The Way We Were

by Shandi Boyes

  After seeing Izzy for the first time, I wish I had surrendered to Regina’s nagging years earlier. Without hesitation, I can testify that Izzy is gorgeous. Big chocolate eyes, dark temperamental locks, and the personality of a girl who should be a whole lot uglier. For the first time in years, my interests were piqued. It is a pity she's Isaac’s girl.

  Izzy did a stellar job pretending she was unaffected by Isaac's domineering personality, but within minutes of watching them interacting with one another, her ruse came undone. I wouldn't necessarily say Izzy was under a spell, but Isaac's prompts reminded me a lot of a guy I once knew: my young, stupid self.

  For the years following Ophelia’s death, Isaac was a ghost. I didn’t hear or see him in years. When Ravenshoe boomed, his presence became more known. Within months, the shadow swamping him vanished, and our mutual interest in a pretty brunette at one of his clubs resurrected our natural competitive nature.

  That is why I kissed Izzy.

  I shouldn’t have, but the competitive edge Isaac always instigates from me was rearing its ugly head that night. I wanted to show him the expense of a suit has nothing on the man wearing it. Did I go in strong? Yeah, I did. Did he react how I expected him to? Yeah, he did. Do I regret it? No, not at all. Why? Because the words he spoke when he returned to pick up his date have stayed with me since then.

  “I once asked if you could fight. You said, ‘You don’t need talent to fight. Anyone can take a hit; it is how you accept it that proves your worth.’ I never understood what that meant... until now. I’ll accept your hit like a man, Ryan, but you need to accept mine in return.”

  He stepped closer to me, bringing his gray eyes level with my baby blues. “Love is about guts. If you have it, you fight the world to keep it. If you don’t, you fight no one but yourself. This isn’t your fight. It’s mine.”

  He didn't realize he admitted to loving Isabelle that night, but both Cormack and I heard it loud and clear. It was in that instant we realized Isaac was no longer in the game we had been playing for years. I threw him a curveball; he hit it out of the park. Game over.

  I crank my neck to the side when Brax’s elbow lands in my ribs. “What’s the deal? Why is he back?” He gestures his head to Damon.

  I toss back a nip of whiskey before replying, "I don't know. He sent Ma a message a few days ago saying he might head back this way in a few months. He turns up on her doorstep the very next day."

  "You think he's running from something?" Brax questions, hearing the underlying message in my reply.

  “Something or someone.” I take another generous swig of my whiskey, hoping to force the bile racing up my esophagus back into my stomach.

  Brax huffs while scrubbing his hand over the stubble on his chin.

  Wanting to shift the focus off me and my fucked-up family, I ask, “So what’s the deal with you? I’ve seen you turn down three girls since I arrived. That’s not the Brax I know.” Thankfully, my tone comes out playful even though I’m feeling anything but.

  The whiskey I've only just swallowed threatens to resurface when Brax mutters, "I think my cock is broken."

  "What?" I gasp, my one word breathless since I'm nearly choking to death.

  Brax tracks a blonde sauntering past our booth. Since her hair is more platinum blonde than golden, I take a moment to appreciate her generous curves.

  “Beautiful ass, a sinful body, and a rack I’d love to bury my face in.”

  I nod, agreeing with Brax's assessment. This blonde is a knockout. If only her hair were a little darker.

  “Nothing. Nada. It is fucking broken,” Brax mutters, glancing at his crotch.

  I shouldn’t laugh—I’m an ass for laughing—but the more I try to hold back my laughter, the louder I laugh.

  My chuckles are nipped in the bud when I spot the genuine worry in Brax's eyes. He truly thinks his cock is broken.

  “Maybe things have just gotten too easy for you?” I suggest, my tone sincere.

  Brax has never had his heart ripped out and stomped on, but that doesn’t mean he’s undeserving of my sympathy. For a man as sexually promiscuous as Brax, a broken cock is the same thing.

  "You need to mess up that pretty face of yours. Make it more of a challenge. Your dick has gotten bored with the ease of the game."

