Perfect Kind of Trouble

by Chelsea Fine

  Okay, so maybe that wasn’t bratty. But that doesn’t mean I have to like her.

  Her blonde hair hangs to the center of her back and swishes against her blue top, the golden strands glinting in the sun as she moves along. She has a graceful walk, each step light and flowing in perfect harmony with the swing of her hips. She’s curvy in all the right places and perfectly proportioned, and as she turns her face to the side, looking up and down the street, I trail my eyes down her profile. Long eyelashes, flushed cheeks, and full pink lips stand out against her pale skin like the cherry on top of a delicious dessert.

  I let out a low whistle. Like it or not, Kayla Turner is the hottest almost-brat I’ve ever seen.

  * * *

  I’ve only been car-less for a matter of hours and I’m already going crazy. Copper Springs isn’t like the big cities with their subways and taxis. The bus stop at the edge of town is the only public transit service here—unless you count Golf Cart Gus, who’s really just a retired mechanic that sometimes gives people rides in a golf cart he won two decades ago on The Price Is Right—so after walking from Eddie’s office to my job at the cell phone store and then to the hospital to make another payment, I’m exhausted.

  I miss Monique.

  Pulling out what’s left of my cash, I count the bills and grimace. Minus the thirty dollars I just put toward Connor Allen’s medical bills, I’m now down to twelve dollars. Every credit card I ever had access to is now either maxed out or closed and I don’t get paid again until next week.

  I know my boss at Willow Inn, Ellen, would front me the money if I asked. But I also know that if I ask her for a favor, she’ll try to jump into my life and save me, which is more than I can handle right now. Twelve dollars will just have to last until next Friday. And then the money shit cycle will start all over again.

  Last year, two horrible car accidents occurred in my life, and only a few months apart. The first accident severely injured a decent man named Connor Allen, leaving behind a hefty hospital bill. The second took the life of my high school girlfriend, Charity, and I was so beside myself with guilt that I didn’t care to be alive anymore.

  My stomach churns, slowly twisting into turmoil, and I have to take a few deep breaths to keep my hands steady and my feet moving until I come up to Latecomers Bar & Grill and let myself inside.

  The smell of sautéed vegetables meets my nose and the churning in my stomach turns to a fierce growl.

  I miss food too.

  It’s still pretty early so most of the seats are empty. There’s a table of guys by the window, a couple in a corner booth, and a burly guy posted at the bar, but otherwise the place is dead. Which is how I prefer it.

  “Hey,” Jake Sanders says from behind the bar, tossing his dark hair out of his eyes as he sets a tray of clean glasses down.

  At forty years old, Jake is doing pretty well for himself. Not only is he the head chef of Latecomers but he’s also the owner. His uncle left him the flailing establishment after he passed away and Jake didn’t hesitate to hone his cooking skills and turn the place into a rather fine restaurant, bringing the family business back from the brink, while reviving the nightlife in Copper Springs at the same time.

  Most people don’t expect a bar to have amazing food, but Jake is a culinary genius and every plate that comes out of Latecomers’ kitchen is mouthwatering. He also brews his own beer, which makes me hate the guy a little, just for being so damn talented. I don’t envy the hours he works, though. Jake practically lives here.

  I tip my chin and half-smile back. “What’s happening?”

  “Oh, you know.” He starts unloading the glasses. “Just beer and business and the business of beer.”

  I grin. “So you still don’t have a life, huh?”

  He barks out a sardonic laugh. “This place is my life.” He gestures to the end of the bar. “Your seat’s open.”

  I nod my thanks to him and head that way. My “seat” is the barstool on the far right where it’s almost too dark to see anything. Jake deemed it “mine” last year after the back-to-back car accidents hit me like a ton of bricks and I fell into a serious bout of depression. At the time, I thought it was a little ridiculous to have a designated spot at the bar because, you know, I’m not a fifty-two-year-old alcoholic, but now… well, now I’m grateful.

