“Why? Because he does manual labor?” She laughs.
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her say anything like that. She’s never been judgmental about anyone’s work, and she’s never been one to go after guys for their money or other material possessions, let alone their resumes.
“I’m sorry,” she says, before I can say anything. “It’s just…it’s such a stretch from Wyatt.”
I’m sipping my drink when she says his name. I cock my head to the side and give her the best evil eye I can muster.
She puts her hands up. “Sorry. Guilty. I know. And forget I said that. You know I’m not like that.”
“I know.”
The waiter brings our entrée.
When he’s gone, I say, “This is way too much food.”
Stacy is digging in to her lasagna.
I’m thinking I’ll have a lot of leftovers, and then I’m thinking that I might bring them to Adam.
It’s an awkward thought. He’s not my husband, let alone my boyfriend. Can I even call him a friend at this point?
At one point, I say, “Speaking of the name that shall not be spoken, he’s trying to get in touch with me.”
She freezes midway through lifting her glass to her mouth. She looks at me as if she’s waiting for me to tell her I’m joking.
“Bullshit,” she says.
“I’m serious. He’s called twice—”
“Called? You changed your number.”
“He called the house. Sophie told me about the first time last week—”
Stacy’s draw drops and she interrupts me. “Thanks for telling me.”
“I wasn’t going to tell anyone. But then he called again, and this morning I got texts from him.”
“Sophie gave him the number,” Stacy says flatly.
“Yeah.”
“Ah, Sophie. Poor thing. She had no idea.”
“I know. That’s why I’m not mad at her. But now what am I going to do?”
“Well, what did he say?”
I get my phone and read the texts to her.
“Oh, shit,” she says. “Fuck me.”
There are two women sitting a few tables away from us. They’re older—maybe 60s—and they look like they just came from volunteering at church. They both look over at me when Stacy launches her curse words loudly.
“Sorry,” Stacy says. “That was me.” She looks back to me. “Go on.”
“I guess I’m going to have to change my number again.”
“But he’s coming here?”
I nod.
“When?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “He didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”
She wipes her mouth with the napkin. The waiter stops by the table and asks if we need anything else.
“Bring me the check, please.” She looks at me. “This is on me. No arguing.”
I ask the waiter for a box and he leaves.
Stacy is shaking her head. “This is going to be interesting.”
“It’s already too interesting. What I need is less interesting, you know?”
“Well, you have this mysterious guy you’re…” Her voice trails off as she looks over at the two older ladies, then leans over the table a little and finishes her sentence. “The guy you’re fornicating with.”
A laugh bursts out of me.
“What’s his name? Just his first name?”
I think of the company confidentiality form I signed when I got the job. I think of the question Adam asked me on day one about whether I can be discreet. I told him I would be. “I’m not saying.”
“Fine, then we’re going to need a code-name.” She thinks for a moment. “Hell, I don’t know. I don’t even have a nickname for Trent, the bastard.”
“Bastard,” I say. “You’re always acting like he’s a pain in your ass or you’re doing him a favor by being with him. Doesn’t he get tired of that?”
She waves it off. “Nah. Are you kidding? He knows no matter how much shit I give him or talk about him, he’s the love of my life. We’ll be old someday”—she jokingly nods toward the other table—“all shriveled up, our grown kids chasing our grandkids, and I’ll still be giving him the business. He loves it.”
The way she talks about their love is always enough to pull me out of my current state of cynicism. At least for a little while, and then I go back to the real-world knowledge that the two most important men in my life left.
“Enough about Trent,” Stacy says. “Listen to this…”
She launches into one her usual law firm stories after the waiter comes back and drops off the check and my box. I’m putting the leftovers in and I’m half-listening to her while worrying about what Adam and I are doing, and how little I really know about him.
Stacy heads back to work after we eat, and I spend the afternoon picking out something to wear for when I see him tonight. I don’t want to overdo it. It’s not like we’re going to a formal function or an expensive restaurant. I’ll get to his bungalow, we’ll do our usual thing, we’ll talk…
Only we won’t talk all that much. He’s guarded. He’s private. He’s holding a lot back that I want to know.
Maybe tonight is a good night to push those boundaries a little.
. . . . .
Mom and Sophie are sitting at the kitchen table when I get home. I’m holding the bag from my little shopping spree. I was kind of hoping they wouldn’t see it because I knew they’d do two things: first, ask what I bought; second, ask why I bought it, which would lead to a conversation I didn’t want to have.
And it also contains a couple of things Adam told me to get, and there’s no way I want to explain that to my mother and little sister.
“You went shopping?” Sophie says when I walk through the door. I’ve taken her shopping with me several times this summer. It has become one of her favorite things to do, and she’s not even a teenage girl yet.
“I only went to one store. You didn’t miss anything.”
“What’d you get?” Mom asks. She has her back to me, looking down at something.
Here we go.
“A dress. What are you guys doing?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“Making Sophie’s birthday party guest list. She wants to go to Cinebarre.”
