Ready or Not (8 page)

“Do you like movies, Mallory?” Robby asked. “We love ’em. We watch at least two a day.”

She nodded. “I do. I’m a total buff.” Okay, well, a minor stretch. But Brooklyn and Sam had her sitting through enough of the old stuff to qualify as somewhat knowledgeable.

“We should watch one now,” Timmy offered excitedly, already moving to some sort of control closet on the back wall.

Mallory thought quickly. “That sounds great, Timmy, but maybe we should talk about the proposal. I’d love to discuss some ideas Savvy has and how we might be able to assist Big Top with promotions and advertising. I think what you have started here is amazing, but I also think we can add to it.”

Timmy smiled at that and took a moment. “I like the way you said that. That you guys can add to what it is we already do. Not a lot of agencies understand that. They want to mainstream us, move into some sort of rebranding. And we’re not mainstream.” With that, there was a Timmy-Freddy-Robby high-five, and Mallory felt like she’d somehow stumbled into their tree house. “Tell you what,” Timmy said, serious now. “Leave what you have, and we can look it over and talk about it down the road.
Terminator
?” He held up the DVD case.

“Totally,” Freddy said, and grabbed a baseball cap from his bag and put it on backward.

“It better be the original,” Robby shot at Timmy with an outstretched hand.

“Like I’d put on anything else and call it
Terminator
. Mallory, you game?” Timmy asked.

She didn’t have a lot of options here, so swallowing her reservations, Mallory summoned her best Arnold voice. “I’ll be back.” Did she honestly just do that? Was this seriously happening?

Freddy pointed in Mallory’s direction. “I like her.” And now it was time for Mallory and Freddy to high-five.

The armchairs were then reassembled in a movie-watching line via the little wheels that popped out with a push of a button. Before she knew it, the four of them sat in the darkened office, courtesy of blackout curtains, watching
Terminator
at nine in the morning on a Monday.

She couldn’t make this stuff up if she tried.

*

For the fifth day in a row, Hope had let herself sleep a little longer than was probably wise and now had to find a way to gain time back in her day and fast. After an energy bar for lunch, because she didn’t have time for the real thing, she raced around her small apartment in a hopeless attempt to find her other shoe. Once she located the culprit beneath her bed, she had the task of figuring out where she’d left her keys. She glanced down at her rather muted attire and sighed, as she just wasn’t feeling it. Instead, she traded her black V-neck for a red tank top, because why the hell not? It was already that kinda day.

“Hey, Teddy,” she said into her phone as she locked her apartment and headed for the stairs. “I’m running a few minutes behind. Do you think you could open for me? I need to stop by the bank and deposit last night’s cash.”

“I came in early,” Teddy said. “You’re totally covered.” Seriously, the guy never ceased to amaze her.

She descended into sunlight and reached for her sunglasses. “Oh. Well, that’s awesome. I’ll be there shortly and—”

“Hope? You still there?”

She heard Teddy’s voice on the other end of the line, but something in her line of vision stopped her cold. Because there, sitting on the steps outside her building, was Kara. Their gaze locked, and Hope steadied herself from the reaction to eyes that mirrored her own. She hadn’t seen her twin sister in just over three years now. In fact, she wasn’t sure where she’d been living or, for that matter, if she were alive or dead.

“Hey there, little sis,” Kara said, standing. While Kara was technically four and a half minutes older, it was an ironic nickname, as Hope had spent the majority of her life picking up after her perpetually trouble-bound sister. As Hope steadied herself against the shock, she also took in the deep circles under Kara’s eyes, evidence of the years of hard living. Life hadn’t been easy for them growing up, and while Hope had done what she could to escape the rough neighborhood in Queens they’d been brought up in, Kara had done the opposite and embraced it.

“Kara.” She glanced back at the door to her building. “How long have you been out here?”

“Not sure.” Kara held up her wrist to display a silver watch. “Damn thing stopped running two days ago.” She took a step forward. “How you been? Twice-A-Day Benny says you’re in the big time now. That you own a bar.” Benny was their cousin from back home in Queens. He received his Twice-A-Day nickname from the number of times he opened up shop on the corner. If you needed a fix from Tylenol to heroin, Benny could get it for you. And he’d definitely gotten enough for Kara. Fucking lowlife.