  I wait for Brax to nod, agreeing with the shit dribbling from my mouth. He does no such thing. He knows me well enough to know I have no clue what I'm talking about. Game? What fucking game? I'm so far out in left field, I can't even see the batter anymore.

  When Brax whacks me in the arm, I rub the spot his knuckles landed while turning my eyes to the crowd. It's not an ideal location to put out feelers for a mate, but there's a weird excitement thickening my blood, encouraging my defiance. My rebelliousness has nothing to do with the two dozen half-naked women mingling around our booth. It is a peculiar feeling that is hard to explain. It is familiar, yet odd. If that makes any sense?

  Shutting down my bizarre behavior as the consequence of a tiring week, I return my eyes to Brax. “You still buying into Inked?”

  Inked is the tattoo parlor Brax began working at when we were in high school. He thought the probation his grandmother arranged would tie up a few weeks of his time. He had no clue it would open doors he never knew he wanted to walk through. When we were teens, Brax avoided work like the plague. Now, I don’t think he’s had a vacation day in years.

  I can’t talk. The three days between Chris’s death and his funeral were the longest I’ve been away from Ravenshoe PD. I wouldn’t say I’m a workaholic... Nah. Fuck that. I hate liars. I am a workaholic, but if it saves me sitting at home, twiddling my thumbs while thinking about a girl I have no right to be thinking about, I’ll wear the title with pride. I’d rather be a workaholic than a miserable, lonely old man who acts like he's ninety when he's only twenty-eight.

  Denial isn’t lying...right?

  Right.

  Then why do I feel like a fraud every time I say it?

  Chapter 10

  Savannah

  “Don’t say anything.”

  Jet pulls his lollipop out of his mouth with a sassy pop. “I didn’t say anything.”

  I stop restacking my cosmetics before spinning around to face him. I don't need to peer into his eyes to know he's lying; I heard it in his undertone.

  “What?” he asks with a chuckle, shadowing me to my dressing nook. “An hour ago, you were packing like a mad woman. Now...” He scans our location to make sure we don’t have any unwanted listeners. “Now, you’re going to work at a brothel.”

  “I’m not working at a brothel.” I cringe when my voice comes out louder than I was anticipating. “I’m performing at one. That is completely different.” My voice is as low as my heart rate. “Besides, it isn’t a brothel; it’s a bordello.”

  Jet’s blond brows shoot up into his hairline. “If I wrap a piece of shit in a candy wrapper, do I get to call it candy?”

  “No,” I reply, faking a gag.

  “Exactly!” he shouts, holding his hands in the air. “Just because you give a brothel a fancy title doesn’t alter the facts. Maison’s is a brothel. Their ‘house representatives’ are paid for their services.”

  The way he says “services” leaves no doubt as to what he's implying.

  "Maison’s clients aren't like Viper's clientele. Our guys are happy to pretend the little strip of material you use to cover your gorgeous tits from their view isn't there. Maison's clients won't just demand the strip be removed; they’ll want to feel what is under the strip, taste it, then spill their nasty cum all over it."

  I gag for real at his last sentence. "That won’t happen. I have it in writing that I'm simply performing my routine for thirty of their dearest clients."

  Jet snatches the piece of paper I'm referring to out of my hand. “You mean the dirty old geezers who pay for sex clients. Nothing about them is ‘dear,’ dear.”

  I zip up my gym bag while mumbling, “For a man who works at a strip
club, you’re very Negative Nancy about the sex industry.”

  He stops reading the handwritten contract Keke, the manager at Maison's, drew up when she cornered me backstage fifteen minutes ago to glower at me. When Keke first handed me her card, I wadded it up and threw it in the trash. I underestimated her negotiation skills. Within minutes, she had me eating out of the palm of her hand. She doesn't just have the gift of the gab; she's a shrewd businesswoman. If I didn't know better, I'd say it is more than just a managerial role informing her business acumen. She is as invested in Maison's as her clientele who pay top dollar to use her services.

  “Showing your assets is one thing, Savannah, but letting people feel them up is a different kettle of fish.”

