Perfect Kind of Trouble

by Chelsea Fine

  I notice a new tear in the seam of the suitcase and I sigh. First my family tree, then my job and home, and now my suitcase?

  Is there anything in my life that isn’t falling to pieces?

  I shake my head and silently scold myself for being so dramatic. I will not be a whiney baby. Sure, life has thrown a few fastball lemons at me lately, and sure, I’m broke and homeless, but I’m also an intelligent adult who can figure this out. My life. My future. My money. I will figure it out. All of it.

  I swap the skirt on the bed for an old pair of jeans with holes in the knees—from years of wear and tear, not for fashion purposes—and my stomach rumbles again.

  But before I figure anything out I’m going to eat so I don’t faint on the disgusting motel carpet. God, I’m hungry. All I’ve had today is the granola bar I scarfed before heading to the lawyer’s office for the will reading.

  Just thinking about my father’s ridiculous will brings back all my irritation from earlier. The man doesn’t speak to me for five years and when he finally does, he wants me to go on some kind of weird letter hunt with the town’s biggest playboy? What was he thinking? Why couldn’t he have just given the letter directly to me without involving any bondage playtime with Daren Ackwood? And why on earth is Daren Ackwood a part of this equation anyway?

  He was my dad’s gardener, for crying out loud. He was an egotistical rich kid who probably only kept the gardening job so he could afford to buy condoms for all his sexual conquests. And my father deemed him worthy of his will? It doesn’t make sense.

  Just how chummy were Daren and my dad? Were they drinking buddies? Were they football friends? I never saw them have a conversation that lasted longer than two minutes so how close could they have possibly been?

  I tug my old jeans on with a scoff.

  Pretty damn close, I guess, if my dad felt comfortable leaving that stupid letter to us both. Ugh. And what could he possibly have to say to us in one silly note?

  Dear Daren and Kayla. I’m holding your baseball cards hostage and screwing you over one last time, hee-hee?

  The whole thing is ludicrous.

  Pulling a gray T-shirt from my tattered suitcase, I yank it over my head and flip my hair from under the collar with a huff. I look in the mirror and relax a little.

  The formfitting blouse and skirt served their purpose today but I’m far more comfortable in loose clothes. Or relatively loose clothes. My curves are still noticeable in this outfit but at least I don’t feel like my breasts are on display.

  I grab my purse, let myself out of the motel room, and walk to the lobby—if you can even call it that. The Quickie Stop’s lobby looks less like the registration desk of a motel and more like the drive-thru at a liquor store.

  It’s no bigger than my motel room, with walls that were probably white at one time but are now more of a grimy yellow color, and gray laminate flooring that’s heavily scuffed, stained, and peeling up where the glue has lost its hold. The registration desk is eight feet wide and topped with a matching laminate counter, scarred with scratches and a few sections of penned graffiti. And the wall behind the counter is lined with shelves of cigarettes, small bottles of alcohol, and an obscene amount of condoms.

  The man sitting behind the desk looks the way you’d expect the night shift employee of a seedy motel to appear. Mid forties, overweight, mustache, stained polo shirt, and a lump of tobacco chew bulging under his bottom lip.

  His face brightens when he sees me walk in and the corners of his mouth curl up to reveal yellowing teeth. I try to ignore the way his eyes peruse my body as I approach, but seriously. Guys are pigs. It’s not like I’m dressed like a hooker here. Yet this guy is slowly sinking his eyeballs into the most private places on my body.

  “Well, hello there,” he says eagerly as he straightens in his chair. He probably doesn’t mean to come across like a creep, but I can’t help but be reminded of every scary movie ever when his grin grows bigger.

  “Hello,” I say politely, taking note that his name tag reads OWEN. You know, just in case I need to dole out details to the police later.

  “How can I help you?” He ogles me and spits into a plastic cup. Gross.

  “I was wondering if there was a place nearby to grab dinner. Something… affordable?” I hear the pathetic hope in my voice and want to slap myself.

