It was fine. Since her father’s death, home was more a word than a place. As mother and daughter they were more about opposing lifestyles than matching ideals. Lincoln Montgomery had been the buffer, able to relate to both the women in his life who couldn’t relate to each other at all. He adored being on the fringe of Mia’s art, observing but never indulging. It pressed the boundaries of a man who was dedicated to symmetry and a cause. He was firm but kind. Until he died, it worked for a girl who had trouble finding her footing within the boundaries of standard procedure. Mia’s first inkling of real life choices came not long after she arrived in Athens, discovering that a six-figure trust came with more responsibility than balancing a checkbook.
She had partied and played with her newfound wealth and independence until her grade point average was circling the drain, with her trust fund not far behind. A new car was quickly followed by a DUI and a few panicky hours in the Athens police station until Roxanne bailed her out. Sitting in the grungy cell, Mia could only imagine her father’s disgust. He’d been gone less than a year, and here was his daughter staring at the very bars he had put criminals behind. It was a sobering humiliation, being associated with something so tainted. But Mia also recalled a wave of resentment. Lincoln Montgomery wasn’t supposed to be dead; he was supposed to fix things like this—or better still, keep them from happening in the first place. The incident was a caution and a warning, but not quite enough to stop her.
Mia almost lost control of her life while she did lose her virginity to a seemingly nice boy from Alpharetta whose name she could not recall the next morning. They hadn’t even used a condom. Fortunately, Roxanne was there in the aftermath, keeping it all together. And for that, Mia was grateful. There was somebody willing to pick up the slack that her father had left behind. It was Roxanne who held Mia’s hand while she bit her fingernails to the nub, hoping that one regrettable mistake didn’t result in another. The explosive sigh of relief could be heard across campus when Mia’s STD and pregnancy tests came back negative.
From there Roxanne launched into a much-needed lecture on safe sex, responsible drinking, and not blowing an entire trust fund in a calendar year. It was good advice from someone who lived with the understanding that protecting yourself was paramount to risky desires. And Mia had grown accustomed to taking her social cues, if not daily direction, from her roommate and friend.
It had been nearly three years since the incident with the boy from Alpharetta. Mia had proven herself a worthy pupil, mastering tipsy but never again stone-cold drunk, only dating one other boy seriously, and curbing her spending habits. She’d grown up a lot in the last couple of years, but not enough to satisfy Roxanne, who still viewed herself as the adult in charge.
Tonight, though, Mia wasn’t feeling all that responsible, content to let Roxanne play her part. The untamed man on the street, with his rough-and-tumble looks and bold invitation, tugged at what had become a predictable life. It made her wish for just a moment of insanity. She sighed at the thought and plopped down next to her best friend, ordering another pitcher. It was a small sign, something she wouldn’t ordinarily do.
“Hey, thirsty tonight, aren’t we?” questioned Roxanne as she raised a motherly eyebrow at Mia. She never missed a thing.
“Oh, come on, the guys will drink most of it anyway. I promise, last one. You’re being more reserved than usual,” Mia said, trying to change the subject. Her smoky eyes pulsed wide as she cast a teasing smile over Roxanne, who had difficulty finding a guy who met her standards. In fact, on a city-size campus, Mia could only think of one: Michael Wells. He was a good-looking grad student who, like Roxanne, took advanced calculus for the fun of it, living and breathing academic success. But to Mia’s surprise nothing had sparked beyond their competitive tendencies. She shrugged, thinking she should encourage Roxanne to give him a call. “Odyssey crowd,” Mia continued, gazing over the tipsy college clientele. It wasn’t even a baseline for Roxanne. “You’d have to lower your standards for them to find your feet.”
“No doubt,” she said, turning a bright smile onto Mia. “Stepping over their drunken, prone bodies. That’s as close to my feet—or any other part of me—as they’ll get.” Acerbic humor delivered with the perkiness of a homecoming queen. That was Roxanne. And nothing made Mia laugh more.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do when you go off to medical school and leave me behind with my token textiles degree. I’m sooo glad you decided to stay for the summer semester,” Mia gushed, throwing an arm around her.
