Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) (5 page)

I almost laugh. My sister has a parental blind spot when it comes to me, extracting from my story only what was done to me and not everything I did to deserve it.
 

But she does have a point. It's nearly Christmas, a shitty time of the year to be out of a job. I don't mention the part about my lease expiring, not seeing the point in bringing it up tonight.

"Yeah, well. It's done," I announce, with as much maturity as I can muster. I'm on my feet, walking back to the kitchen before I have a good reason to. "And now…I need a drink. What do you have?"

Ignoring the assortment of wine bottles on her counter, I go to her fridge and see, to my surprise, a six-pack of beer in there with four bottles left. Lex doesn't drink beer. I grab one and make a mental note not to ask if these are remnants of Leo's presence.
 

Lex goes off to sleep and I stay on the couch watching television. After draining the second beer too soon, I'm left wanting something stronger. I've had a long day and would love something to help ease me into a dreamless sleep.

With reluctance at the limited choices, I sort through the wine bottles on the counter. These are the ones Lex doesn't care much for. The stuff she actually drinks awaits in her small wine cooler. I don't care for wine. Lex loves the stuff because anything stronger knocks her on her ass. Of us two, I've always been able to hold my liquor better. I'm not sure if that's something to be proud of, but there it is.
 

My fingers trace the curved labels absentmindedly until, pushing aside a large bottle of red wine, I find a frosted bottle full of crystal clear liquid. It's the vodka I bought for Thanksgiving dinner a few weeks ago, but never got around to opening it. What a sight for sore eyes.

Hello, gorgeous.
 

I know we just met, but I need you to help me not feel feelings anymore.

I pour myself a shot and down it in a gulp. Rummaging through the refrigerator, I search for something to mix with a second shot. Lex doesn't drink soda. However, she has an almost completely full bottle of ginger ale. I don't want to know how long it's been there. Probably from a time she was sick and needed to soothe her stomach.
 

Left with no viable alternatives, I pour myself a glass of straight vodka and sip on it slowly while letting my brain numb to the nonsense playing on the screen.
 

The next thing I know, it's after midnight and I'm jarred awake by an unnecessarily loud commercial blaring from the television. I shut it off and slink into the guest room. My thoughts hazy, I slip slowly out of consciousness, desperate to ignore the dread of dealing with my predicament in the light of day.

Lex stands in the kitchen, securing the lid on her coffee thermos. When she notices me in the doorway, I make a show of pretending to stumble backward in surprise.

Her electric-blue button down is tucked into a black pencil skirt, showing off her legs, lean and smooth. The outfit is amped up by sleek black heels, and her golden brown hair is pinned up into a bun, not a strand out of place. I've never seen Lex wear this much makeup before. The skin on her face is velvety smooth, her lips a deep red color, her eyes lined with a rich black that brings out the piercing color of her green eyes.

"Holy shit. You clean up nicely."

"Can't let them see you sweat." She takes a sip of her coffee. "You're up early."

"Hard to sleep in on a day I should be at work."

 
She takes in my appearance. "I see you found the stuff you left here."

"Yeah, well, it's not much. A pair of jeans and the workout stuff I wear when you force me to go running with you." I tug at the baggy t-shirt I've paired with some running shorts.

"Feel free to go through my closet, grab whatever you want."

I nod. It's what I intend to do, but looking at Lex now, I'm reminded her runner's frame is a jean size or two smaller than I am. Finding something in her closet that fits me might prove challenging.
 

Lex grabs her phone and starts looking through it, checking her emails. In an offhand sort of way, she asks me what my plan is for the day. The question rubs me the wrong way. Because I know my sister and what she's really asking is,
What's your plan? What are you going to do to fix your jobless state? Do you have a list of contacts you can call? Do you need help with your resume? Do you even have a resume? Do you even have a plan?

I don't answer her right away, opting instead to walk over to the refrigerator and grab a bottle of water. There's a dull throb between my eyes, the result of my drinking last night. My plan, I tell her, is to update my resume and start my job-hunting as soon as possible.

"Emily. Don't take this the wrong way, I love that you're here. I seriously do. But wouldn't it be easier to job hunt from San Francisco?"

I had the same thought first thing this morning. "Either way, I'd be back down here for Christmas. A week of online job hunting isn't going to hurt me. Especially since, you know, no one is gearing up for interviews this time of year."

"I guess you're right," she says, eyeing me the way she does when she knows I'm not telling her the whole truth. "Take my laptop. Use anything you need. Let me know if you need help."

She grabs her keys and purse, and heads out the door.

The whole truth is that I wasn't thinking straight when I got in my car and drove south. I was simply putting as much distance as I could between my problems and me. Now that I'm here? Well, there's no point in making another seven-hour drive north when I can rough it here long enough to spend the holidays with my sister.

After several minutes of rummaging through Lex's closet, I pull out some day dresses that look like they will fit me. I dress for the day, thankful Lex and I wear the same shoe size, at least. Even in mid-December, the weather in San Diego is pleasant during the day, nothing like the biting chill of San Francisco's winter.

Back at the dining room table, I sift through old emails, pulling up contacts that might prove useful. A television morning news program hums in the background, on for the sole purpose of drowning out the stillness of the condo.
 

Am I imagining it, or is the silence here thicker than in my own apartment? It's so dense the hum of the television can't cut through it. Somehow, I can still
hear
the silence. The muted static of dead air.
 

