“Maybe not,” he allowed. “But isn’t it bad enough that she’s an attention junkie?”
“When has Kensey ever been an attention junkie?” asked Sherry.
Yeah, when had I ever been an attention junkie? If anything, I despised attention. I’d made an art out of avoiding it.
“Have you ever even met her, Blake?”
“No. Never set eyes on her in my life. But I made a point of finding out what I could about your employees, since they’re now also mine. Nothing I heard about Kensey Lyons was good. Why would she dress like something out of a fucked-up Tim Burton movie if she wasn’t crying out for attention? Seriously, Sherry, who wears reptile contact lenses?”
I winced. Okay, it was fair to say that I’d taken my goth phase to freaky levels. I’d grown out of it by the time I graduated from high school, but apparently his source of information hadn’t told him that.
“That was a phase, Blake,” said Sherry. “I’m sure you went through some of your own. Everybody does.”
“I didn’t go through a phase where I did shit like slit my wrists for attention.”
I rocked back on my heels. Where the hell had he heard that lump of crap? Sherry must have been equally shocked, because she was silent for a few moments as if speechless—and that didn’t happen a lot.
“Well neither did Kensey, so you both have that in common,” Sherry finally said.
“Or maybe you just didn’t know about it. From what I heard, she got tattoos on her wrists to cover the scars.”
Oh, I had tattoos on my wrists—pretty French, black lace cuffs. But there were no scars beneath them.
“I would know if my goddaughter tried to kill herself, Blake.”
A rough sigh. “Look, I can handle stepdaughters of serial killers, goth girls, and even attention junkies. But I don’t like crackheads. Put all those things together and, no, I’m not thrilled to hear that one is working at the bar.”
“Crackhead? What the fuck, Blake?”
Yeah, what the fuck? Feeling my nails digging into my palms, I relaxed my balled-up hands.
“Libby Williams told me all about Kensey’s little habit,” said Blake.
Sherry snorted. “Kensey doesn’t do drugs, never has. And yes, I know that for an absolute fact. Libby’s always talked smack about her.”
Yep. Even though Libby had split from Joshua six years ago, she’d happily badmouth me to anyone who’d listen. She was one evolutionary step away from a mole rat, in my opinion.
“The Lyons house was raided by the police countless times over the years. There’s got to be a reason for that, Sherry.”
There was a reason. The old sheriff, Donald, was the brother of Maxwell Buchanan’s ex-wife, Linda—who Maxwell had later reconciled with—and Donald had made it his mission to drive Clear and me out of Redwater. Mission failed. He’d given up eventually, round about the time that Maxwell and Linda died in a car accident. I was nineteen at the time.
“With all due respect, Blake, you only have part ownership of the bar,” said Sherry. “It belongs to Dodger as much as it belongs to you. I’m the one who runs the bar. Not you. I know what I want and need in a waitress—Kensey’s it. I know that she can be trusted, and I know I can depend on her. There’s never been a time when I couldn’t.”
He fell silent, and I decided I was done listening to this shit. Squaring my shoulders, I walked inside CCC. He turned, eyes meeting mine. And it was like being plugged into an electric socket. Even as my mind screamed, “prick,” sparks of electricity seemed to play across my skin as a powerful need punched right through me. The sensations were instant, heady, and totally beyond the realm of my control.
The air charged until it almost crackled. Whatever pheromones he was giving off were playing my body, pulling at it like some kind of magnetic force. Just like before, I felt compelled toward him yet also felt extremely reluctant to be near him. The sexual buzz was a high like no other, but it was the kind that made you do stupid things and make ridiculous decisions.
Sherry’s smile was small but genuine. “Hey, sweetheart. This is Blake Mercier; he bought Skinner’s share of the businesses. Blake, this is Kensey Lyons, my goddaughter.”
Surprise flashed in his eyes, and I smiled wryly as I said, “Yeah, I’m the suicidal, attention-seeking, crackhead you were talking about. Good to meet you.” I didn’t hide my irritation with him; I let him see that, yeah, I’d heard everything he’d said to Sherry.