“And I’m so glad I talked you out of majoring in papier-mâché and to put that artsy ability toward earning a real living.”
Mia rolled her eyes at Roxanne. “I was only minoring in papier-mâché,” she joked. “And I could have done something with an art degree.”
“You’ll do more with interior decorating, like feed yourself for the next twenty years. Besides, after I graduate from medical school, I expect to hire you. You’ll have all the kinks worked out by then, and you’ll certainly have given up those crazy bare-bones designs.”
“They’re not so crazy,” Mia defended. “Recycled cardboard is a huge untapped resource. You watch; someday there will be a line of people waiting for corrugated furniture.”
“Naturally.” Roxanne smirked. “They’ll be afraid to sit on it. And think of the perks. If you get fired, you can pack your office up in your furniture. How handy is that?” Mia huffed, concentrating on what was left of her beer. “Listen, keep designing those Veranda magazine covers: upscale, elegant—they’re gorgeous,” she marveled. “Things like silk drapes, not recycled furniture. That’s what people want from their decorator.”
“Interior designer,” she corrected. “But I suppose you’re right,” Mia admitted, knowing several professors had echoed the same sentiment. “Besides, it’s what I’m living for, the chance to decorate the distinguished Dr. Burke’s tower office.” The twosome laughed as Mia downed one more gulp. “So, Rox, if you’re not drinking and you’re not interested in flirting with any of these fine Southern boys, what are you doing sitting over here all by yourself?”
Roxanne’s chin tipped higher. “I’m watching him,” she confessed, pointing a perfectly buffed nail across the bar. Mia cocked her dizzy head to one side and followed Roxanne’s steady finger to the far side of the bar. “I’m watching Jesus polish off his second bourbon, straight up, no ice.”
A stunted “oh” was the only thing Mia could manage as her gaze came to rest on Flynn, sitting alone, trying hard to blend into his side of the bar.
“He’s been here for a while. Seemed to be looking at you at first. But I figured that had to be a mistake. I mean”—her eyes flicked over Mia’s striking but innocent features—“my guess is you’re not his type.”
“What makes you say that?” Mia asked, intrigued by the instant secret she now harbored from the all-knowing Roxanne. “Not pretty enough for him?”
“Pretty? No, I doubt pretty is on his to-do list. He’s probably into things like leather thongs and pierced body parts that don’t include your ears. All of which, I believe, puts you out of the running.”
“Hmm. For a girl who’s been pigeonholed as a dumb blonde her whole life, you’re a pretty quick judge of character.” Roxanne bristled at the remark, tightening her already straight-spine posture. “You really think he’s that wild? I think maybe he’s just . . .” The words slurred as she leaned into her friend. “Undomesticated.” Mia popped back up in her seat, pulling away. “I bet I could get him to buy me a drink.”
Roxanne looked her over, her brow gathering in disbelief. “You? You think you can get that”—she motioned toward him—“to buy you a drink? For a lap dance, maybe. But solely based on your, uh, sweet but tame charms?” She frowned at Mia. “You’d stand a better chance of selling him that cardboard chair, assuming it came with a whip. Come on, let’s go home.” Roxanne tugged at her arm, ready to make her exit.
Mia jerked it back. “I’m serious, and I�
�m not that drunk. I’m more versatile than you know. What? You think the only guys I can attract are collared-shirt, close-cropped preps who’ve had the same condom in their wallet since the ninth grade? I’ll bet you my chem lab—yours to finish—if I can get him to buy me a drink in”—she glanced dramatically at her watch—“under two minutes.”
Roxanne’s eyes brightened as she suppressed a telling smile. “All right, Mia, but what do I get when you lose?”
“Well, that’s how sure I am that I’ll win. But just to make it fair, if I lose I’ll wash your car this weekend.”