  It’s not like I’m starving. And it’s not like I don’t have a penny to my name. I just don’t want to blow twenty percent of what little money I do have on a crappy sandwich and a side of droopy fries.

  The only reason I’m asking for eating suggestions at all is because the Quickie Stop is on the opposite side of town from where I grew up, so I’m not familiar with the food prices around here, and I don’t feel like driving across town just to eat.

  Ogling Owen leans in, happy to help. “Your best bet is Latecomers Bar & Grill. It ain’t nothing fancy, but they got really good food and lots of booze.” He wags his eyebrows, like he’s hoping I’ll get hammered tonight and beg him to take me to bed.

  Seriously. Pigs.

  “I can give you directions,” he says, reaching for a pen.

  “No, that’s okay. I can look it up.” I wiggle my phone at him so he sees that I don’t need help—and that I have a way to call 911 if he decides to get extra creepy on me.

  I might be dirt-poor, but I always find a way to pay my phone bill.

  And besides, I already know where Latecomers is. I’ve never been inside before but I remember the area well enough to know how to get there.

  “But hey, um…” I shift my weight and try to muster up the courage to ask my next question. “Do you have any discounted room rates here? Like, buy two nights get the third night half off or anything?” My voice shakes, actually shakes, on the last word. Super pathetic.

  He looks intrigued. “You thinking about staying longer?”

  I try to keep my face neutral. “Possibly.”

  His gaze roves over me again as he spits back into his chew cup. “We don’t have nothing like that here. Weeknights are fifty-five a pop. Weekends are sixty-five. But”—he leans in and gives me another yellow-toothed smile—“I could probably make an exception for you.” His eyes graze over my chest. Again.

  “That’s okay.” I take a step back. “I don’t want you to bend any rules.”

  Men who offer you favors simply because they find you attractive aren’t offering you a favor at all. They’re offering you a silent contract with a dozen strings attached. I don’t do strings.

  Desperation crosses his face. “It wouldn’t be any trouble at all—”

  “No really. It’s fine.” I smile tightly. “Thanks.” I spin around and speed-walk out of the drive-thru lobby without another word.

  Ogling Owen and his greedy eyes unsettle me. And the fact that he knows where I sleep is unnerving as hell. A shiver runs down my spine as I get in my car and lock myself inside before pulling out of the parking lot. I cannot wait to get out of this town.

  When I reach Latecomers, the bar is packed so I have to drive around the parking lot for five minutes before finding a free space.

  The moment I step inside, the aroma of savory dishes greets my nose and my mouth starts to water. But looking around at all the people waiting to be seated, my excitement wanes. I probably won’t be getting a table anytime soon.

  Four middle-aged men at a table near the door halt their conversation when they see me, but not in a slimy way. In fact, they seem to be trying not to look at me as they shift in their seats and take gulps of their drinks. But they’re men and my DNA was designed to draw male attention.

  I turn away, facing the other side of the restaurant where two women seated by the front window glare at me. I give them a nervous little smile. Their eyes travel over me and they look away with disgust. Like I somehow forced my boobs and butt to curve out the way they do and pranced into this restaurant with the sole purpose of displaying my beauty. In a baggy T-shirt and ratty jeans.

  I can’
t win with women. I just can’t.

  They see me and either hate me immediately for being born the way I look, or don’t hate me but also don’t bother to get to know me because they assume my looks mean I’m a bitch.

  My eyes drift about until they fall on an open seat on the far end of the bar and my hope lights up. I shuffle through the crowd with several mumbled apologies. A guy already seated at the bar eyes me lewdly as I walk by. I look away and quickly make my way to the open seat. It’s at the dark end of the bar, which doesn’t thrill me but at least I’ll be able to sit by myself and not draw attention.

  Beside the open barstool sits a couple; a brawny guy with several tattoos and a raven-haired girl with big hoop earrings. They laugh together as they enjoy their beers.

  As I slide into the open barstool, the girl eyes me and I smile. “Hi there.”

