. “Oooh, now I see. He was hot. Like, superhot.”

  “He was — ” I begin, but Lisa’s not finished.

  “Crazy hot. Like, I’d-let-you-have-all-of-this-bacon-to-buy-him-away-from-you hot. And so sensitive. OMG.” She spells it out: oh-em-gee.

  “‘Sensitive,’” I scoff.

  “Yeah,” Lisa says defensively, and I get the impression she’s gone from barely caring about this conversation to recalling she’s the president of the Gavin Adams Fan Club. “Do you know his story?”

  “I don’t care about his story.”

  Lisa’s looking at me with her jaw seesawing slowly back and forth. I can only see it from the corner of my eye because I’m looking away. It’s Lisa’s thinking mannerism. It means she’s about to say something I’ll regret.

  “What’s with you, Abs?”

  “Nothing is ‘with’ me.”

  She waves a piece of bacon at me. Minuscule bubbles of fat hit me in the wrist. “Bullshit. What’s going on? When you came back between shifts, you were all wet for him. Then — ”

  “I was not!”

  “I couldn’t get into your room after you left, Abigail. You know why? It was flooded. Because you threw your panties in there, and they were so wet, they flooded the apartment! Now do you want to answer the question … or do you want to get the shit into your room with a sump pump before I tell the landlord?”