“And wax, a coat of wax too,” Roxanne wagered, her blue eyes narrowing cynically, like a bookie on to a sure thing. The bet was on; Roxanne abhorred anything that could be construed as manual labor. Mia took a deep breath and rose from her seat, fussing a moment with her skirt, finger combing her hair. “Don’t bother, unless of course you are wearing a leather thong under that thing.” Roxanne playfully peeked under the edge of the skirt as Mia slapped her hand away then smoothed it again. She settled back into the booth, arms folded. “Well, what are you waiting for? Second thoughts on that bet? Don’t worry, I’ll be right here watching. And I promise not to laugh when he bolts for the exit.” Mia threw her a cutting glance as she started out across the bar.
Chapter 4
Flynn wrinkled his gritty brow and swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He had discreetly observed the animated exchange between Mia and her friend and figured it might have something to do with him. Finger pointing and whispers were not uncommon. But now she was coming toward him, probably a warning to get lost before her boyfriend, the football star, showed up. He’d go quietly; he didn’t need any trouble. Surprisingly, there was no hesitation in her step and she confidently took the seat next to him as if they were old buddies.
“Hi, Flynn. I didn’t see you over here.” Her smile was bright and anxious; she didn’t appear to be on the verge of telling him off.
“Hey there, Mia,” he said softly. “I didn’t expect to find you here. I mean, I didn’t follow you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It never occurred to me. I was wondering if that drink offer was still good?”
“Um, sure. Can I get you that beer?” The shyness she’d exhibited earlier seemed to have vanished, no doubt with some encouragement from the alcohol he could smell on her breath.
She glanced past his arm, eyeing his drink. “You know, I think I’m ready to up my game. I’ll have whatever you’re having. Bourbon, is it? Straight up, no ice, right?”
This was startling. He would have guessed she was a cautious social drinker with a three-beer max. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.” He smiled, unsure of what to make of the burst of brazenness, and flagged the barmaid. Once the drink was delivered, he asked, “So I take it you go to school here?”
“Yes, just starting my senior year. Cheers!” she said, throwing back a hideously large gulp.
He could have sworn he saw tears well up in her eyes as she stifled a cough. “You okay?”
“Ah, yeah, sure. It’s just that bourbon, um, is not my usual.”
“Is that right? Well, you might fare a little better with it if you don’t treat it like a shot. Bourbon’s kinda meant to be sipped, not slung. Like this,” he said, demonstrating.
“Of course, I see.” She followed his lead.
He observed her, drawing in a shallow breath as her pouty pink lips made delicate contact with the glass. She caught his stare and the earlier shyness edged back. Mia put the drink down and steadied herself against the bar with arched fingertips, swiveling in the seat. She looked like a kid at a candy counter. Flynn guessed she didn’t frequent too many barstools.
Smiling at him, she dove headlong into conversation. “So what brings you to Athens? Are you from Georgia?”
“No, Indiana. I do a lot of traveling on my motorcycle, you know, see-the-country kind of thing. I’ve been in Alabama the past few weeks. A guy I know mentioned Athens, said it was pretty country. Just thought I’d check it out. It’s way prettier than I imagined.”
“Mmm, I thought so too.” The compliment registered a moment later and her gaze fell to the floor, hiding a warm blush. “I mean, I’m from Maryland. Not from here either.”
Flynn couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually seen a girl blush. This was the girl he’d noticed earlier, the one whose unassuming manner made her the center of attention. “I see. You’re a ways from home then too?”
“I guess Athens is kind of home now. Since my father passed away, my mother and I aren’t particularly close. I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”
Families, not a favorite subject. “Um, sorry about your dad. What kind of degree are they sending you back with?”
“Textile Applications.”
“Pardon?” he asked, wondering what else the real world had invented while he wasn’t paying attention.
“It’s a business degree really. I’m going to be an interior designer. I thought it would be more lucrative than papier-mâché.” She laughed and his brow furrowed. “It’ll be fun, kind of like decorating at Christmas, only year-round. Instead of ornaments and mistletoe, it’ll be paint chips and window treatments . . . that sort of stuff.”
