On Her Side

by Beth Andrews

  She looked at him as if his head was full of hot air and had sprung a leak. “So do you need a menu or what?”

  “I’ll have a dozen barbecue wings,” he said, though he’d already eaten four slices of pizza with his folks. Then, realizing that wasn’t much of an order he added, “And a loaded cheeseburger with fries.”

  She wrote it down, the glittery bracelet on her wrist catching the light. Her arms were super thin, her hands small and delicate. He rolled and unrolled the sugar packet. He bet he could hold both her wrists in one hand and touch his forefinger with this thumb. He bet her skin was soft. And warm.

  The paper broke. Sugar flew across the table.

  “Smooth,” she said, her lips pursed at the mess.

  Cringing, fighting the urge to hide under the table, he brushed the crystals into a pile.

  “You want your food order put in now,” she continued, tapping her pen against her pad, “or do you want to wait until your BFFs get here?”

  “They’re not coming.” A fact he’d been glad about until now. He glanced around the room. It was crowded, with more people waiting to be seated. He’d stood in line twenty minutes—mostly because he’d wanted to be put in Jessica’s section. But he was taking up an entire booth. He hoped that wasn’t going to be an issue.

  “They ditched you on a Friday night?”

  “I ditched them.” Sitting back, he brushed the sugar from his hands onto his jeans. “They’re heading up to Gwen Silvestri’s cabin for a kegger.”

  “You don’t drink?” she asked, her tone skeptical, like he’d told her he had artificial lungs and no longer needed oxygen.

  “No.”

  “Wow. A regular Boy Scout.” She sounded less than impressed. “So you’re going solo tonight and yet you waited in line until a booth opened up instead of taking a smaller table.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek. Guess he should’ve figured the lady working the door would’ve told her coworkers about him stubbornly refusing a table in a different area of the restaurant.

  “I like it here,” he said, holding her gaze.

  She studied him intently. Then she nodded once as if coming to some monumental decision. “Good answer.”

  He opened his mouth, though he had no idea what he wanted to say, but Jessica’s attention got caught by the hostess leading a group of three college-aged couples past the booth. They had money, that was easy enough to tell from their clothes and the way they carried themselves, as if they already had everything they wanted but asked for more anyway.

  It was also easy because Mystic Point was a small town, and despite the guys in the group being four or five years older than him, Tanner recognized two of them—Brian Norris and Andy Cline—from when they were on the high school basketball team. Even as an eighth-grader, Tanner hadn’t missed a home game.

  But it was the third dude, the one Tanner didn’t recognize, the tall one with curly hair and the gorgeous brunette clinging to his arm, that Jessica stared at. For a moment, her expression was completely open and Tanner couldn’t miss the hurt on her face when the guy grinned at the brunette, the scorn as she took in the other girl’s micro-mini, high heels and toned, tanned legs. The longing when she and the guy locked eyes.

  And Tanner knew with a sudden, ferocious certainty, that he’d give anything to have her look at him like that.

  The hostess tried to seat them at a table near Tanner’s booth but the curly-haired guy gestured to a family of five who were getting up from another table. Smiling, he said something that had the hostess laughing and swatting at his arm before she led them over.

  “You okay?” Tanner asked as Jessica stared at the table, her fingers curled around her order pad.

  Her movements jerky, she brushed the back of her hand over her forehead. “I’m fine and dandy,” she said, but she didn’t meet his eyes. “I’ll go put your order in.”

  As she walked toward the swinging doors at the back of the room, frizz-head’s gaze tracked her.

  The brunette drew the guy’s attention back to her. Obviously Jessica and curly-hair knew each other. Hadn’t he heard a rumor about her hooking up with some college kid? And that when he’d found out her real age, he’d dumped her?

  He slouched in his seat, heard his mother’s voice in his head telling him to please sit up straight and slid down even farther. If Jessica was used to college guys, if she preferred pretty boys with money and confidence who could take her places, buy her whatever she wanted and always said the right thing, he didn’t have a chance in hell.

  A moment later, Jess walked back to the table and set a glass of soda in front of him then held out a paper-wrapped straw. “Cherry cola, right?”

  “Did I order this?”

  Since he didn’t take the straw, she tossed it onto the table. “I forgot to take your drink order. But I remembered you like Cherry Coke so…”

  His jaw dropped and he quickly shut his mouth. She remembered? Maybe he had a shot after all. “I do. Thanks.”

  She turned to leave and without thinking it through or analyzing why he shouldn’t, he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. “What time are you done working?”

  Regarding him steadily, as if trying to see inside his head, read his mind, she tipped her head to the side. The back of his neck prickled, his throat dry.

  “Why?” she finally asked.

  “I thought maybe we could do something after.”

  “You did, huh?” She edged closer. “Like what? Like you could do me?”

  His heart pounded in his chest as if he’d just played two straight quarters of basketball. “Uh…actually.” He had to stop. Clear his throat. Try to clear his mind of the vision her words had induced. “I thought we could catch a movie.”

  She sat across from him. He hurriedly shifted. His legs were long, his feet and hands big. He felt clumsy and awkward and was both of those things—except on the basketball court.