Hope shook her head. “I’d hardly call it the big time. But I have a place. A bar, and it’s mine.”

Kara smiled. “I always knew you’d go places.” Whether or not she and Kara were on the best of terms, hearing those words from her sister meant something to her. They had an undeniable connection, regardless of circumstances.

“What about you?” Hope asked. “You clean?” With Kara, you never really knew.

“Three months now.” Hope studied her, trying to assess her credibility because that was impressive coming from Kara. And while part of her wanted to celebrate the victory with her sister, ask her where she’d been hiding out the past few years, catch up, and try, yet again, to put their relationship back in place, Hope knew better. She’d been down that path with Kara more times than she cared to count and got burned every damn time.

“That’s awesome, Kar. I’m happy for you.” She proceeded down the remaining stairs, off center from the encounter but not sure there was much more to say.

“Where you headed?” her sister asked.

Hope turned back reluctantly from where she landed on the sidewalk. “Work. I’m already late.”

“Can I come with you?”

God, not this. She couldn’t get tangled up with Kara again, not when things were going so well. “Probably not a good idea.”

“Can I stay here then? The problem I’m having, Hopey, is that I got no place to go.”

Hope blew out a breath because this was always so hard. “Did you try Mom?” Their mother, while so similar to Kara it was scary, still had a small place in the old neighborhood. Hope didn’t talk to her much, but she was pretty sure she’d take Kara in. Hell, she’d call the woman herself if it would help.

Kara shook her head. “She’s the one who threw me out.”

Damn it. Hope took a second to let her thoughts catch up with her. She should just walk away, she really should. This was the girl who’d stolen her identity on more than one occasion, ruined her credit, which took her years to dig herself out from, and would continue to lie, cheat, and steal to get what she needed, whether it was a roof over her head or a fix. But underneath all that, this was Kara. The sister she’d held hands with when they were five years old and had to walk eighteen blocks to school through a scary neighborhood, the sister who’d stroked her hair as they tried to fall asleep and told her not to cry when another of their mom’s boyfriends threw an enraged fit and trashed the place, leaving their mother with a shiner. This was Kara. Her flesh and blood.

“Fine. You can stay.” She tossed the keys to Kara. “I’m in 3H.”

“Awesome, baby sis. I knew I could count on you.”

Hope didn’t acknowledge the comment. “I’ll be home late tonight, and then we need to have a talk. Set some ground rules.”

Kara was already headed up the stairs with her small duffle bag. “No drugs and no men. I’ve heard it before, remember?” And just like that her sister disappeared into the building as Hope stood there in disbelief.

Kara was back.

She was staying at Hope’s apartment.

And it was all starting again.

It seemed no matter what she did, she couldn’t escape where she’d come from. Reeling and feeling helpless about the situation, she pushed the issue straight out of her head, a tactic she’d developed from years of necessary escape.

After the six-block walk to the bank, Hope made her way to Showplace in under an hour. By the time she arrived, she’d altered her spirits, talked herself into a good place, and geared up for what she hoped would be a successful night for the bar.

She needed it to be.

Because she had so much to lose.

*

Showplace was fairly quiet when Mallory arrived at ten to five that evening. It was early for happy-hour customers, but it was only the difference of twenty minutes before the place would start to fill up. She’d been on a string of client calls all day, though none had quite lived up to the morning she spent at Big Top, and she couldn’t wait to update her friends over drinks. Well, once they arrived, she told herself, scanning the bar to no avail.

First things first, however. Her feet were killing her. Not just your average wear and tear from the day, but full-on high-heel crisis worthy of a little prayer to the designer-shoe gods for mercy. She glanced down at the culprits. Her prized Jimmy Choos. She and the shoes had such a love-hate. She was obsessed with them and their placement in her wardrobe, but for that she endured endless amounts of pain and suffering. “Why can’t I quit you?” she asked them quietly.

“Are you talking to your shoes right now?” Mallory glanced up and found Hope studying her from behind the bar. Black jeans. Red tank top. Blond hair falling in subtle waves just past her trim and impressive shoulders. Damn it if Mallory’s stomach didn’t flutter a tad at the visual.