It's hard to focus. The slightest fluctuations in sound yank on my attention. A bird ruffling past outside the window, or a car door closing out front. All followed by that same, intense silence. It's deafening.

I stuff the laptop into a shoulder bag and, before I leave, I grab my jacket from where it hangs behind the door.

The moment I step outside, the air rushes to my lungs as though I've been slowly suffocating without realizing it. Smells of cut grass linger in the crisp air. There are lawn workers out, trimming hedges, and they tilt their big sun hats in my direction. I manage a small smile as I pass them, feeling a stupid, guilty throb that I'm not heading to work. That I am heading to the slick, black BMW I won't be able to afford for much longer.
 

For the first time, the thought of my car turns my stomach. I decide to walk instead. The closest commercial center isn't far, maybe a mile away at most.
 

Lex's condo is in a community built around a golf course, tucking the structures away from the surrounding areas of Carlsbad, and giving her and her neighbors a view filled with trees and rich-green, sloping lawns.
 

Carlsbad is as far north as I'd ever like to live in San Diego county. It's a chill beach town just a thirty-five minute shot down the I-5 from downtown San Diego.
 

I was in town last month, but this visit feels different. As I walk, the laptop bag strapped to my back like a school bag, I'm transported back to the mornings I'd walk to school, though from a completely different neighborhood.
 

The cars swoop past on the street beside me. A woman gets on a bus, tugging at the hand of her small child. Everything around me feels oddly nostalgic. As if my past is right behind an invisible veil I could accidentally walk through at any moment and find myself face-to-face with the person I used to be.

Or, worse, the people I used to hurt.

CHAPTER SIX

The bell over the door chimes as I enter the diner. I'm soothed by the familiar surroundings. It's been years since I've been in here. Ever since I moved up north for school, I haven't made the time to drop by whenever I visited Lex.
 

How could I have forsaken this small haven? It's quaint and homey, smells of pancake syrup and bacon, and instantly puts me at ease.
 

I pass the section of squared tables. A handful of people sit among them, engaged in light conversation. One or two glance in my direction.
 

The man behind the counter isn't the person I expect to see. I expect to see the owner, Lucas. But the man in his place is a much-younger, handsome version of Lucas.
 

I see attractive men all the time, but I can't remember ever once doing an actual double take. My subconscious craves an instant, closer examination. When my sights swing back, his eyes meet mine, and our gazes lock with an almost audible click.
 

Well, hello…

He's in his late twenties, with dark hair, long enough to finger comb into its easy, disheveled state. He wears a long sleeved, dark gray thermal shirt. A casual style that somehow serves to exaggerate the broadness of his shoulders and muscular build of his arms. His features are a shade too intimidating to be considered handsome. Never mind the beard growing in, whether it's a few days old or purposely buzzed short.
 

Rough around the edges. Just how I like them.
 

I'm convinced this man's presence is a roughly packaged gift from the universe.

Sorry you had such a shitty day yesterday. Here's some eye candy for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy a tingling in your groin with your breakfast.
 

You're welcome.

 
I settle for a seat at the counter. There's a kid on the stool beside me, a dark blue backpack strapped to his back. One hand cradles his face, elbow resting on the counter. With his other hand, he lazily scoops scrambled eggs in his fork and flings them into his mouth.
 

He looks at me from the corners of his eyes as I pull the laptop open over the counter. I can tell by the way his head shifts in my direction. But he doesn't say anything and neither do I.

A minute later, the dark-haired man stands before me on the other side of the counter, pulling back a sheet of the small note pad in his hand, pen at the ready.

 
"Morning, what can I—" His voice, which is as gravelly as I'd expect it to be, cuts off abruptly when I look up from the menu to meet his strange, fleeting expression. His head turns a fraction.
 

No. That can't be recognition dawning on him. I'm sure his features are only vaguely familiar because he's obviously related to Lucas. I'm sure I've never met this man before. How would I forget a face like that?
 

"Do I know you?" I ask, setting the menu down.

"I'm Owen. Lucas' son."

He says it like it should ring a bell, but it doesn't. I didn't even know Lucas had a son. I mean, I assumed he had kids, but he never mentioned them, if my memory serves right.
 

I sit up because this Owen guy is watching me so closely it'd make anyone self-conscious, eyes darting across my face like gears clicking memories into place. When his sights fall on my blonde waves, his eyes narrow ever so slightly, as though encountering an impostor to their memory.
 

I can almost see what he sees in their place. Golden brown hair pulled back behind my ears. A pale face and pink cheeks. Big green eyes.
 

Holy shit. He really does recognize me from somewhere.

"I'm Emily," I say. We've yet to break eye contact but neither one of us seems to mind. "I used to come in here all the time but I don't remember you. Which I find strange because—" I lean further in so our faces are maybe a foot apart "—well, you're sort of ridiculously good looking."

"That's interesting." He straightens up, creating extra space between us. "I remember you."

There's no mistaking the impassiveness of his expression. The notes of resentment in his tone, though subtle, are like the early, seemingly harmless winds of a storm that's not too far behind.
 

I want to know where it's all coming from.

"You worked here when you were younger?" I ask, not knowing if this is the case, but compelled to break the stiffness between us.

"After school and in the summertime. I washed dishes. Sometimes filled in waiting tables." He looks at the tables behind me. "Business was better back then."