Crap. I almost forgot Sophie’s birthday is coming up on July fifth. “Oh. That’ll be cool. How many people are coming?”
“That’s what we’re trying to decide,” Mom says.
My plan of distracting them from the dress and the inevitable follow-up question worked.
“She’s making me put some people on the chopping block,” Sophie says, and drags a finger across her throat with her tongue sticking out.
Mom and I laugh. I’m just glad to see it’s not an argument. I listen to them talk for a few minutes and it’s all about who Sophie should or shouldn’t invite based on some kind of elaborate and confusing system of ranking friends based on who they’re also friends with. It makes me think of when I was around her age and how complicated it all seemed. If only I had known how simple it was compared to how things are when you grow up.
Mom turns in her chair to face me. “Do you think you can take them? I have to work that night. You’ll just have Sophie and Kendall. The rest are going to be dropped off at the theater and picked up.”
I ask, “What are you going to see?”
Sophie shrugs. “Not sure yet.”
“I’ll call about the party rate,” Mom says. “I think Cinebarre has one. That should include the tickets and they can each order something off the menu.”
It used to be one of my favorite places to go. Watch a movie and have someone bring you a meal? Can’t beat that. It’s mostly bar food, nothing special, but it’s the experience. I imagine when I take Sophie and her friends, I’ll be sitting in the theater by myself somewhere if I don’t find something else to do for the two hours they’ll be occupied.
“I’m going to get ready,” I say, and start to walk out of th
e kitchen toward the stairs.
“Big plans tonight?” Mom calls out.
“Not really. Just meeting a friend for dinner.”
Jesus, if she only knew.
“Oh, that reminds me.” I’m already two steps up the stairwell when Mom says that. I stop and peek around the corner. Mom turns to look at me. “I made a big mistake yesterday. I was tired. I don’t know what I was thinking. But Wyatt called and I gave him your number.”
I look at her for a couple of seconds, then look at Sophie, whose eyes are as big as silver dollars.
Sophie says, “Mom! She doesn’t want to talk to him.”
“I’m sorry,” Mom says again.
“It’s fine. I’ll deal with it.”
I go upstairs, thinking how glad I am that I didn’t accuse Sophie of giving out my number. I would have never thought my mother had done it. I wasn’t upset when I thought it was Sophie, but I’m a little angry with my mom.
She knew I didn’t want him to have the new number, but she didn’t know how bad the breakup was. I never went into detail about how Wyatt intentionally hurt me to try to get what he wanted.
If I’d gone into all that with her, it would have led to discussions about my father, and the whole thing would have been messier than it already was.
So, back when we broke up, I told her it was a distance thing and we had drifted apart.
Wyatt is the last thing I need to be thinking about right now. I have an entire evening with Adam coming up, and that’s my sole focus as I get ready.
Chapter Fourteen
Evan
It’s the longest day of my summer so far, and all because I’m looking forward to the first extended amount of time I’ll get to be with Audrey.
Everything up to this point has been quick, almost rushed, and while there’s an element of excitement in that, there’s nothing that beats the anticipation of having her all to myself the entire evening, and maybe even overnight.
She has more of a hold on me than she knows. She’s in almost every thought I have. She’s as curious as she is innocent, and she’s letting me explore those boundaries. With every small chip I make in her wall, mine cracks too. I have plenty of time with her, I know I shouldn’t be rushing it, and I won’t—if I take it too far, too fast, those chips and cracks will shatter us both.
I spend a good part of the morning on the beach, walking, running, and doing a lot of thinking about the situation with the band. Not because I feel like it, but because I’m avoiding something. There are two missed two phone calls, both from Jay, and twelve unanswered text messages, eleven from the other two members of the band and one from Bruce that reads: You need to call me ASAFP.
Adding the F doesn’t do much to compel me to call him.
This is the first time in my professional life I feel like I’m being irresponsible. And it’s no fun. Actually, it sucks worse than anything I’ve experienced during my career.
Being here on the island, isolated from work, isolated from everyone who knows me both personally and by recognition of my fame…that’s what is making me happy right now.
That, and Audrey.
As much as I don’t want to join the band for studio time, I do miss playing music for the love of it.
As I head back to the bungalow, I start to think that maybe it’s time I pick up a guitar again. I’ve tried writing lyrics, but nothing comes. Maybe I just need to hold a guitar in my hands again. Feel the strings under my fingers, the weight of it propped on my knee, the feel of a pick strumming. Maybe that will get me back into it.
After a shower, I grab a quick bite of leftovers from last night, and search the Internet. I find what I’m looking for, but I don’t want to call the resort office and have someone, maybe that Jeanine girl, drive me. I don’t want anyone to know where I’m going or what I’m doing.
So I get an Uber driver. The guy shows up in less than fifteen minutes, I get in the backseat of his car, and give him the address and the name of the business: Lanier’s.
“Guitar shop?” he asks.
“Yep.”
We leave the island, driving over the bridge that connects to the mainland.