  She gives me a dirty look.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say quickly, lifting off the barstool. “Is this seat taken?”

  “No,” she sneers then whips her attention back to her date.

  I pause, half on and half off the barstool, slightly confused and a little offended. Why are girls rude like that? It’s not like I’m here to steal her boyfriend.

  With a shaky breath, I resume my seat and try to relax as I scan a small plastic menu on the bar. All I want to do is enjoy a hot meal and forget about this whole day. And maybe make a plan for my life.

  Last year I was in nursing school, barely scraping by, but at least I had a future ahead of me. And now I have no money to go back to college and if Big Joe ever finds me he’ll probably beat the twenty-thousand-dollar debt out of me.

  I stare at the bar menu and try to contain the panic rising in my chest.

  A pretty bartender with long red hair and large blue eyes comes up to me with a warm smile. “How are you doing tonight?”

  “I’m good.” I smile back, grateful for the distraction from my dreary thoughts and pleased she doesn’t seem to hate me like the girl beside me. “How are you?”

  “Busy and bustling.” She cocks her head. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

  She looks familiar to me too, but so do a lot of people in this town.

  “I don’t think we’ve met before,” I say. “But I used to come to Copper Springs in the summertime and stay with my dad, so maybe we’ve seen each other before?” I say. “I’m Kayla.”

  “Kayla… Turner?” She covers her mouth. “Your daddy. Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  My smile becomes strained but I force it to stay in place. “That’s very kind of you. Thanks.”

  “Can I get you a drink?” she says, setting a black napkin down in front of me. LATECOMERS is stamped in copper lettering across the top. “It’s on the house.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to. I’m Amber, by the way.” She smiles.

  My smile becomes easy again. “Nice to meet you.”

  She grabs a rocks glass. “So what’s your poison, sweetheart?”

  Before I can reply I hear, “Yeah, sweetheart. What’s your poison?”

  Turning to my other side, I see that the dark corner of the bar is not as vacant as I thought. There’s one more barstool capping off the end, and in that barstool sits a pair of dark brown eyes and a wrinkled purple shirt.

  So much for forgetting about today.

  6

  Daren

  This is the problem with small towns. You can’t avoid anyone. Ever.

  I don’t know why I’m surprised to see her. There are only three places to eat dinner on this side of town, and Latecomers is the only one with decent food. It only makes sense that Kayla would end up here. But sitting right next to me? Come on.

  She’s traded her skirt and blouse in for a pair of ripped jeans and a gray T-shirt, but she still looks hot—even with her eyebrow arched in irritation like it is now.

  “Of course,” she says, looking at me in exasperation.

  I grin. “It’s a small town.”

  Amber looks back and forth between us. “Do you two know each other?”

  I say, “Yes—”

  “No.”

  “Seriously?” I stare at Kayla. Why does she act like we’ve never met before? And why does it irk me so much that she does? “I’m not Stranger Danger over here, Kayla. You know me.”

  She looks at Amber. “I’ll just have a beer, please.”

  Amber gives me a questioning look before slowly saying, “You got it.” Then she reaches for my empty dinner plate.

  I stop her hand. “I’ll clean it up.”

  Kayla looks at me, then around at the patrons, and asks Amber, “Does everyone clean up their own plates here?”

  She laughs. “No. Daren is only insisting on cleaning his plate because he’s working in the kitchen later.”

  At the word “working” Kayla glances at me then looks back at Amber. “Oh. Okay.” She flushes a bit. “I just didn’t want to be rude and not clean up after myself if that was how it worked here.” She gives a nervous laugh, which makes her look adorable. Almost.

  She’s still a brat for taking Old Man Turner’s money and shutting him out of her life.

  “Nope.” Amber smiles. “I’ll clean up any dishes you use. So don’t you worry about a thing.”

  She shuffles away, leaving Kayla and me on our own. We’re seated at the end of the bar top where it makes an L shape so I have a perfect kitty-corner view of her face. It’s a pretty face—a sweet face—but at the same time it’s a sexy face. Long eyelashes and a small nose. Plush lips and high cheekbones.