  I slide into my barstool, prop my elbows on the bar top, and drop my face into my hands. This day, this week—hell, this whole last year—has been shitty. And it doesn’t look like it’ll be getting easier anytime soon.

  “Hey, good lookin’.”

  I glance up to see a pair of dark blue eyes shining at me and I smile warmly. “Hey, Amber.”

  Her wavy red hair is pulled back into a ponytail, showing off the many earrings she wears in both ears and the small tattoo just behind her jaw.

  Amber Keeton is the closest thing I have to real family anymore. And for three months, back in middle school, when my mom left my dad to marry Amber’s dad—who happened to be the town’s beloved preacher—we actually were family. It was a broken, disgraceful family, but still. She was there and that made things bearable.

  God, that whole mess was a nightmare. One day, I was just a rich kid from a decent home with two seemingly happily married parents, and the next day my mom was moving me into Brad Keeton’s house and introducing me to my new “sister.” Just like that, my world upended.

  Anytime a preacher leaves his wife for another woman, it’s big news. But in a small town like this, it’s a downright scandal.

  My dad lost his shit and started guzzling back Jack Daniel’s like it was water in the Sahara, drinking himself into raging blackouts at Latecomers every other night. While Amber’s mom, in the true fashion of a scorned preacher’s wife, wailed all over town about the devil in her husband. She then started a prayer chain for his wretched soul, in a desperate attempt to save him from his sins—and no doubt heal her wounded pride at the same time.

  Prayer chains are gossip trains at their finest. Lord have mercy on the reverend and his harlot—or at least let their sins entertain us for a while.

  And that they did.

  Mom and Brad were quickly shunned from all the social circles for “living in sin” and Amber and I couldn’t go anywhere without people staring or whispering. We were the offspring of a cheating reverend, a rich home-wrecker, a God-fearing housewife, and a raging lush—and no one let us forget it.

  My mom and Brad eloped shortly after, but being married didn’t make things better. It did the opposite, in fact. Amber was just as horrified and shell-shocked as I was by their union so we instantly teamed up to get our parents to split. Just like in the movie The Parent Trap, we schemed and plotted and tried our best to make their lives miserable. But it turned out my mom and Brad didn’t even need their fourteen-year-old children to break them up.

  Two months into their marriage, Mom was sleeping with the pool guy and Reverend Keeton was canoodling with a horse veterinarian he met online. Shortly after that, they split. Mom moved to Boston to go “find herself”—without me, of course; I begged her to stay, or at least take me with her, but she said being a mother wasn’t her “destiny”—and Brad moved to Kansas to be with his horse doctor. But the whispers and the stares stayed behind, and linger still today.

  But one good thing came out of it: Amber. Bonded by the town’s disapproval and our parents’ outlandish behavior, we became permanent allies. To this day, Amber is one of the only faces that I’m ever happy to see.

  She nods at my outfit. “I see you haven’t had a chance to change clothes yet.”

  I glance down at my wrinkled shirt.

  Yesterday at the gas station, Wendy the Manager was more than willing to forgive my atrocious gas bill and give me a ride home. She was a little too willing, actually.

  I know the difference between a kinky crazy look in a woman’s eyes and a nutzo crazy look. And Wendy was definitely leaning toward the serial killer end of the spectrum when we got in her car and she s
ank her fingernails into my bicep, licked the back of my neck, and aggressively invited me to come back to her place to meet her pet ferret.

  I have nothing against ferrets. I do, however, have something against ferrets eating my flesh after I’ve been hacked to pieces by a neck-licking psycho. So I very politely declined and had her drop me off at Amber’s house so she and her pet ferret wouldn’t know where I slept.

  Wendy the Manager retracted her shockingly sharp claws from my arm and begrudgingly dropped me off at Amber’s, where I crashed on the couch after explaining to Amber how Monique had been hauled off by a merciless tow truck. This morning, I didn’t have time to run home and change before heading to Eddie’s office.

  “Not yet,” I say, looking at Amber. “Think you could give me a ride back to my place later?”

  “Your place?” She lets out a frustrated sigh. “Daren, you can’t keep staying there.”