The driver says, “Just visiting?”
“Yeah.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Five weeks.”
“Big plans for the Fourth?”
I haven’t made plans for July Fourth. I haven’t even thought about it. I remember telling Chris I’d try to make it to The Windjammer to see Three Figures playing the bash, but I don’t think I’ll be going. “No, what about you?”
“Working. Lotta drunk people needing rides all day long, you know?”
“True.”
He looks at me in the rearview mirror. “First time in Charleston?”
“No. I’ve been here before, but not long enough to see the city.”
He’s an older guy, and he tells me his family has lived here since the 1700s. “All these plantations you see around here, my family helped work the fields. Probably helped build the big fancy houses, too.”
He talks a lot about Charleston’s history, and the spots downtown that he knows about. He’s interesting, not the annoying kind of talker. Which is good, because I’m in a great mood because of what I’m getting ready to do and I don’t need anyone spoiling it.
When we arrive at the guitar shop, he asks if I want him to wait.
“Please, that would be great. I won’t be long.”
“Take your time,” he says.
The shop is small, and thankfully not crowded. Acoustic music plays from the speakers. There’s a girl behind the register. She’s wearing a black t-shirt, her skin is pale, her hair is dyed pink, she looks like she weighs eighty pounds, and she has a lip-ring. She can’t be more than nineteen.
She says, “Welcome to Lanier’s.”
“Thanks.”
“I just work the register, but I might be able to answer some questions. If you need help with a guitar, though, Andy will have to do that.” She motions across the store. There’s a guy over there talking to a man and a woman about an amp.
“I’ll just look around for a few minutes,” I say.
“Cool,” she says, having no idea who I am. Good.
I browse the guitars on display. They’re arranged by brand. I look at all the sections, even the brands I don’t particularly care for. It’s just nice being around these instruments again.
I get to the section where they keep my favorite brand and I immediately spot the exact model I’ve been using for the last two years. It won’t be the same—they always have a broken-in feel to them after much use—but it’s the best one I’ve ever used.
The girl at the register is looking down at her phone when I get to the counter. She looks up, surprised. “Oh, sorry.” She laughs. “Do you need some help?”
“I found what I’m looking for. Can you make sure you have it in stock?”
She hops off the stool and starts to come around the corner of the sales area. “I just need to get the model number—”
Before she can finish that sentence, I say the model number.
She chuckles. “Wow, you really know your stuff.”
I shake my head. “I’ve just played that one for years. Looking for a new one.”
“Okay, well, I’ll look in the back and see if we have it. If not, we can order it. Should take only a week.”
“I don’t have that much time,” I say, and it probably comes out as seriously as I mean it, which is more than I wanted to let on. “I just mean I won’t be ordering anything. I need to get this today.”
“I’ll check,” she says, and ducks around the corner into the back stockroom.
As I’m waiting, the sales guy, Andy, comes over. “Sarah helping you?”
“Yes, thanks.”
He looks at me strangely for just two or three seconds, but it’s enough to let me know what’s about to happen. He has recognized me. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s hap
pening in a store that sells musical instruments.
One side of the store is completely wallpapered with posters of bands. They’re jammed in there, some overlapping others, and it’s hard to make them all out but there’s a good chance there’s a poster of Tuesday’s Fault up there.
Maybe I’ll escape this place by just signing something. I’m hoping like hell as this unfolds that he doesn’t know about my leave of absence, or if he does, that he hasn’t obtained his information from the gossip media. I’m not in the mood to talk about that, or answer questions about it, nothing.
The last thing I needed was to be recognized, and now it’s happening. I should have ordered the guitar and had it delivered, then I wouldn’t have had to come here.
But I was feeling impulsive when I made the decision, and once I did, all I could think about was having it in my hands. Today.
The guy is still looking at me with an odd expression on his face. “Anyone ever tell you if you grew your hair out a little you’d look like the guitarist for Tuesday’s Fault? What’s the guy’s name? Evan…something.” He snaps his fingers several times, as if that will help him remember.
He’s probably not much older than his co-worker Sarah, his hair is pulled back into a ponytail. He’s wearing a Pink Floyd t-shirt, the one just about every guy has when he’s a teenager.
“Never heard of them,” I say, and try to play it off.
“It’s a band from Colorado. I’m not a fan of theirs, otherwise I’d know the guy’s last name but it’s escaping me at the moment.”
This guy. Jesus. I don’t say anything. I just look at him and pretend that I care what he’s talking about. I just want it to stop.
I just shrug.
“This Evan guy, he’s the one who wigged out on stage a couple of months ago. They had to take him to the hospital. I read about it the other day. Anyway, like I said, they’re not my type of music. I like more of the underground stuff.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, and bite my tongue. Underground stuff like Pink Floyd. Right.
I find myself resenting him a little, and it’s a weird feeling. I’ve never paid attention to praise or criticism. This is the first time I’ve felt the swell of pride about my music, the first time I’m tempted to defend it.
The Rider List: An Erotic Romance Page 10