He didn’t avert his gaze or shift uncomfortably. No, he stood straight, his broad shoulders back, his chin up, head tilted slightly. I kind of respected that, even though it pissed me off that he’d spoken of me with such distaste.
Ordinarily, I didn’t care what people thought of me—where was the sense in letting the opinions of perfect strangers affect you? But surely no one liked it when a guy they felt such an instant and elemental attraction to felt nothing but contempt for them. It meant the scales weren’t even. It gave him a level of power.
He twisted his sensual mouth. “At least you got rid of the reptile lenses. Did you know you’re not wearing matching ones today?”
“I’m not wearing any lenses,” I said, tone even. It took everything I had not to tense when he slowly walked toward me with the unruffled ease of a jungle cat. Without thought, I nervously swiped my tongue along my lip. His gaze dropped to my mouth. He blatantly traced its shape with his eyes, lingering on the small scar that sliced into my upper lip. Countless guys had called it, “sexy.” Personally, I disagreed.
Finally, his eyes snapped back to mine, glittering with something dark that made my stomach roll. He’d let me see that raw need, I thought. I had the feeling that nothing this guy did was accidental—if he’d wanted to hide his hunger, he could have done. Instead, he was trying to intimidate me with it. Trying to shake me and throw me off-balance. Well, fuck that. I looked him directly in the eye, keeping my muscles relaxed and my breathing easy.
I distantly registered the roar of a motorcycle. The sound got closer and closer until, finally, it came to a stop. Moments later, I heard heavy footsteps and a familiar whistle. I looked to see Cade stalking toward us. Dressed in a worn black tee, washed-out blue jeans, and scuffed leather jacket, he couldn’t have looked more different from Blake if he’d tried.
I’d bet his Aviator shades were hiding bloodshot eyes if he’d been on yet another bender. His short, choppy dark hair was as unkempt as always, yet it suited him and worked well with his edgy style and devil-may-care attitude.
He curved his arm around my neck and kissed my cheek. “That for me?” He took the take-out cup and had a quick sip. He groaned. “Kensey, baby, you’re a goddess. No one makes better coffee than you.”
“Hmm.” I inwardly sighed as he pulled me even closer. It was a territorial display. Not that Cade thought of me as his or anything. We hadn’t slept together in years, and neither of us had been serious about each other—it had just been two close friends either fooling around or comforting each other during bad times, and it hadn’t affected our friendship whatsoever. But he knew me well enough to sense when I was uncomfortable, no matter how well I hid it, and he obviously didn’t like the way Blake was staring so hard at me.
Dodger crossed to us and griped, “Hey, don’t be drinking my coffee, asshole.” He snatched it from his son, who gave him an unrepentant grin.
Cade then turned to Blake. “What brings you here on this fine afternoon?”
“We have some paperwork to go through,” Blake told him.
“I’ll leave you all to it,” I said. Cade’s arm slipped away, but not before he planted one last kiss on my cheek.
Sherry crossed to me. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get to work.” The moment we entered the bar, she said, “Sorry about that. Blake’s not a bad guy, but if he has an opinion, you’ll hear about it.”
I shrugged. “He’s not the first or only person to feel that way about me.” It still pricked at my mood, though. But a day of work would help wash that ang
er away.
There probably weren’t many waitresses who truly enjoyed their job, but I did. I’d been working there since I was twenty-one. It felt more like “home” than my apartment did, especially since the Armstrongs were like family to me. Reed was a nice enough guy, too, though I did find him kind of weird. Then again, if your father was a mortician who’d been training you in the process of embalmment since you were young in the hope that you’d join the family business, it would surely be hard to be normal.
Sarah and I frequented clubs and hot-spot bars; places where the pace was intense, the volume was loud, and the drinks were often complex. Things were different at Chrome Canvas Bar. The pace was slow and easy, it was rare that anyone ordered a foo-foo cocktail, and the noise level wasn’t bad at all. There was mostly just the chatter of the patrons, the low jukebox music, and CNN playing on the wall-mounted TV. Things occasionally got rowdy, but people had enough respect for Dodger to take their shit outside.
