Test Drive (Crossroads Book 3) (27 page)

“Nah, the supplies didn’t come in on time, so the foreman let us go early.” At least I’m being honest. Besides, I don’t want to be on that scaffold today. Not yesterday either. Not with these scary hopeless thoughts running through my scrambled brain. Man, I normally love being up there with a birds-eye view of the entire city. And right now we’re reconstructing a building in a rundown neighborhood in North Hollywood, which still has a clear shot of the Pacific from the highest level.

I even turned down going out with the construction crew for a liquid lunch. I can hold my own and be the life of the party if you catch me on the right day. Those same dudes would probably rip me a new asshole if they saw me sniveling in my room like this. Lou would understand though; he’s been cool to me. He always talks to me about his teen boy’s problems, probably because I’m closest to his age.

A knock at my door. “I’m heading across the street to get some food. Want to come?” Ezra asks. There’s a small diner we order from on a regular basis.

I’m tired, so fucking tired that my limbs feel like dead weight. I should drag myself up, though. I only do this weeping shit when I’m crashing. Which is why I pulled up those messages from Lucas again. I needed some type of quiet comfort because this part always scares the shit out of me. How I can’t control it. I can only just roll with it.

But my body is fighting me, only wants to sleep. Add in my jumbled thoughts and I wouldn’t be good company to anybody. I know this pattern. You start to understand your body after a while. If I hold on another day or so, my energy level will return and I’ll be on top of my game again.

“Go ahead without me.” I shouldn’t be anti-social but it’s hard enough pretending at work this week. I don’t want to pretend with him too.

His feet scuff the floor, and I can hear him hesitating, deliberating. Like he knows. Knows something is wrong with me again. “How about I bring you back something? Have you even eaten today?”

Damn, he feels sorry for me. I glare at my top drawer where my two empty pill bottles have remained unfilled for well over a year. I know I should start the meds again, now that I finally have insurance. They might even help me pack on some extra weight. But then that veil will go up, the one that keeps me at arm’s length from the world, and I fucking hate that feeling.

I force myself to stand up and glance in the dresser mirror. My blond hair is all disheveled and I’ve got shadows beneath my eyes, even though I’ve been sleeping a ton. I need to get my ass in gear, especially since I have a paper due for my on-line class tomorrow.

Another knock.
Shit.
I had left him hanging. “Gabriel?”

“Uh, sure man,” I say, in the cheeriest voice I can muster. “Any kind of sandwich will do.”

Chapter Two

Lucas

Music plays in the background, a guitar riff and a guy with a loud, high-pitched voice who sounds like he’s trying to scream over the music.

It’s totally not my gig, but for the six to eight hours that I’m at the bar, I don’t have much choice other than to listen to whatever they have playing.

It’s a straight bar, a shabby, rundown place in an alley in Hollywood that’s often filled with the kind of people my mom would have partied with if she were still around. Working here serves its purpose so I stick around.

My shift ended a few minutes ago. I’m chillin’ at a small, two-person table at the end of the bar that we use sometimes for breaks and things like that. Leaning over the back of the chair, I continue sketching long lines and perfect squares in my sketchbook. It’s a simple building, this one, with a plane flying overhead.

There’s a bump against my chair making it move about two inches. “Why do you always turn your chair backward to sit in it?”

Glancing over my shoulder, I roll my eyes at Conner. His short, dark hair is kind of spiky, and he has this happy fucking grin that Conner always has.

We’re the only two people who work here that are under the age of thirty, so we talk to each other more than we talk to everyone else. Not that I talk to anyone much. “Why you always so worried about what I’m doing? Something you wanna tell me?” I tease him, but Conner doesn’t take the bait. He’s straight, but knows I’m gay. Everyone I work with does, because if there’s one thing I won’t do anymore, it’s lie about who I am.

Conner grabs the other chair and turns it around the wrong way. Cocking a brow at him I nod toward it, but he ignores me. “Why are you always drawing buildings? Never a fucking tree, or a bird, or shit like that. Always buildings.”

I flip the books closed. I hate it when people look at my shit. “A tree or a bird? You want me to draw you a tree or a bird? I will.” Really, I won’t. That’s not my thing. For me it’s not about drawing as much as it’s about buildings. I love them—thinking about how they’re put together. There’s something about big-ass buildings of different shapes and designs that calls to me. That’s none of his business, though.

“No, but you can draw me a naked chick with big old titties.”

Conner laughs and I roll my eyes at him. “Crazy motherfucker.”

“You got naked dudes in there? You play it off like you’re drawing the fucking Wells Fargo building or something, but I bet it’s really full of dick and ass.”