  I tap my finger on the counter between us. “I think you and I need to work on our relationship status.”

  She turns to me and manages to look both amused and pissed off. “Excuse me?”

  “We are not strangers,” I say. “I’ve seen the inside of your bedroom, Kayla. I think that qualifies me to be at least an acquaintance of yours.”

  “Wha—” She looks horrified. “When? When have you ever seen my bedroom?”

  I shrug. “Sometime in the tenth grade I think? Your dad bought you a new dresser and I helped him move it into your room.”

  Her eyes bulge. “What?”

  “Love the puppy posters, by the way,” I say with an exaggerated voice. “Super cute.”

  Her face starts to redden. “I hate you.”

  “Ditto. The point is,” I say leaning forward, “we’re not strangers. But since you insist on telling people that we are…” I give her my most charming smile and hold out my hand. “Hi. I’m Daren Ackwood—all-around nice guy and legendary lover. Nice to meet you.”

  She doesn’t even look at my hand. “No.”

  I blink. “No?”

  “No.”

  Amber returns with Kayla’s beer. “Here you go,” she says, carefully setting the mug down so it doesn’t spill. She looks at my outstretched hand, still hovering in midair between Kayla and myself, and raises a brow.

  “Kayla won’t shake my hand,” I explain, pulling my arm back.

  Kayla looks at Amber. “He introduced himself as a ‘legendary lover.’ ”

  Amber slants her eyes to me. “You didn’t.”

  I shrug innocently. “It’s supposed to be funny.” And it’s supposed to work, dammit. It always works.

  Amber shakes her head with a sigh and says to Kayla, “Don’t mind Daren. He’s full of himself, but he’s harmless. I swear.”

  My mouth falls open. “Traitor.”

  Amber shrugs. “You are full of yourself.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But you’re not supposed to tell people that.”

  “Oh, honey.” She smiles. “Kayla already knew. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some thirsty patrons to attend to.” With a glint in her eye, she turns and walks away.

  “I like her,” Kayla says smugly, watching Amber walk away.

  “I do too. Usually,” I mutter.

  A guy seated down the bar looks over at Kayla before nudging his bu
ddy’s arm and jutting his chin her way. Both guys eye her appreciatively as one of them says something. They start laughing and Kayla turns her face in the opposite direction.

  It’s a small movement, so slight it could have been coincidental, but the annoyance on Kayla’s face tells me she’s more than aware that guys are staring at her. I look around for a moment. Lots of guys.

  I lean back in my chair and cross my arms, diverting her attention. “So tell me, Kayla. Why are you still here? I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

  She takes a sip of her beer. “I don’t like driving at night so I’m waiting until morning.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Uh…” She starts to play with her paper napkin, fringing the edge with tiny tears. “The Quickie Stop?”

  I lift my eyebrows. “The shitty place off the freeway?”

  She doesn’t make eye contact. “Yep.”

  “That’s the shadiest motel in four counties. Why are you staying there? Why not the Willow Inn outside of town—or Martha’s Bed & Breakfast in the town square?”

  “Because I’m on a budget.” She shoots me a cool look as if that’s somehow my fault.

  I must really have a talent for pissing this girl off.

  “Well fancy meeting you two here.” Eddie Perkins wedges himself between Kayla and the black-haired girl beside her with a wide grin. “How are you kids doing tonight?”

  See what I mean about not being able to avoid anyone?

  “Hi, Mr. Perkins,” Kayla says pleasantly.

  “Please, call me Eddie.” He looks back and forth between us. “Are you two here together?”

  We glance at each other.

  “No way—”

  “Hell no—”

  Eddie lets out a chuckle. “Well okay then.” He leans over the bar. “Hello, Amber.”

  She looks up with a smile. “Hey Eddie. I have your to-go order ready in the back. I’ll grab it in a second,” she says, pouring a martini for another customer.

  “Thanks.” He turns his attention back to us. “Sorry things didn’t work out the way you two were hoping today.”