  "No one is feeling anything. I'm just performing." Guilt riddles me when my tone came out bitchier than I intended. I'm not angry at Jet; I'm just peeved I am in this predicament to begin with. "People pay thousands for ballet tickets, so who's to say they won't spend a hundred dollars to see me? It's three thousand dollars, Jet. I can't turn down that amount of money. I need that money—badly."

  When I slump into the wooden chair across from my dressing area, Jet takes the seat next to me. I want to ramble about how unfair life has been to me the past ten years, and that if I could just catch a break, I’ll never whine again, but if there's one thing I’ve learned the past five years is that complaints get you nowhere fast. If you want to change something, you have to do it yourself. Relying on anyone only guarantees failure. I’ve been taught that lesson numerous times my past nearly twenty-nine years.

  “I’m smart, Jet. I won’t get caught in the net Keke is setting.” I wish my tone came out this confident when I told Ryan I didn’t regret trusting him.

  Although I'll never regret loving Ryan, I do regret trusting him. Trust issues have been my biggest downfall the past decade. It doesn't matter if it is merely signing a slip of paper presented by a US Marshall or accepting a drink from a stranger at a bar, not being able to trust people's motives is my biggest personality flaw. How can you expect someone to give you their trust if you are not willing to do the same? You can't. That not only makes you untrustworthy, but it also makes you a hypocrite.

  “Let me come with you—”

  “No,” I interrupt, shaking my head.

  If I want to walk down a dark, unlit path, that’s my choice. But I'm sure as hell not taking anyone down with me. I laid in a bed I shouldn’t have. Now I’m trying to smooth out the wrinkles.

  “No, Jet,” I reply more forcefully, ramming his rebuttal into the back of his throat. “Even if you hadn’t revealed your true self earlier tonight, my answer would still be no. I need a friend, not a superior.”

  He shoves his lollipop back into his mouth, swishing it around as if he's ridding the horrible taste my words left. “Alright, but if you get an itty bitty touch you don’t want—”

  “You’ll be the first man I’ll tell,” I fill in, smiling. I don’t need his protectiveness, but it is nice to have.

  “Nah. That wasn’t what I was going to say.” Jet stands from the bench, extending to his full height. “I was going to say, hit them with your stilettos. Those fuckers hurt.” He rubs his arm I aimed for earlier, feigning injury.

  I laugh, loving the one-eighty our conversation just took. I swear, it has been like this every day for the past three weeks. We bicker like were vying for a spot on the national debate team before laughing like teens who huffed down a sneaky joint between final periods. Although at times Jet’s bouncing personality is confusing, it is also refreshing.

  After tapping his knee against mine, Jet gestures his head to the back door of Vipers. “Go on, get out of here. Pete accepted your womanly excuse. Just make sure you hunch over on your way out. I told him your cramps were so bad you looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

  A smile raises my cheeks. “Are you sure you won’t get in trouble?”

  He cocks a brow, not needing to speak to relay his words. Pete isn’t running this show. Jet is.

  “Alright. Thank you.” I lean in to press a kiss to the edge of his cheek before remembering that isn’t something I do anymore. Keeping everyone at arm’s length is a safe, respectable distance.

  I pull back with only a moment to spare, making my near slip not just evident to Jet, but everyone surrounding us.

  "Awkward," Jet murmurs under his breath, loving the snarled glances directed my way. "I might have to take two home tonight just to save your head from the cutting block."

  "Haha. Don't blame me for your promiscuity," I reply, half-peeved, half-relieved.

  After grabbing my handbag from my dressing station and securing a hoodie over my golden locks, I bump Jet with my hip then head for the back entrance. Anyone would swear the place is on fire for how fast my steps are. I haven’t been home before 4 AM the past three weeks, so my eagerness can’t be contained.

  I push through the heavily weighted door with force, adoring the nip of freshness in the air. I’ve always loved Florida in the fall. Warm during the day, but perfect snuggling weather at night. Ideal! Well, it would be if I had a significant other to cuddle with.

  Hearing my name being called from inside, I twist my torso. Jet is racing for the back door that is rapidly closing. His face is washed with concern. I try to stop the doors from closing, mindful of the alarmed locks Pete had installed late last month. Once the doors shut, they can’t open for another five minutes without inputting a safety code. The boost in security was implemented after two dancers snuck clientele in via the back entrance, pocketing their entrance fees as tips instead of handing them over to their rightful owner.