“Right, of course,” he said, expressing the same vagueness she did over the bourbon. “What the hell is a window treatment?”
“A fancy way of saying I’m going to charge you two thousand dollars for these silly silk drapes.”
“Oh, makes sense.” A mutual smile passed between them and he brought the glass to his lips again. She did too, although Flynn was sure she was holding her breath with every sip.
“How long will you stay in Athens? Don’t you have a job or a family?”
“I find work—construction, somebody’s always looking for a mechanic, whatever’s paying. I don’t usually spend more than a month in one place. I like to keep moving. My mom’s in Indiana, a brother out west, and my sister, Julia, lives in Texas. They’re there if I need them, but that doesn’t happen too often.” He leaned back, appalled at himself. She was a goddamn dose of truth serum. Things were falling out of his mouth as though his ability to censor had short-circuited.
“Isn’t that lonely? Maybe even a little scary? What would you do if you got sick or hurt? Don’t you need anybody?”
It wasn’t the response he was expecting, and was way too close to that queasy feeling of vulnerability he’d fought off earlier. “I guess it’s not something I consider on a daily basis. What made you think of it?” he asked, turning the question back on her.
“That’s easy. I’m horrible at being on my own. I wouldn’t last five minutes by myself. I don’t know what I’d do without my friends,” she said, pointing at the girls. “To tell you the truth, before my father died, the only thing I remember deciding for myself is what to get him for his birthday, and even then he left a detailed list. I probably couldn’t decide what to have for breakfast without six different opinions.” She laughed. But he suspected there was something decidedly unfunny about it.
“Nothing wrong with having a support system. Just didn’t work out for me, that’s all.” He spied her nearly empty glass, flagged the barmaid, and asked for two ice waters instead.
“What have you been doing, crisscrossing the country on your motorcycle since high school? There’s never been anyone or anything you’ve belonged to?”
Damn, how did the conversation end up here? Shifting on the barstool, Flynn finished his last gulp of bourbon, matching the one she took. The gap of time in his past—he didn’t know how to account for it, couldn’t explain it. In minutes she had managed to wriggle under his skin, past the grime and sweat, brushing against things that mattered. Gathering a breath, he was forced to say something. “I was . . . I was in the service for several years.” It wasn’t that much of a lie.
“Really? What kind? I mean, which branch?” she asked with an innocence that made him melt.
“The Marines . . . I was
a Marine.” He tried to say it in a finite tone, as if there was nothing more to know, but he could tell she expected him to go on. That wasn’t going to happen. Maybe a flash of coldness would end it. “What’s the look for, Mia? Can’t picture me with the haircut?” And suddenly she looked hurt. Damn.
“No, no . . . it’s not that. The Marines, that’s huge. Were you stationed overseas?”
Again, his brain short-circuited from his mouth. “I did some maneuvers overseas, but I wasn’t there for long.”
“You were stateside, then. How long was your tour?” she asked proudly, having nailed the appropriate noun.
“My tour? Um, long enough. Hey listen, it’s really not something I enjoy talking about. Not a lot of great memories, you know?”
“Not one nice memory? I’m sorry . . . that’s awful.”
Her fingertips grazed his arm and their eyes caught. Flynn felt at a disadvantage without his sunglasses. God, she was looking right into him. The small remark was so sincere and unsettling it caused him to turn his head away. He concentrated on the barmaid, a woman with a tattoo that dipped into fleshy cleavage and hair that was a bottled shade of red. He never worried about the kind of conversation he’d have with a woman like that. Silence settled between them as Flynn searched the busy bar for a place to hide his vulnerability. He rubbed his palms over his denim-covered thighs, realizing his hands were sweaty. The noise kept filtering in and out. The attraction, like the tide to the moon, kept pulling the two of them toward each other. Mia finally rescued him with a mutual distraction.
“So, is Flynn your first name or last?”
“Both, I guess. It’s all I’ve gone by for years.”
Beautiful Disaster Page 3