  “I can and I will. It’s a very crucial part of the façade I need to continue pulling off in order to not be categorized as the town outcast.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. No one would treat you differently if they knew.”

  “Everyone would treat me differently,” I argue. Then consider. “Except you. Because you’re the best person in the world.” I smile, hoping my compliment will distract her from pursuing the topic.

  She doesn’t fall for it.

  “I don’t like it,” she says, her mouth in a tight line. “Why don’t you just move in with me and my roommates?”

  I scoff. “And be the token male in a house filled with nonstop estrogen? I don’t think so. But thank you, anyway.”

  Amber lives with three other girls in a two-room apartment across town. And while living with four women might sound ideal to some guys, I know the reality of the situation: shoes all over the place, makeup strewn about the bathroom counter, tampons everywhere… yeah. I don’t think I’m ready for any of that. But it’s nice that Amber keeps offering.

  “Your call.” She shrugs. “But the offers still stands.”

  I nod. “I appreciate that.”

  “I’ll give you a ride after we close up tonight, as long as you don’t mind waiting.” She wipes down the counter.

  “Of course not.” I grin. “I’ll help you close.”

  “Deal.” She grabs a frosted glass from a freezer below the counter. “So what’s your poison tonight?”

  My face falls. The last time I was drunk was a few days ago at the Fourth of July Bash out on Copper Lake. Old Man Turner had just died so I swigged my sadness away until I was inexcusably hammered. And then I scared the crap out of the only other face that ever makes me happy, Sarah “Pixie” Marshall, when my stupid ass tried to drive drunk with her as my terrified passenger.

  Just thinking about the fear in Sarah’s eyes makes my stomach knot. That was a whole new low for me. Pixie was Charity’s best friend and, therefore, someone I’ve always cared a great deal for. I would never intentionally hurt Pixie. Not in a million years. God, I really need to apologize to her.

  I shake my head. “I think I’ve had enough poison for a while. I’ll take a lemonade.”

  “Ooh. Very badass of you.” Amber fills the frosted glass with lemonade, and scans my face. “What’s wrong?”

  I run a hand through my hair. “I just need to straighten some stuff out with Sarah, that’s all.”

  “Sarah ‘Pixie’ Sarah?” she asks, setting the lemonade down in front of me. I nod and her face lights up. “Aw… I miss her. How’s she doing?”

  I shrug. “She’s been working at Willow Inn with me and Levi all summer.”

  She arches a brow. “Have those two figured out they belong together yet?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But God, I hope so. She deserves a win for once, you know?”

  She nods silently and carefully eyes me. “I know a few people who deserve a win.”

  I avoid her eyes and focus on more pertinent matters. Like eating.

  “Hey so…” I swallow, hating this part of my current circumstances. “Since I’m staying here until you close anyway, I was thinking I could maybe help out in the kitchen. Again. You know, if Jake needs a hand with the dinner rush. Again.”

  She frowns. “I can spot you dinner, Daren. I know you love to cook, but you don’t have to keep coming in here and doing chores to earn a meal.”

  “I don’t keep coming in for that,” I say harshly, even though that’s a lie. I’ve helped Jake in the kitchen at Latecomers five times in the past week. “I’m just, you know, tight on cash right now. That’s all.”

  If he had room in the payroll budget, I’m sure Jake would hire me on the spot. But Latecomers is maxed out on employees, all of whom love their jobs and probably have no intention of quitting anytime soon. So for now, Jake lets me cook alongside him every once in a while and, in return, I get a free meal.

  Sympathy flashes in Amber’s eyes, but only for a split second. She knows I hate being pitied.

  “Jake always welcomes an extra set of hands in the kitchen,” she says then winks. “Especially if those hands belong to an aspiring chef.”

  “Right.” I smile and start to get up but her hand smacks against mine, pinning me to the bar top.

  “Not so fast,” she says. “The dinner rush won’t start for another hour or so. I think you should have dinner before you head back to the kitchen. Something tells me you haven’t had much to eat today.”