  They didn't just lose their jobs; they nearly lost all the honest dancers their wages as well. Pete was pissed, so much so, he nearly doubled the cover charge. That would have been bad news for the entertainers, as the more money patrons hand over to enter, the less they have to share amongst the dancers. Considering one-third of the dancers at Vipers aren't paid a wage, they need those tips. Thankfully, Pete’s anger dulled when he was lavished with his employees’ attention. He kept the entrance fee at the agreed amount, instead opting for tighter security measures.

  My endeavor to stop the door from closing is hindered by my shoe getting snagged in a grate. It slams shut, leaving Jet and his incoherent blubbering on the other side.

  "I'll come around," I advise Jet when the thick door swallows his words. All I can hear is his muffled voice. Nothing he's saying makes any sense.

  “His... out...front... wait...Savannah.” His clear words are separated by ones I can’t make out.

  "Give me a minute. I'll be right around," I say with a groan, shocked by his eagerness to talk to me. I don't know what is so urgent it can't wait until tomorrow, but considering he went out on a limb for me tonight, I can't pretend I didn't hear him.

  I keep my chin in close to my chest when I round the main entrance of Vipers. Although I wear a wig while performing, I've been caught out on three occasions the past week doing the most mundane tasks. Once, I was questioned at the laundromat. I was blinded by the client's eagerness to speak to me, even more so since he was standing next to his wife.

  Deny. Deny. Deny. Then flee. That's the motto I've lived by the past three weeks.

  My brisk pace down the cracked sidewalk slows when a familiar voice jingles into my ears—a voice I’ll never forget. A voice that sweetens my dreams as much as it blackens them. Ryan.

  “I told you last month, Ma. He isn’t using the money to pay his rent... No, you don’t understand. Giving him a way out won’t teach him anything... You’re not hurting him by denying him, Ma. You’re helping him...”

  I can’t see him, but I’m certain he has sensed my presence, as his voice didn’t lower because his mother interrupted him. It dipped like it always did when I tried to catch him unaware.

  “Ma, I’ll call you back.” I hear a familiar beep, closely followed by the clearing of a throat.

  Pretending I can't feel the world falli
ng from beneath my feet, I glance around my location, seeking a quick exit. My choices are the packed parking lot on my right or returning down the dark, scarcely lit alleyway on my left. Neither option is appealing, but it can't be any worse than the predicament I'm facing.

  Deciding to wait for the alarm to unlock the back door is my best option, I spin on my heel and dash toward the alleyway.

  My steps are stopped when a deep, gritty voice says, “Savannah?”

  A million replies stream through my head, but not one seeps from my lips. I can’t command my legs to move, much less speak. So, instead, I keep my eyes planted on my shoes, pretending I'm not who he thinks I am.

  My pulse rages through my body when Ryan noisily huffs. It isn’t the huff of a man in shock. It is the gruff moan of an angry, tormented man. I don’t know what he has to be angry about? I’m not the one who tore his heart to shreds. He did that to me, not the other way around.

  After clearing the anguish from my eyes, I raise my chin sky-high. “Ryan, hi,” I greet him, my voice as over the top as the grin on my face.

  I saunter toward him like I have the world at my feet while chanting the same mantra on repeat: He didn’t break my heart. He didn’t break my heart. He didn’t break my heart.

  “What are you doing here? I didn’t think these types of establishments were your thing?” I question, leaning in to place a kiss on his cheek.

  What? Old Savannah would have done that. I’m not relishing his unique, manly scent or getting a better look at his soul-stealing eyes. I'm being polite. That is all.

  Yeah, right.

  Ryan is wearing a suit. Not just a shabby old suit you see on a hundred men, but a suit that showcases every spectacular cut of his body. His hair is a little shorter than I'm used to, and the scruff on his chin is a little thicker, but his panty-wetting face, mind-numbing eyes, and lips as soft as a cloud haven't changed the past ten years. This shames me to admit, but he's as reckless to my composure as he has always been.