I wouldn’t describe the low-key hangout as a dive bar—mostly because the restrooms were clean, the floors weren’t sticky, and you didn’t feel the need to have a precautionary penicillin shot. But it certainly had that feel of a dive, especially with the stiff drinks and cheap food.
There were things you wouldn’t find in a dive, though; like the coffee machines and option of “fancy” coffees—it was surprising just how popular they were. Some people just popped in for a latte while waiting for Dodger and Cade to finish working on their bikes or, in the case of the Mommy Troop, to ogle the bikers.
“Hey, Kensey!” one of the patrons, Henry, called out as I was jotting down someone else’s order. “Yo mama’s so fat, she got baptized at Sea World!”
I almost rolled my eyes. We did this at least once a day. “Yo mama’s so stupid, she stuck a phone up her butt and thought she was making a booty call!”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Classic. Reed, get me another drink, would you?”
Henry was one of the many patrons who was a regular that burrowed there practically all day, treating the place like it was his home and looking for whiskey-themed therapy sessions. He fell asleep in a corner booth at least twice each day, and he’d always wake up looking fresh as a daisy.
I spent the next few hours taking orders, collecting dirty glasses, and wiping down tables. Sherry and Reed took care of the drinks and food, but I was always called on to make the coffee—especially for the Mommy Troop, since they could be fussy as fuck.
Whenever there was a lull in the flow of patrons, I’d find myself zoning out as scenes unfolded in my head. I self-published my horror books under a penname as I didn’t want them to be linked with Michael. Reviews would be tainted by whatever people thought of me, Clear, or him. My penname, Nina Bowen, wasn’t extremely well-known, but I had a nice following of readers and earned decent enough royalties that I only needed to work part-time at the bar. That could so easily be messed up if Nina Bowen’s real identity became public.
The only people I’d told about my books were Clear and the Armstrong clan. People I trusted to never breathe a word of it to others. I trusted Reed to an extent, but nowhere near enough to entrust him with something so personal to me. Clear had told Michael, of course, since she kept no secrets from him.
Snapping me out of my thoughts, Sarah sidled up to me and discreetly tipped her chin toward a couple hissing words at each other in the corner. “God, would it kill them to argue a little louder? I need some backstory at least.”
I chuckled. “Feeling better yet?”
“My head is no longer throbbing, thanks to the wonder that is Tylenol.”
The doors swung open, and Cade walked inside. He tapped Sarah on the nose. “Hey, bitch.”
She sneered. “Go piss up a tree, shithead.”
Cade just chuckled and then turned to me. “Kensey, I need one of your magical coffees. Make one for my dad too.”
“Sure thing.” I went behind the bar and prepared his order.
Reed leaned against the bar, watching me. “What do you do differently than me? They’re the same coffee beans and the same machines, but your coffees taste fresh and rich with just the right tint of bitterness. Not watery or over-roasted. And they don’t leave a burned, acidic aftertaste in my mouth.”
“The credit goes to one of my exes.” The barista had made an art out of coffee making, and he’d taught me how to get it just right.
“Hey, what was that thing earlier with Blake Mercier?” Cade asked. “You were glaring at each other pretty hard.”
I flicked him a glance, noticing he was smiling at a group of girls, distracted. Good. Maybe he wouldn’t notice that his question had made me almost drop his cup. “He doesn’t seem to think that it’s a good idea for the stepdaughter of Michael Bale to be working here.”
Cade’s head whipped around. “What? Fucking asshole. You should have told me.”
“Why? He’s entitled to his opinion, even if it’s a stupid one. Forget about it.” I set the two take-out cups on the bar. “There.”
With a nod of thanks, Cade took them. “If he ever says any shit like that to you again, you tell me.”
I gave him a placatory “of course” smile, but the narrow-eyed look he shot me called me a liar. Still, he left without commenting. That was when I felt Sarah watching me closely. As I rounded the bar, I asked, “What?”
