Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) (9 page)

I'm trying to do Landon a favor by telling him the truth. He would learn it on his own eventually but a kid like him would probably end up friend-zoned every time before he realized that a small, healthy streak of asshole is what girls secretly like.

It's not my fault. It's not like
I
was the one who infected the subconscious of women everywhere with this twisted notion. It is what it is.

He squints at me. "That sounds like a trick. Way too easy."

"Try it. Let me know if it works."

"It's a deal," he says, glancing at his watch.

I'm impressed the kid even owns one. Landon gets up, digs into his pocket, slams down a crumpled up ten-dollar bill, and calls out to Owen as he did the other morning.

I get a sensation of déjà vu, searching Owen's reaction. It's the same measured expression as he watches Landon walk off then stuffs the bill unceremoniously into his pockets before his eyes lock onto mine.

"Good morning," he says, automatically.

There's no sense of familiarity between us. No remnants of the banter from the hospital yesterday. Owen is cold and distant again, as though I've walked through those doors for the very first time and he secretly wishes I'd go away.

He wipes down the counter beside me.

"All right, Owen. I just have to know. What is it about me that turns your smile upside down?"

He stops to stare at me and I can tell he thinks I'm being ironic. Thinks I know exactly what his grudge is against me.
 

"I believe it's called classical conditioning," he says.

My response is a small shake of the head, signaling my confusion.
 

"When you crush on things that get your ribs broken, you learn not to crush on them anymore," he explains.

"Are the ribs a metaphor for something?"

"I don't know," he says, not missing a beat, "was you sending your boyfriend to break them a metaphor for something?"

I'm not sure if he's kidding. He seems to have the driest sense of humor I've ever encountered. He delivers his words deadpan. And though his face is serious now, it's too serious.

"Okay—" I put up a hand "—let's stop right there. What are you talking about? Who broke your ribs?"

"You mean, you don't remember?"

"If I did, I wouldn't be asking." As I say this, something cold grips my stomach because the answer dawns on me before it leaves his lips.

"Varsity wrestler, stocky blond guy."

Jesus Christ.
 

"Jonathan broke your ribs? When the hell did this happen?"

Owen turns slightly away from me. "Really, let's not bother having this conversation now. My ribs healed fine."

His words carry the insinuation something else didn't heal so well.
 

I shoot up in my seat and grab his arm before he can move away.

"Look, I'm not sure what you think I did, but I had no part in whatever happened to you."
 

"Are you sure about that?" he asks.

I release the hold on his arm and let my hand fall to my side, certain he doesn't believe me. "Wait, did Jonathan tell you I did?"
 

Owen looks out past me like he's recalling something. "I think his exact words were,
this is a message from Emily
."

I'm aware of how every inch of my expression falls as I struggle to keep my tone from revealing how mortified I am. Because I remember clearly just how ruthless Jonathan could be.
 

"He lied, Owen. I swear. I would've never asked him to hurt you. Or anyone."
 

Owen watches me as though the truth is evident in my reaction, and his reluctance dissolves before my eyes. It's as though a realization crosses over his face, illuminating it like a passing headlight.
 

"Right, of course," he says with a slow blink. "I'm sorry I implied otherwise. Shouldn't have brought it up."

Relief floods me and I realize how important it is to me that Owen believes me. The guarded way he crosses his arms and looks over toward the door gives me the suspicion that he's embarrassed.

"No, I'm glad you did," I say. "We've been having this silent turf war. Only, I had no idea and have been sitting here sipping coffee. Probably pissing you off."

"You do nurse a cup of coffee for hours."

"I'm jobless. You have free WiFi. And a hot guy behind the counter."

He keeps his eyes locked onto mine but his lips don't so much as twitch. I still sense his resistance to react to me. He's so used to holding a grudge, he doesn't quite know how to let it go.

"Do you not like me flirting with you?" I ask, as casually as if I were asking him for the time.

"I like it just fine."

The energy between us softens right then. Like a glacier shifting a few inches as it begins to thaw. I smile and his lips twitch up at their corners. This entire exchange is a pleasant surprise for us both.

The new guy manning the register calls him over and, as Owen walks away, something becomes obvious to me. The reason Owen looks so out of place in this diner is because he doesn't belong here. He answers the new guy's questions patiently and I can tell he is trying hard to make the guy feel comfortable.
 

That's when it hits me—he doesn't typically work here and was left with no alternative when his father fell ill. Owen's presence in this diner is temporary. This new hire is his ticket out of here.

The disappointment sinking in my stomach is ridiculous. My presence here is also temporary. I'm a visitor, passing through. I've got a life elsewhere, a life that will take me away from this place for good. And soon.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Every once in a while, things go right. Friday starts off wonderfully. By nine in the morning, I get a phone call from Janie Lowe. She's the hiring manager for the firm where I completed my summer associate's program back in law school. They offered me a position after graduation but I turned it down for what I thought was a better one.
 

Luckily, they still seem interested in me. Lowe tells me the firm was pleased to receive my application and I should expect a phone call after the holidays to coordinate a formal interview. The wordage she uses makes me suspect they've already decided to hire me and the interview is a formality. And though I know it's nowhere
near
a done deal until I receive an actual job offer, the conversation leaves me feeling light and refreshed. The two ton weight that's been sitting on my chest over the last few days shifts and I'm able to breathe again.

But the next call I get is far less fun.
 

"Emily, you can't disappear like that and not answer any of my texts or calls. Where are you?"