  “Why do you want to go out with me?” she asked, leaning forward.

  He mimicked her stance, realized that to an outside observer, they looked cozy. Intimate. “What?”

  “It’s a simple question.”

  Was this a test? If it was, he’d bomb it. Because to pass it meant he’d have to talk more, to be witty and charming and come up with some bullshit answer on the fly. He sucked at all of the above, at coming up with what people wanted to hear. He’d have to stick with the only thing he knew; the only way he knew how to be.

  The truth.

  “I think you’re really pretty,” he said slowly but instead of seeming flattered, she stiffened, her eyes flashing.

  “That’s all? You don’t even know me. All you want is to get into my pants.” Her voice was low and harsh but he could tell she wasn’t just angry. She was offended. And hurt. “What did you think? That you and your friends can all pass me around like some blow-up doll?”

  She got out of the booth and he found himself leaping to his feet. He bumped the table, caused his soda to rock back and forth, liquid splashing over the side. Somehow he managed to right the glass with one hand and take a hold of her wrist with the other.

  “Sorry,” he said, dropping her hand almost as quickly as he’d grabbed it. He stepped in front of her, blocking her escape. “You are pretty.” She had to know that. Girls like her, beautiful girls, may pretend they didn’t know their power, but they did. “But that’s not the only reason I asked you out.”

  She crossed her arms. “Oh, do tell.”

  “You’re…different.”

  “Different,” she repeated flatly. “Because I didn’t grow up here. Because my mom’s in jail instead of being on the PTA.”

  He’d heard rumors about that, had hoped it wasn’t true. No wonder Jess was so hard.

  “Different because you didn’t see me puk
e in the cafeteria when I was in the fourth grade. Different because you don’t remember when I tripped down the stairs and broke my wrist in middle school because I was watching Lauren Morris walk up the stairs.” He spoke slowly, weighing each word, choosing the ones he hoped would turn this whole conversation to his favor. “You don’t know the stuff they say about my mom and her ex-husband or what people think about my brother. You’re just…different.”

  She didn’t give him an inch. Or an ounce of hope. “I have other customers to take care of,” she said.

  “Then I’ll get out of your way,” he muttered, stepping aside. “And I’ll take my order to go.”

  Sitting down, he stared at the table while she walked away. He wanted to escape, but he’d placed an order and wouldn’t skip out after doing so. Besides, he may be clumsy and shy and his parents may not be rich, but he wasn’t a coward.

  Getting his order to go wasn’t about bravery, it was about pride. And he wanted to keep at least a shred of his.

  So he waited. He tapped his foot. Drummed his fingers on the table. Wiped his damp palms down the front of his thighs then tore the paper from the straw and took a long drink of his soda.

  Ten minutes later, Jessica came back and set a take-out box in front of him. “Need a refill?” she asked with a nod to his almost empty glass.

  “No thanks,” he said, digging into his back pocket for his wallet.

  “My uncle’s picking me up after work,” she said, her hands linked at her waist. “His girlfriend is making dinner so they want to do the whole family night thing.” He stilled, watched those hands. Her fingers twisted and untwisted. Her nails were short and painted pink with bright blue dots. She huffed out a breath. “I don’t work Wednesday night.”

  Now he lifted his gaze. Raised his eyebrows.

  To his amazement, her cheeks turned pink. She glanced behind her at the table of college kids. Curly-hair was watching her, a frown on his too-good-looking face.

  Jessica faced Tanner again. “Do you want to hang out Wednesday or not?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think you’re really pretty,” she said, repeating his words.

  Was she making fun of him? He wasn’t sure, but he’d be damned if he’d stick around to find out. Tossing money onto the table, including enough to cover her tip, he picked up the food, stood and stepped toward the door.

  “Wait,” she called and, though it was idiotic to hope, to continue to want, he stopped. “You’re honest, I’ll give you that. And I’m trying to be more honest so maybe if we…hang out…some of that Boy Scout stuff you’ve got going on will rub off on me.”

  How did she make being a nice guy, a good guy, sound so freaking lame? “I’m not a Boy Scout.”

  “Close enough for me.”

  She once again glanced at the rich college dude.

  Tanner’s stomach cramped. “You trying to make that guy jealous?” he heard himself ask.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted.

  “Why don’t I give you my cell phone number?” she asked, taking a pen out of her pocket. “You can let me know when you decide.”

  But instead of writing her number on one of her order slips, she lifted his hand and yes, her skin was as soft, as warm as he’d imagined. Her head bent, she wrote on his palm. His fingers twitched at the sensation, of being close enough to breathe in the fruity scent of her perfume, to see the straight part in her pale hair.

  “I’ve decided,” he said gruffly. “It doesn’t matter.”

  She raised her head. “Good. Call me tonight and we’ll set something up.”

  Then she smiled, about knocking him on his ass.

  No, he thought, it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t let it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE YACHT PUB had a nautical theme, framed photos of boats and their crews on the walls and warped, wide planks on the floor. A scarred, wooden bar ran the length of the long room with bottles of liquor lined up in front of a mirror behind it. Some industrious soul had hung white lights in the fish netting hanging above the small square space that passed for a dance floor. But what really set it apart from the places Nora usually frequented was the huge, stuffed swordfish on the wall above the cash register.