“You got all flustered just now,” she said quietly. “Cade didn’t notice; he was too busy eye-fucking those women. What is it about Blake Mercier that makes you all flustered?”
I hesitated, unsure how to explain. “Let’s just say he’s intimidatingly good-looking.”
“So? Good-looking guys approach you all the time. You don’t blush or anything.”
I bit my lip. “There might have been a little of that chemistry you like to talk about.”
Sarah’s eyes lit up. “How much exactly?”
“God, Sarah, I think I heard a choir of angels.”
She laughed. “Damn, this is precious. So are you planning to do anything about it?”
“Considering he talked about me like I was a piece of shit on his shoe and would probably rather lick the floor than touch me, no.”
“What do you mean?”
“Turns out that Libby filled his head with crap. I’m not only a crackhead, I apparently also once slit my wrists for attention.”
Sarah gawked. “That bitch’s evil streak has no end.” She sighed. “Well, fuck her and fuck him.”
My thoughts exactly.
After my shift was over, I headed straight home. My apartment building wasn’t far from the bar. It wasn’t anyone’s definition of nice—not with the graffiti, crumbling bricks, and dirt-streaked stairwells. Still, the apartment itself was okay. It was small, sure, but there were no stains on the walls, no grimy windows, no threadbare carpets, and no cracks in the ceiling. My neighbors weren’t so bad, either. My landlord was the male equivalent of a crazy cat lady, but he didn’t bother me much.
Still, Sarah regularly suggested that I move in with her, since her building was safer, but I couldn’t live with someone who seemed to collect clutter. Writers were often stereotyped as messy. I wasn’t one of those people. Not that I could claim to be organized. When it came to writing, I was on the ball. But when it came to remembering events, keeping appointments, or even noticing that it was time to eat, I was utterly useless. Honestly, my memory was so atrocious I could arrange my own surprise party.
After I’d eaten dinner and changed into my sweats, I settled on the plush sofa with my laptop and logged into the email account I’d set up specifically for my penname, enjoying the tick of the computer keys. There were a number of emails from people who’d read my books, which made me smile.
I’d never decided that I was going to be a writer. Didn’t have a sense of destiny or a craving for acknowledgement. But I had a drive to create, and I couldn’t ignore it. Didn’t want to. Writing was as therapeutic for me as it was fun. Going even a single day with
out writing could make me restless.
For me, it didn’t feel like “work.” Not that it was easy. No, it was challenging and exhausting, but that was part of why I loved it.
It was a solitary job, but that didn’t bother me. I wasn’t a person who required social interaction. I never got lonely and didn’t draw energy from being near others, which Sarah thought was awesome, since she couldn’t cope with her own company for very long.
Relaxed, I went through the emails one at a time, warmed by the positive comments. One reader in particular, John Smith, raved about my books before begging me to click on a link that would take me to a review he’d written. Ordinarily, I didn’t like clicking on links that were included in emails, but this person had taken the time to write a review; the least I could do was read it.
I clicked on the link, frowning slightly when it took me to a website that seemed to be an online writer’s community. There was no review on the screen. No, there was a list of online stories to choose from by an author named, Shadow.
Uncomfortable reading another person’s unpublished work, I was about to close the page down … but then a little something caught my eye. One of the stories was titled, “Kelsey Irons.” My heart jumped. It was just a little too close to ‘Kensey Lyons’ for my liking. Unease settled in my gut.
I was being ridiculous, I thought. Ridiculous. And just to prove it, I clicked on the story. And what I read next made the blood drain from my face.
It was like watching an upcoming train wreck—I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t turn away. I read each chapter. The further into the story I got, the more nauseous I felt. My heart was hammering in my chest, and my hands were shaking.
Done, I plonked the laptop on the sofa beside me. I only had four words.
What the everloving fuck?
CHAPTER THREE
After work the next day, I stopped by my mother’s house. Pulling up outside, I saw her crouched among the flower beds with a basket at her side. I knew it contained pruners, a trowel, a spade, and other gardening tools. A tree cast plenty of shade over her, protecting her from the sun. The simple sight was one I’d seen a lot growing up.