My roommate's tone is so frigid the phone grows a few degrees colder at my ear.
 

"I'm fine, Elle, I'm with my sister for the holidays. I meant to return your calls, just lost track of time."

I'm talking through a mouthful of burrito. The truth is, I don't have a good excuse for why I never got around to returning her texts. I read them and avoided responding right away because her questions required explanations I don't yet possess. Like where I'm going to live.

"Okay, fine," she says, "but you've got to get all your stuff out of here. You do know that, right?"

"Yes. Obviously, I'm aware."

"Good. I don't want them holding our deposit—"

"Elle, I get it. I promise I'll have my stuff out after Christmas. I'll stick it in storage if I have to. Consider it done."

My friend Amelia's the only person I bothered to text when I arrived in San Diego Monday evening. But when she invited me out for drinks tonight, I didn't think she meant to a North County bar.

"Why'd you want to come here?" I do a slow circle to take in the crowd. "This place is a buzz-kill. My old high school is, like, half a mile away. I thought you'd want to head downtown."

Amelia leans in, her long, brown hair falling over her shoulder. "There's a conference going on up the road. At the Park Hyatt Aviara. Huge, conservative conference. We're talking half a billion in donations each year, all funneled to right wing projects. But here's the thing, no one really knows which ones. It's all insanely secretive, from the location to the guest list. But guess what? I had a source leak the location to me two days ago."

"I didn't realize you wrote political pieces."

"I don't, usually. But this information fell into my lap when I was working on another story. I need to sink my teeth into something meaty. Something that'll convince my boss I can do more than fluff pieces. I need to break the front page."

"I'm not following," I say. "How does us coming here help you with that?"

"There's no getting into the conference, obviously. Security is too tight. But, I mean, let's be real. This is the only decent bar in half a mile radius. Some of those overworked suckers from the conference are bound to end up here."

"I doubt anyone important will come to a place like this," I say. "This place is stuffy, but not
that
stuffy."

"Big wigs aren't the ones that leak information. I'm talking small fish. Assistants, crew members, stressed out security guards."

We scan our surroundings, where we stand, hovering around a pair of barstools. Protecting them like they are the sacred lands of our ancestors, all but hissing at anyone who tries to nonchalantly slide in and take one. We aren't even sitting on them. It's just nice to leave our options open.

"I guess this place will do," I say, shrugging. "At least the cab ride's cheap. Not to mention the drinks. I happen to be in a celebratory mood tonight."
 

My problems are far from resolved. I don't have a job secured and still have no idea where I'll live. But this is where I'm different from my sister. She broods over things whereas I have the keen ability to focus on the tiniest rays of hope. At least long enough to enjoy a drink and dance to some overrated tracks.

"And what are you celebrating?" Amelia asks.

"My almost landing a maybe job interview."

"
That's right
." Amelia holds up her beer to my glass of gin and tonic.

I tilt my head at her. "Since when do you drink beer?"

"Since I wrote a piece on all the ways your cute drinks can be ruffied at a bar."

"Nice." I take a hesitant sip of my drink.

I want to dance, but the music overhead isn't exactly the type I can shake my butt to. It's the sidestep and finger snapping music. Those moves don't exorcise stress. At least not for me.

Amelia and I drain our drinks before long and order new ones. The conversation turns to the nuances of my predicament.

"Let me get this straight," she begins, "you have to get all of your stuff out of your apartment in two weeks and you still haven't started looking for a place to live?"

"I've been looking for a job."
 

"You've been shelving."

"What?"

"You know…putting problems up on shelves. Pretending they aren't there. You do that."

"Okay," I say, casting my eyes to the ceiling. My friends have one thing in common; they are candid and unafraid to speak their mind. I love surrounding myself with that type of honesty, especially in a world where everyone goes out of their way to tiptoe around everyone else's feelings. But sometimes I'm not in the mood to hear it. A candid tongue isn't as amusing when it's lashing out straight at me.
 

I change the subject without preamble. "That guy over by the window keeps looking at you."

I should know better than to think Amelia will find a subtle way to glance over her shoulder. Instead, she turns on her heels and stares right at the guy, long enough for him to smile at her.

"Meh," she says, turning back to me. "Dude gives me serial killer-ish vibes."

"Really?" I eye him again, trying to decide what part of him leans toward homicidal. He's in his early to mid-twenties with short dark hair, dressed sharply in a light blue button-down. Not bad looking at all.
 

"He's got that tight-lipped smile," Amelia says. "You know? The kind that doesn't reach his eyes."

"He's cute," I muse.

"Ted Bundy was cute. In fact…." She turns to look at the guy again, eyeing him carefully. The guy's smile slips slightly, as though he's not sure if our conversation is working in his favor. "I bet he rents a basement apartment from his mother. And when he goes home every night, he takes off his shoes under a solitary light in the center of the ceiling. You know…the one that inexplicably hangs from a string and sways from side-to-side like there's a draft in the room. Then he goes and checks on the pieces of people's limbs he keeps in his refrigerator."

"You're so morbid."

"I'm a realist." She shrugs. "That's how I stay out of serial killer's refrigerators."

Half an hour and a few strong drinks later, I feel
nice.
I mean really,
really
nice. My cheeks burn under the strain of my constant, liquor-induced smile. The music, which was just bearable before, is now somehow exactly my type of sound. The words touch me in all of my special, sensitive, feeling places.