She straightened and swallowed the reaction. “Why yes, yes I was.”

“My guess is you’ve been on your feet all day. Sit,” Hope said, indicating the stool across the bar from her. “Let me make you a drink.” Mallory stared at the stool in question, because it really was a nice offer, and why not have a pre-drinks drink before meeting her friends. That was allowed, right? A pre-drinks drink wasn’t a big deal in the scheme of life.

“Okay. But just for a minute. I’m meeting—”

“Hunter, Sam, and Brooklyn.”

Mallory eyed her. “How did you know that?”

“I’m a bartender,” Hope said, winking. “It’s my job to know things. Which is how I know that when you’re with your friends, you all order cucumber martinis, but that you actually prefer a good strong whiskey sour, which I’m making for you now.”

Mallory opened her mouth to speak but didn’t quite know what to say because it was true, what Hope had just said. She did love a good strong whiskey sour. What made it even more surprising was that Mallory had never actively realized that tidbit about herself until this moment. “So you’re going to need to explain how you know that one.”

“Fair enough.” Hope smiled as she sliced a lemon for the drink. “You sip the martinis you order, but on the odd occasion you order a whiskey sour, you sit back in your chair and hold on to that drink, cradling it. You luxuriate. Take longer drinks. It’s…” She paused to select the word and then settled her eyes on Mallory’s. “Picturesque.”

Okay, that did something to her. Sent a shiver down her back and…lower. “You do notice a lot, don’t you?”

Hope nodded. “Told you.” Their eyes locked and held on for what was probably longer than normal, but it wasn’t as if Mallory could look away. Something about Hope unsettled her and intrigued her at the same time. Like looking over the edge of a tall building to the ground below. It wasn’t a feeling that she was very comfortable with. In fact, she hated heights.

“You probably do it too,” Hope said.

“Do what?” Mallory asked, struggling to follow the thread in the midst of the red tank top.

“Take in information about people,” Hope said. “Tell me something you’ve noticed about me.”

Mallory thought for a moment. “You’re ridiculously confident.”

Hope studied her, the ever-present smile tugged. What was with that smile anyway? God. “And that bothers you?”

“The confidence? No. I don’t care if you’re confident. Seems to have served you well around here.”

“Then why do you say it like that?” Hope asked, settling the lemon wedge on the side of the glass. “Laced with such judgment.”

“I’m not judging you. That’s ridiculous. You asked me to tell you something I’ve observed.”

“Right. Like that I push the hair off my forehead when I’m concentrating, because I do tend to do that. Or that I keep one eye on the door, mentally tracking the capacity of the bar as new customers enter. That’s also something I tend to do.”

Mallory hadn’t noticed those things but would now, damn it. “You never said there were rules to this game. I should have been informed of the rules.”

Hope seemed to be enjoying this exchange. She bit the side of her lip and regarded Mallory. “You’re kind of competitive, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea,” a voice from behind them said. Hunter slid onto the stool next to Mallory. “Brooks and Sam are two minutes behind me, tying up some loose ends at the office.” She turned back to Hope. “Don’t engage with her in anything that requires a winner. Bad, bad idea.”

Mallory rolled her eyes.

“Oh yeah? Good to know,” Hope said, and slid the drink to Mallory. “For you. One good and strong whiskey sour.”

“And just in time,” Mallory said as Brooklyn appeared in the doorway. “Thank you,” she said, raising her glass to Hope. “What do I owe you?”

“On the house.”

Mallory sighed. “Hope, you can’t keep buying me drinks. It was fun in the beginning, but now it’s just—”

“Is this because I kissed you?”

As Brooklyn and Sam approached, their eyebrows shot up in unison, and Mallory forced a bright smile, determined to remain in control of this moment if it killed her. Reminding herself not to engage further, she slid a ten in Hope’s direction. “For my drink.”

At the safety of their customary table moments later, all eyes turned to Mallory. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?” she asked her friends.

“Because of the sparks flying between you and Hot Bartender just now,” Brooklyn said, eyes wide. “That was something. No, more than something. That was like chemistry class on crack.”

Samantha pointed at Brooklyn. “She’s right. My face is melting from the heat you guys were throwing off.” She fanned herself for effect.