And, that’s about enough of him. Conner’s an all right guy but he’s overwhelming as hell sometimes. I’m definitely not talking to him about dick and ass, even though I’m quite fond of both. That conversation needs to be saved for someone who wants my dick in their ass or the other way around.

I stand up. “On that note, I’m out of here. Was waiting for the bus, but it should be there soon.” After picking up my beanie, I slide it on my head and then reach for my sketchbook.

“Don’t run off. I’m giving you shit. What are you doing tonight? Want to go out and have a beer or something?”

There’s not a chance of the drinking thing happening for me. My stomach rolls at the thought. My throat burns like I swallowed acid. “Why would you go somewhere to have a beer when we work at a bar?”

“Because we both know this isn’t the kind of bar we’d want to hang out in.”

Little does he know, I don’t hang out in bars at all. It’s not that I
won’t
be around alcohol, obviously since I work here, but I don’t drink. Not at all. Seen what it can do, and don’t plan on that being something Mom passes down to me. Working here, seeing the regulars with their everyday drinks, reminds me of what I won’t let myself become. “Nah, I’m good,” I finally say, answering Conner’s question.

“You’re such a fucking bastard, Lucas. You never hang out. You think you’re too good?” His question is said with a playful tone, but I know he’s partially serious. Not that he believes I think I’m too good, but this isn’t the first time he’s asked me to do something, yet I haven’t said yes once. “Dude, come out and get drunk with me,” he adds.

There are a lot of things I should be doing with my life that I’m not. My mom had simple wishes for me—stay sober, go to college, make something of my life, don’t be like her, and be happy.

I’m still waiting for most of those wishes to come true. Staying sober is the only one I’ve always known I would make happen. “No. I don’t think I’m too good and I’m not going to go get drunk with you. I have shit to do. I come in at noon tomorrow. Do you work?”

Conner frowns, but doesn’t argue with my decision to head home. “Yeah, I come in at two. I’ll see you later, man.” He holds out his fist and I bump it with my own, even though that’s always felt like such a lame thing to do.

“Cat’cha later,” I tell him before sticking my sketchbook under my arm and making my way to the door. It’s mid-seventies out, and blue skies like it always is in Southern California. I like it when I work early and get off at a decent time. The sunshine and perfect weather is what made Mom move to California in the first place, only we were in a shithole in Riverside County. I think Mom and I thought being anywhere in Southern California would be like fucking Disneyland or something. California was going to be this magical land where all the problems we had in Michigan disappeared.

It was a fucking joke. Nothing changed. Nothing ever changes.

People fuck up. People hurt. People let you down. It’s like the domino effect—one choice from someone else knocks the next person down, and then they slam into the one after them, and so on. After all the pieces crumble, all you can do is pick yourself back up and try to make up for pummeling the person behind you.

Even though she’s gone, I’m still trying to make up for my screw-ups, though probably not as hard as I should.

“Got any change?” a guy asks when I get to the bus stop. I reach my hand in my pocket and give him two quarters, a nickel and three pennies. It’s the only change I have, but I don’t need it as much as he does. I know what it feels like not to have anything.

He says thanks and walks away. As people move around me, going about their day, I wonder if any of them are
him
. It’s fucking ridiculous, and a waste of time to still think about Gabriel all these years later, to picture him in other guys I see strolling down the street.

He was my domino. He knocked me down and disappeared.

I owe him for that. If I ever do see him, it’ll be me doing the slamming—my fist against his face.

Acknowledgment:

As always, I need to thank my family. My kids deal with a mom who is always writing, or always thinking about writing. It can’t be easy. To my husband…thank you for being sarcastic, funny, sweet, sexy, loyal and loving. I try hard to write men who are at least half as special as you.

I owe a big thanks to Maria Fox, Valerie Wentz, and Dawn Bleakley for letting me chat with you about Scotland and Ireland.

Riley’s Rebels. You are my crew. My tribe. Thank you for being a part of my daily life.

The M/M Daily Grind. I have so much fun in our group. I feel so honored to be a part of it.

Big thanks to Hope and Jess of Flat Earth Editing and Vanessa and Manda from Prema editing for helping me make Drew and Justin’s story shine.

And of course, my readers. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You’ve made my dreams come true.

About the Author:

Riley Hart is the girl who wears her heart on her sleeve. She's a hopeless romantic. A lover of sexy stories, passionate men, and writing about all the trouble they can get into together. If she's not writing, you'll probably find her reading. 

Riley lives in California with her awesome family, who she is thankful for every day.

Other books by Riley Hart:

Crossroads Series:

Crossroads

Shifting Gears

Rock Solid Construction series:

Rock Solid

Broken Pieces series:

Broken Pieces

Full Circle

Losing Control

Blackcreek series:

Collide

Stay

Pretend