  I gently slide my hand out from under hers. “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re hungry.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  She flicks the bar towel at me. Hard. “Quit being so prideful and sit your ass down.” The determined look in her eyes is anything but playful.

  I slowly obey and return to my barstool. She slaps a black bar napkin down in front of me, thwacking the counter so hard that the burly guy seated a few stools down looks over. Then she calmly moves the glass of lemonade on top of the napkin.

  “Now,” she says pleasantly, all hardness gone from her eyes. “What can I get you for dinner, sir?”

  I stare at her, biting back a smile. It never ceases to amaze me how some women can go from sharp-as-steel to sugar-sweet in the blink of an eye.

  “Surprise me,” I say.

  As she spins around and moves to the computer, I watch her type in an order and shake my head.

  After high school, Amber started working at Latecomers to save up for college. After our parents divorced, her life didn’t fall to pieces like mine.

  When my mom left for Boston, my dad was a hopeless wreck and burned through his own wealth faster than a speeding bullet in a cloud. High school ended and I had no choice but to work night and day to help pay bills. I had my job tending to Old Man Turner’s yard, and even though he grossly overpaid me for my work, it still wasn’t enough so I started working at the local cell phone store so I could make a little extra cash and keep a cheap phone bill. But with the enormous bills we had every month—the mortgage, the expensive cars, the boat—I quickly started sinking.

  Amber, however, was able to set herself up with a decent job and a gaggle of roommates to make rent cheap. Now she’s moving to Phoenix in the fall to start classes at Arizona State University while I’ll probably be selling cell phones in Copper Springs forever, not to mention paying off Connor’s fifty-thousand-dollar medical bills for the rest of my life.

  I drop my face back into my hands. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to pull this off. My two jobs aren’t enough to keep me afloat with all the responsibilities I have, and without a car, I’m not sure if I’ll even be able to keep my jobs—particularly the one at Willow Inn, since it’s so far away. And that’s the job that pays the most and I like the best.

  I’m screwed. But that’s nothing new.

  5

  Kayla

  My stomach grumbles. I’ve barely eaten today. And yesterday all I had was an apple and a bag of Cheetos. Dinner is a must. If I can grab a full meal tonigh
t then maybe I won’t have to worry about breakfast or lunch tomorrow when I’m on the road.

  I hate driving alone, especially at night, so I’m not heading back to Chicago until morning. Though I’m not sure what my rush is. It’s not like I have anything to return to—except for Big Joe and his demands.

  I’ve had to work so many shifts these past few months just to stay ahead of my bills that all of my friendships back in Illinois have faded into acquaintanceships. So much so that I doubt anyone even knows where I am. Or that I even left Chicago.

  Wow. That’s an unsettling thought.

  But it’s probably for the better. If Big Joe found out that I took off, he’d probably send his goons to come drag me back to the diner. Maybe it’s best if I never return at all.

  There’s nothing and no one waiting for me back in Illinois. No home. No family… My heart drops to the floor as I realize, for the first time, that I’m technically an orphan.

  I’m twenty-one and I can take care of myself but there’s something very lonely about not having loved ones waiting for me anywhere in this world. In recent years, my father wasn’t much of a parent but he was still somewhere, aware that I existed. And deep down, in the back of my mind where I let hope run free, I knew that if I needed him—if I really absolutely desperately needed my daddy—he would come through for me.

  I had no reason to believe such a thing, but the little girl inside me refused to think otherwise. Even when I hated him, I still hoped for him. And maybe that’s what hurt the most. More than the rejection. More than the abandonment. The deepest cut was the relentless hope I carried, and it bled endlessly. Even now, with him dead and gone, it’s still bleeding.

  I swallow back the lump in my throat and change out of my outfit.

  Aside from the gray dress I wore yesterday, the royal blue blouse and black pencil skirt are the only “nice” clothes I own, so I’m careful not to snag or rip anything as I take them off. I slip out of the skirt, set it on the bed, then gingerly undo the buttons of my top before sliding it off my shoulders and folding everything neatly back into my suitcase.