  And the ruffled pink bra hanging from its long bill.

  Standing inside the door, trying to get her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she wrinkled her nose at the scent of stale beer. Well, it certainly was…atmospheric. She rubbed at her suddenly chilled arms. Dimly lit, dank and mildly depressing.

  No wonder that damn inner voice of hers was telling her to turn tail and run. Not to go through with what, not fifteen few minutes ago, had seemed like the greatest idea since that woman invented Spanx.

  Stop in at the Yacht Pub and have a drink or two.

  It was still a good idea, she assured herself, stepping aside as the door opened behind her and a middle-aged couple walked in. And, taking in the crowd, she wasn’t the only who’d had it. Men in T-shirts, jeans and work boots sat at the bar, more people, of both sexes and all ages, crowded around tables and the booths lining the walls, a few played pool.

  See? Great minds and all that.

  She was a single woman out for a drink. No law against that. She had as much right to be there as anyone else. More so.

  Lifting her head she crossed to an empty stool, sat down and laid her purse on the bar. Journey’s “Faithfully” played on the jukebox, the song’s mellow tune blaring over the sounds of laughter, conversations and sharp crack of pool balls.

  Funny, but the last time she’d been here it’d seemed so much…bigger. Cleaner. More exotic and exciting. Then again, any bar would’ve been exotic and exciting to an eight-year-old.

  The bartender, a petite bleached blonde in desperate need of a root touch-up, took Nora’s order. As she waited for her drink, the back of her neck prickled with awareness. With unease. Someone was watching her. Slowly she scanned the room.

  And locked eyes with the one, the only Griffin York.

  The confidence that rarely left her stuttered then went splat at her feet.

  He sat in a booth behind the pool table, a redhead—and really, there was no way that particular shade of red came from nature—hanging on him like barnacles on a ship. Even from across the room, she could feel the power of those green eyes, of that smirk.

  He lifted his bottle of beer, tipped the head of it toward her in a mock salute.

  She waved, making sure to grin widely at him, all warmth and friendliness. Mainly because she knew it would bug him.

  It wasn’t until she’d turned back to the bar that she let out a grimace. Griffin was here. Why?

  She mentally rolled her eyes. Okay, it was easy enough to figure out why he was there. The Yacht Pub was a good place to go, she supposed, if you were a single man searching for…well…whatever someone like Griffin searched for.

  Biting her lower lip, she checked out Griffin and the redhead again. Yeah, she could easily imagine what he searched for on a Saturday night. Alcohol. Sex. Though not necessarily in that order.

  And, from the looks of things, he wouldn’t have any problem with the sex part. At least not tonight and not with the redhead who was practically in his lap. None of her business, she thought firmly and averted her gaze. He could cozy up to whomever he wanted.

  A man like Griffin, with his beautiful face, rough edges and sexy mouth, drew women to him like they were magnets and he was due north. Some probably deluded themselves into thinking he hid his true emotions behind his cynicism and sullen attitude. Believed they could change him, that they could heal the wounds of his past.

  You feeling bad for me, angel?

  She pressed her lips together. Yes, she felt bad for him, for the little boy who’d been hurt, abused by
his own father. But she didn’t confuse empathy with some deeper emotion. Wasn’t foolish enough to fall for him just because he’d shown her glimpses of humor and sincerity.

  “Here you go,” the bartender said, setting a glass on a paper napkin and a bottle of beer next to it. “That’s three dollars.”

  Nora reached into her purse. “Thanks.” A memory tugged at her brain. “Aren’t you Sarah Leon?”

  “Use to be,” she said, taking Nora’s money. “It’s Sarah Thurman now.”

  Nora held out her hand. “I thought it was you. I’m Nora Sullivan.”

  * * *

  SARAH’S EYEBROWS ROSE, wrinkling her forehead. “Valerie’s daughter?”

  For a moment, Nora couldn’t figure out what the other woman was asking. She was Tim’s daughter. Layne and Tori’s sister. Ken and Astor’s niece. Erin’s best friend.

  She was Nora Sullivan and her mother had nothing to do with the person she’d made of herself.

  Still, biological links couldn’t be denied. “Yes,” she said. “I’m one of Valerie’s daughters.”

  “I haven’t seen you since you were little.”

  “I was just thinking of how different it looks from the last time I was in here with my mom.” Val had occasionally worked days and if Layne and Tori were busy with after school activities, Nora would hang out at the Yacht Pub, drinking Shirley Temples and coloring until one of them could come and get her.

  Sarah nodded at an elderly man in a worn fisherman’s cap who raised a finger for a drink. “I still can’t believe Val’s been dead all this time,” she said, drawing a draft beer. “I covered for her that night. Maybe if I hadn’t…”

  “If you hadn’t,” Nora said gently, “she would’ve asked someone else.”

  After her mother’s remains were found, Ross had taken statements from Nora and her family, along with Valerie’s friends, coworkers…anyone and everyone who’d had contact with her during that time. Sarah had told him that Val had asked her to cover her shift at the bar the night she’d planned on leaving her family.